Part 2

“Isn’t he sweet?” said Mrs. Reed-Warbler.

“He’s all that,” said Mrs. Stag. “But his parents are very self-sufficient. They won’t look at any one else.” And she called across to the island, “It’s all right, Mrs. Two-Legs. You go on with the milk. And, if you run short, come to me. My only fawn died the other day, so I have plenty!”

Then they all hurried home again, lest their husbands should come and find out that they had been gossiping.

“I’m going to fetch a couple of oranges, or something of the sort,” said Two-Legs. “It may be some time before I’m back, for we’ve eaten everything on the trees round about here.”

“Be as quick as you can,” replied his wife. “You know I don’t care to be alone at this time.”

He waded through the river and went into the forest. After a long while, he came back, having found only a couple of poor little fruits. He was annoyed at this and so was his wife, for she was hungry. Then they sat and discussed whether they could not find something else that was fit to eat in the neighbourhood. For, once the evening had come, they did not dare leave the island.

“Last evening,” said Two-Legs, “I saw the otter catch a big fish in the river here and eat him. Perhaps we could do the same.”

“Do try,” said Mrs. Two-Legs. “One thing is certain, I must have some food.”

He went out into the river and with his hands caught a great pike, who was swimming just past him, not dreaming of danger. He had so often seen Two-Legs wading through the river and Two-Legs had never looked at him. But now Two-Legs flung him on the island and there lay the pike gaping and gasping for breath and yelling with might and main:

“Hi!... Ho!... Murder!... Help!”

But he was soon dead. Two-Legs and his wife ate him and found him excellent.

“Get me another fish like that to-morrow, will you?” said Mrs. Two-Legs. “Frankly speaking, I was getting rather tired of those apples.”

Next day, Two-Legs went into the river again. He was not long before he saw another fine fish, but, just as he wanted to catch it, the otter snapped it away in front of his nose.

“Get out of my river, you thief!” shouted Two-Legs and struck at him.

“Whom are you calling thief?” said the otter, snarling and showing his white teeth. “I rather thought the river was mine. I was living here long before you came.”

Two-Legs leapt on shore and picked up some big stones and flung them at the otter. One of them caught him on the snout and made it bleed. Then he hid in his hole and Two-Legs caught another fish and took it home to his wife. But, when the otter came out again at night, the orang-outang was sitting there and nodding to him:

“I have seen all,” said the orang-outang. “I was sitting in the tree over there and saw him throw the stone at you. The water turned quite red with your blood. He ill-treated me once too. He said the apples were his and drove me out of the tree with a stick. And to think that we are relations!”

“If I could only get at him!” said the otter. “But I am too small.”

“All in good time,” answered the orang-outang. “We shall be even with him yet.”

TWO-LEGS KILLS

1

The sun was scorching and the ground was shockingly dry.

The trees and bushes hung their leaves and the grass was parched and yellow, so that the ox could hardly find a green tuft to eat. The water in the river was so low that the fish swam along the bottom; and the brook had stopped running altogether. The animals lay in the shade and gasped for breath. In many places, both flowers and animals had died. Two-Legs and his wife and child were not much better off.

The only one who was really happy was the snake. He stretched himself in the sun and thought it delightful:

“Shine away, you dear sun,” he said. “The hotter the better. I am only just beginning to feel alive.”

2

But one day the rain came.

It was not the sort of rain against which you can just put up an umbrella or take shelter in a doorway and wait until it stops. It poured down from the clouds till you could not see your hand before your face and it rained day after day as if it would never end. It rattled and pattered and clattered on the dry leaves so that you could not hear a sound. The river flowed again and the brook woke from its trance and sang as it had never sung before. The whole earth was like a thirsty mouth that drank and drank and could never quench its thirst.

And a great gladness reigned on every hand.

The trees stretched themselves and spread out and sent forth new shoots; and the grass sprang fresh and green from the ground. The flowers blossomed anew; the frogs croaked till they were heard all over the forest; and the fish flapped their tails merrily. Two-Legs and his family sat in front of their leafy hut and rejoiced with the rest.

But it went on raining.

The river overflowed its banks and Two-Legs feared lest his island should go under in the waves. The water soaked through the roof of the hut until there was not a dry spot inside.

“Baby’s cold,” said Mrs. Two-Legs.

They decided to leave the island and crossed the river with great difficulty, for it was now very deep. They waded through the damp meadow and carried the child by turns. Then they found a tree which was so contrived that they could live in it. They twisted the branches together and built a roof and stopped up the holes as best they could with grass and moss; and this was their new house.

“The water can’t reach us here,” said Two-Legs.

“But it’s raining through the roof,” said his wife. “Baby’s cold and so am I.”

“It’s just as I always said,” observed the orang-outang. “They have no hide or fur or anything and they’ll come to a horrible end.”

“You ought to have fed your little one on maggots, Mrs. Two-Legs,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “Then he would have thrived better. My young ones are already almost as big as myself.”

“You ought to have put him in the meadow and let him jump about, as I advised you,” said Mrs. Stag. “Then he would have been able to shift for himself by now.”

“You should sit on him,” said Mrs. Reed-Warbler. “That’s how I keep my young ones warm.”

Mrs. Two-Legs said nothing, but looked at her boy, who was shivering with cold.

“It’s really a terribly spoilt child,” said Mrs. Hedgehog. “Of course, what must be must be; and, once you’ve brought children into the world, you have to give them a decent bringing-up. But a great big thumping lout like that, of six months old, still at his mother’s breast: fie, for shame! What he wants is a good beating and then turn him loose into the world!”

“There’s nothing to be done with people like that,” said Mrs. Stag. “They won’t use their common sense; and, as they have made their bed, so they must lie on it.”

Then they went away.

3

Mrs. Two-Legs sat in the tree and the rain poured and the baby cried with cold.

“Look at that silly sheep in the meadow,” said Mrs. Two-Legs. “She’s warm and comfortable in her thick fleece, while my poor dear little boy lies shivering.”

Two-Legs heard what she said, but made no reply. He sat silent for a while and thought over things. Then he climbed down from the tree and sat on the ground a little and thought again. The rain splashed and clattered. Up in the tree, the little baby cried with cold. Down in the meadow, the sheep moved about and grazed.

Then Two-Legs rose and went up to the sheep. On his way, he took a sharp stone and hid it in his hand. He went very slowly and looked to one side, so as not to frighten the sheep. Then suddenly, with a bound, he caught hold of her.

“Baa! Baa! Murder! Help! I’m dying!” cried the sheep.

Two-Legs struck her on the forehead with the stone and she fell to the ground. Then he strangled her with his hands, caught her by the fleece and dragged her to the tree where he had made his home.

He cut a hole in her hide with the sharp stone and began to pull it off with his finger-nails. His wife came down and helped him. They used their teeth also, to finish the work more quickly, and, presently, they stopped and looked at each other with beaming eyes:

“How delicious!” he said.

“Wonderful!” said she. “Let us hurry now and give the boy the fleece. Then we will go on eating.”

Two-Legs drank the blood of the sheep and bit into the meat:

“I feel stronger than I ever did before,” he said. “Let the lion come now, then he’ll have me to deal with.”

They wrapped the fleece round the child, who at once went comfortably to sleep. Then they dragged the rest of the sheep up into the tree and sat down to eat. Every bite they took made them feel braver and stronger. They gave no more thought to cold or rain, but sat and talked of the future as they had never talked before:

“I should like to have a sheepskin like that for myself,” said she.

“So you shall,” said he, gnawing a bone, “unless we find another animal that has a still softer and warmer skin. I want a fur too.... I say, we might cover the roof with sheepskins: that would keep out the rain. I will go out to-morrow and find some more sheep and kill them and bring them home.”

“Then we’ll eat them,” said Mrs. Two-Legs.

“Rather!” said he. “We’ll eat meat every day. What a good thing that I thought of it, for the fish in the river were already growing afraid of me!”

