Part 4

“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: