Part 3

The animals had become afraid of him. His spear had reduced their numbers so greatly that they fled the moment they saw him come in the distance. They knew the hours he went hunting and they hid from him. They posted sentries who warned them with loud cries when he or the dog came in sight. There was not a stag nor an ox nor a sheep nor a goat in the country that lay nearest to the cave. Scarcely ever did an animal graze in the meadow down below in front of it. They had all retired to where the forest grew thickest and where he could only penetrate with difficulty. Nor did it give him any pleasure to hunt up there, where the lion might so easily be lying in ambush.

“Things are looking bad, Trust,” he said to the dog. “We must invent something new.”

He sat and sharpened his knives and axes, which he had made out of flint, and then Mrs. Two-Legs came out with the breakfast, which consisted only of apples and nuts. There was not even a fish to be had. The fish disappeared as soon as they saw Two-Legs’ reflection in the water.

“I say,” said Two-Legs, suddenly. “It would be much easier if I caught a couple of sheep and we kept them here in the cave. Then they would get lambs, which we could kill, and I need not continually and perpetually go hunting.”

Mrs. Two-Legs thought this a good idea and, as they sat and talked about it, he recovered his temper. He wove a long rope of tendrils and then went off with his spear, the dog and two of his sons.

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.