“Mind you don’t meet with an accident,” said she.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll go down to the river the first thing in the morning and pick out some sharp stones, in case I should lose the one I have. And, look here, I’ll tell you what: I’ll fasten one of those sharp stones to the end of a stick, with a shoot or tendril of some kind; a long stick, do you see? Then I need not go up to the sheep to hit them. I can throw the stone. For, of course, they’ll be afraid of me when they hear that I have killed one of them....”

4

While they were talking like this, all the animals of the forest had gathered in the meadow, just as on the first night when the new animals arrived:

“Two-Legs has killed the sheep!” cried the sparrow and hurried on with her news, drenched and rumpled though she was with the rain.

“Two-Legs has murdered the sheep and the ox and the goat!” screamed the crow and flapped her wet wings.

“Softly!” said the ox. “I’m alive still, thank goodness, though I’m quite prepared for the worst.”

“Two-Legs has killed all the animals in the forest ... he’s sitting in the meadow eating the lion,” whispered the reeds to one another.

Then all the animals rushed down to the meadow to hear the exact state of affairs. The lion stood in their midst, with his head proudly raised:

“What’s all this noise about?” he asked.

“May I speak?” said the orang-outang, holding up one finger. “I was sitting in the palm-tree over there and saw the whole thing. It was terrible.”

“What a mean fellow you are!” said the lion. “You’re giving evidence against your own relations.”

“Very distant,” replied the orang-outang. “Exceedingly remote. I will remind you that I expressly refused to take any responsibility for these Two-Legs, who only bring disgrace upon the family. Well, I was sitting in the tree and saw him come running up, fling himself on the sheep and strangle her. Then he dragged the poor beast to the tree in which he is living. I crept up behind him and saw him skin her. The woman helped him and then they climbed up the tree and feasted.”

“Is that all?” asked the lion. “I’ve eaten plenty of sheep in my time, though I prefer deer on the whole. Why shouldn’t Two-Legs help himself to a bit of meat if he likes?”

“If I may speak, I should like to remind you of what I said when we last met,” said the ox. “It’s easy for you to talk like that, for Two-Legs can’t do you any harm. It’s we others that he eats. Still, you had better look out. He may become a dangerous competitor. Suppose he gets a large family of children and they all take to eating mutton?”

“Then there’s always beef left!” said the lion, laughing and showing his terrible teeth.

“Just so,” said the ox and cautiously took a step backwards. “The oxen will get their turn, now that he has tasted blood. He looks awfully greedy. And I feel as if he had eaten me before.”

“Humph!” said the lion. “There may be something in that. I don’t like beating about the bush as a rule. Let us go and have a word with the fellow.”

5

He moved on; and the orang-outang skipped along eagerly in front of him:

“This way, this way,” he said.

The lion stopped under the tree where Two-Legs had made his home. All the other animals of the forest had followed him and stood listening and staring.

“Two-Legs!” roared the lion, with his mighty voice.

It sounded like thunder and they all started with fear. The lion lashed his tail and looked up at the tree. Not a sound came from it. He called out again, but there was no answer.

“The impudent beggars!” said the orang-outang.

“Perhaps they are dead,” said the nightingale. “Perhaps they have overeaten themselves with the sheep.”

“You don’t die of eating too much, but of eating too little,” said the pig, who kept rooting in the ground with his snout, in search of something for himself to eat.

Then the lion roared for the third time; and the noise was so loud that a little siskin tumbled off her twig right into the jaws of the snake, who swallowed her before any one could utter a sound, so that nobody ever got wind of the story.

And now Two-Legs appeared at the top of the tree.

He had been fast asleep after the hearty meal which he had enjoyed; and he was furious at being roused. His hair hung about his face in disorder and his eyes were bloodshot and his mouth covered with foam:

“Who dares disturb my sleep?” he shouted.

“I do: the lion.”

“The lion, the king of beasts,” they all cried, respectfully, with one voice.

“I am king in my own house,” said Two-Legs. “Be off, I want to sleep.”

“He is defying the lion.... He is mad.... I won’t give a penny for his life!” cried the animals.

But Two-Legs took the thigh-bone of the sheep, aimed it and flung it with all his might at the lion. It hit the king of beasts in the middle of the forehead. He uttered a frightful roar. All the animals rushed terrified across the meadow. The lion ran in their midst, roaring constantly, till it echoed all over the forest.

But Two-Legs lay down quietly to sleep and slept until broad daylight.

When he awoke and had climbed down the tree, the dog lay gnawing the bone which Two-Legs had flung at the lion. He wagged his tail; Two-Legs patted him and gave him another bone:

“Will you be my servant and my friend?” asked Two-Legs.

“Gladly,” said the dog. “You have been kinder to me than the others and you are stronger and cleverer than they.”

“Very well,” said Two-Legs. “Then you shall keep watch over me and mine and help me when I go hunting and bear me company.”

TIME PASSES

1

The rainy season went by, the sun recovered his strength and rain and sunshine came and went by turns. Time passed, as it must and will pass.

The Two-Legs family were now living in a new house which was better than either the leafy hut on the island or the dwelling up in the apple-tree.

It was a cave in the rocks, which Two-Legs had discovered on one of his rambles. It was cool in the warm weather and in the cold it was sheltered against the rain and it could be closed with a big stone at night or when danger threatened. Two-Legs had hung the walls with skins and carpeted the floor with moss and now felt comfortably at home with his family and the dog.

He had plenty to do, for the family had increased. He now had three children, who were doing excellently and eating like wolves. He had had to be careful since the night when he flung the bone at the lion’s head, for not only had he made an enemy of the king of beasts, but most of the other animals of the forest looked upon him with suspicion.

And they were well-advised, for Two-Legs had become a mighty hunter, in no way inferior to the lion himself.

In the back room of his cave, he kept two big spears and one little one, which his eldest son was already able to use very cleverly. They lay in wait craftily for their prey, just as the lion and the other hunters of the forest did. The dog drove the game towards them and they threw their spears and killed it.

“He’s a better hunter than I,” said the lion, one evening, to his wife. “With his spear to-day he got a young deer that I had selected for myself.”

“Why didn’t you take her yourself?” asked the lioness.

“I was crawling up to her in the grass,” he replied. “But, before I could make my spring, Two-Legs had killed her. He sent his spear through her neck and she fell dead on the spot.”

“Then why didn’t you take her from him after he had killed her?” asked the lioness again.

“He had another spear in his hand,” said the lion. “And his youngster had one also. The spear is a thing I don’t understand. They who are struck by it fall down and die.”

“You’re afraid of Two-Legs,” sneered the lioness. “He’s the king of the forest, not you. If your son proves as big a coward as yourself, we’re done for.”

The lion said nothing, but lay staring before him with his yellow eyes.

2

But, a little before daybreak, he stole up to Two-Legs’ cave, hid in the bushes and waited patiently until the stone was rolled away. This happened immediately after sunrise. The lion made ready to leap. He saw blood before his eyes and sprang, almost without thinking, upon the first form that appeared, struck it down with his powerful claws and carried it back with a bound into the bushes.

A terrible scream brought Two-Legs to the entrance of the cave. He stood holding a spear in either hand. The lion saw that he had not killed his enemy, but only one of his children. He let go the corpse and prepared to make a fresh spring. Two-Legs now saw him among the leaves. He flung one spear and missed him. Then he threw the other, but the lion was gone, with great bounds.

With tears and lamentations, Two-Legs and his wife bore the dead child into the cave. The lion, hurried by fear, fled through the forest. Wherever he came, the terrified animals fell aside.

“The lion is flying from Two-Legs,” announced the sparrow.

And the rumour spread through the whole forest and grew.

“Two-Legs has wounded the lion with his spear,” screamed the crow.

“Two-Legs has killed the lion and is hunting the lioness,” squeaked the mouse.

And the lion fled on.

He rushed past his lair, as though he dare not look his wife in the face. He did not come home until late at night.

“Are you still alive?” asked the lioness, scoffing. “The whole forest believes you dead. And what about Two-Legs?”

“I have killed one of his young,” answered the lion, angrily.

“What’s the good of that?” asked she.

Then he caught her a box on the ear the like of which she had never had before, lay down and stared before him with his yellow eyes.

But the animals in the forest wondered and whispered to one another:

“The lion is afraid.... The lion runs away from Two-Legs.”

“Didn’t I tell you so?” said the ox. “We ought to have killed him then and there.”

“Ah, yes!” said the horse. “If the lion had only taken our advice!”

“Ah, yes!” sighed the duck and the goose and the hen.

But the orang-outang went to one side in the forest and reflected:

“My cousin is not such a fool as I thought,” said he to himself. “I really don’t know why I shouldn’t go and do the same. I am like him, but have many advantages which he has not; and I ought to do at least as well as he.”

He took a stick and tried if he could walk like Two-Legs. He succeeded quite nicely and then he made for the other animals. He lifted his stick, yelled and made terrible eyes. But the animals crowded round and laughed at him. The fox snatched the stick from his hand, the stag butted him in the back, the sparrow behaved uncivilly on his head and they all made such fun of him that he ran away and hid in the copsewood where it was thickest.

3

But the next morning the animals had fresh food for thought.

They saw Two-Legs carry the corpse into the forest and build a great heap of stones over it. His wife picked the reddest flowers and laid them on the stones.

“Well, I never!” said the nightingale. “When another dies, he’s left, if you please, to lie where he falls. But as much fuss is made about this child as if his memory were to last for all eternity! I don’t even know what has become of my live children of last year, not to speak of the poor little chap who fell out of the nest and broke his neck.”

“You just wait. There’s worse to come,” said the ox.

And it came. For, a week later, something happened that enraged the animals of the forest more than all that had gone before. Mrs. Two-Legs saw a splendid bird of paradise sitting in a tree:

“What wonderful feathers!” she said. “If I could only have a tuft like that to wear in my hair!”

Two-Legs, who wanted to do everything to console her for the death of the child, at once went out with his spear and soon came back with the dead bird of paradise. She pulled out his feathers and tucked them in her hair and thought she looked charming; and Two-Legs thought so too.

“Now this is really too bad,” said the nightingale. “To kill a bird in order to adorn his wife with the feathers! Did you ever in your born days! It’s well for me that I’m so grey and ugly!”

The widow of the bird of paradise, followed by a great host, went off to the lion:

“The new animals have killed my husband,” she said. “Here am I left a widow, with four cold eggs. Now that my breadwinner is killed, I can’t stay at home and sit on the eggs, unless I want to die of hunger. So I left them, to look for some food. When I returned, they were cold and dead. I have come to demand vengeance upon the murderer.”

“What can I say?” said the lion. “There are so many widows in the forest. I myself don’t ask if the animals which I kill, when I am hungry, have wives and children at home.”

“He didn’t do it because he was hungry,” said the widow of the bird of paradise. “He did it only to present his wife with a tuft of feathers for her hair.”

“What’s he to do when his wife asks for it?” said the lion. “It’s no joke falling out with your wife.”

Some of the animals laughed. But most of them shook their heads and thought it a stupid jest, unworthy of the king of beasts.

4

The next day, the animals of the forest spoke of nothing but Two-Legs. They one and all had something to complain of:

“He took my whole nest, the other day, with seventeen new-laid eggs in it,” said the hen.

“There are no fish left in the river,” said the otter. “And one gets bludgeoned into the bargain.”

“One can no longer graze in peace in the meadows,” said the stag.

But, if sorrow and terror reigned among the larger, important animals, some of the smaller, insignificant animals did not mind so much and, in fact, were rather amused at the misfortunes of their betters:

“Why should we care?” asked the fly. “Let the big ones eat one another up as they please: it doesn’t concern us in any case. And I, for my part, would rather have Two-Legs than the nightingale.”

“No one is safe,” said the bee. “He took my honey yesterday.”

“Yes,” said the earth-worm. “And, the day before that, he took my own brother, stuck him on a hook and caught a perch with him.”

TWO-LEGS ENLARGES HIS POSSESSIONS

1

Two-Legs sat thinking outside his cave. The dog lay at his feet asleep. Indoors, Mrs. Two-Legs was busy preparing breakfast.

Two-Legs was in a bad temper, for he had had bad hunting.

The day before, he had scoured the forest without coming upon any game whatever and he had done no better that morning.