STORIES AND FABLES


MYTHS & TALES ABOUT ELEPHANTS

STORY TITLES

The Mammoths of Siberia
Shooting an Elephant
Intimate Elephant
The Elephant's Child
Five Gray Elephants
The Enormous Ears
One Gray Elephant
Grand To Be An Elephant
Rataplan, a Rogue Elephant
The Judgment of the Baboon -- an African Text
Pepe, the Club-Footed Elephant
Nalgiri Elephant
The Buddha Elephant
Elephant, Croc, and Toad
Simply Smashing
L'araignée et l'éléphant or the spider and the elephant
The Companions of The Elephant--a Story From the Qur'an
Read or Play?
A Change of Pace
The Mahabharata, Book 7: Drona Parva: Dronabhisheka Parva-- a Hinduism Text
Three Elephant Power
Heave Ho!
Elephant and Tortoise -– a South African Folk Tale
The Elephant's Trunk
The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant
al-Fil: The Elephant
Akiti the Hunter--an African Tale
Granny's Blackie--a Buddhism Tale of an Elephant
Covetousness--a Tibetan Folktale
Erin and Erinomi(The Land and Water Elephants--an African Tale
The Flying Frog
The Elephant and the Tortoise; or, Why the Worms are Blind and why the Elephant has Small Eyes
I ate the whole thing!
Why the Bush Cow and the Elephant Are Bad Friends
Sniff Sniff Sniff I need a Whiff
How the Tortoise overcame the Elephant and the Hippopotamus
The Elephant, the Camel, the Goat and the Peacock
Spitting Watermelon Seeds
Gratitude (A Story About the Elephant Pit) Also Known as From the Elephant Pit
Tortoise and the King--an African Tale
The Elephant Train
The Lesson Given To Rahula – a Buddhism Text
Handling the Elephant-Hook: a Hinduism Text
AN ELEPHANT'S TRACK
Mouse Matters
Kandakoran, A South Indian Tale
On the Characteristics of Animals
My Lord the Elephant
Moti-Guj-Mutineer
How an Elephant Made a Poor Boy King
The Blind Men and the Elephant
Got Me An Elephant
Prayer - Partner Prayers - Past and Future: The Elephant
Click to Read Story




The Elephant's Child from Just So Stories, by Rudyard Kipling

In the High and Far-Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no trunk. He had only a blackish, bulgy nose, as big as a boot, that he could wriggle about from side to side; but he couldn't pick up things with it. But there was one Elephant--a new Elephant--an Elephant's Child--who was full of 'satiable curtiosity, and that means he asked ever so many questions. And he lived in Africa, and he filled all Africa with his 'satiable curtiosities. He asked his tall aunt, the Ostrich, why her tail-feathers grew just so, and his tall aunt the Ostrich spanked him with her hard, hard, claw. He asked his tall uncle, the Giraffe, what made his skin spotty, and his tall uncle, the Giraffe, spanked him with his hard, hard hoof. And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity! He asked his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, why her eyes were red, and his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, spanked him with her broad, broad hoof; and he asked his hairy uncle, the Baboon, why melons tasted ! just so, and his hairy uncle, the Baboon, spanked him with his hairy, hairy paw. And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity! He asked questions about everything that he saw, or heard, or felt, or smelt, or touched, and all his uncles and his aunts spanked him. And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity!

One fine morning in the middle of the Precession of the Equinoxes this 'satiable Elephant's Child asked a new fine question that he had never asked before. He asked, "What does the crocodile have for dinner?" Then everybody said, "Hush!" in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time.

By and by, when that was finished, he came upon Kolokolo Bird sitting in the middle of a wait-a-bit thornbush, and he said, "My father has spanked me, and my mother has spanked me; all my aunts and uncles have spanked me for my 'satiable curtiosity; and still I want to know what the Crocodile has for dinner!"

The Kolokolo Bird said, with a mournful cry, "Go to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, and find out."

That very next morning, when there was nothing left of the Equinoxes, because the Precession had preceded according to precedent, this 'satiable Elephant's Child took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little short red kind), and a hundred pounds of sugar-cane (the long purple kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly kind), and said to all his dear families, "Good-bye. I am going to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to find out what the Crocodile has for dinner." And they all spanked him once more for luck, though he asked them most politely to stop.

Then he went away, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up.

He went from Graham's Town to Kimberley, and from Kimberley to Khama's Country, and from Khama's Country he went east by north, eating melons all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, precisely as Kolokolo Bird had said. Now you must know and understand, O Best Beloved, that till that very week, and day, and hour, and minute, this 'satiable Elephant's Child had never seen a Crocodile, and did not know what one was like. It was all his 'satiable curtiosity. The first thing that he found was a Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake curled around a rock. "'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child most politely, "but have you seen such a thing as a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?"

"Have I seen a crocodile?" said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, in a voice of dretful scorn. "What will you ask me next?"

"'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child, "but could you kindly tell me what he has for dinner?"

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake uncoiled himself very quickly from the rock, and spanked the Elephant's Child with his scalesome, flailsome tail.

"That is odd," said the Elephant's Child, "because my father and mother, and my uncle and my aunt, not to mention my other aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my other uncle, the Baboon, have all spanked me for my 'satiable curtiosity--and I suppose this is the same thing."

So he said good-bye very politely to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, and helped to coil him up on the rock again, and went on, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up, till he trod on what he thought was a log of wood at the very edge of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees.

But it was really the Crocodile, O Best Beloved, and the Crocodile winked one eye--like this!

"'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child most politely, "but do you happen to have seen a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?"

Then the Crocodile winked the other eye, and lifted half his tail out of the mud; and the Elephant's Child stepped back most politely, because he did not wish to be spanked again.

"Come hither, Little One," said the Crocodile. "Why do you ask such things?"

"'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child most politely, "But my father has spanked me, my mother has spanked me, not to mention my tall aunt, the Ostrich, and my tall uncle, the Giraffe, who can kick ever so hard, as well as my broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my hairy uncle, the Baboon, and including the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, with the scalesome, flailsome tail, just up the bank, who spanks harder than any of them; and so, if it's quite all the same to you, I don't want to be spanked any more."

"Come hither, Little One," said the Crocodile, "for I am the Crocodile," and he wept crocodile tears to show it was quite true.

Then the Elephants' child grew all breathless, and panted, and kneeled down on the bank and said, "You are the very person I have been looking for all these long days. Will you please tell me what you have for dinner?"

"Come hither, Little One," said the Crocodile, "and I'll whisper."

Then the Elephant's Child put his head down close to the Crocodile's musky, tusky mouth, and the Crocodile caught him by his little nose, which up to that very week, day, hour, and minute, had been no bigger than a boot, though much more useful.

"I think," said the Crocodile--and he said it between his teeth, like this--"I think to-day I will begin with Elephant's Child!"

At this, O Best Beloved, the Elephant's Child was much annoyed, and he said, speaking through his nose, like this, "Led go! You are hurting me!"

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake scuffled down from the bank and said, "My young friend, if you do not now, immediately and instantly, pull as hard as ever you can, it is my opinion that your acquaintance in the large-pattern leather ulster" (and by this he meant the Crocodile) "will jerk you into yonder limpid stream before you can say Jack Robinson."

This is the way Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake always talked.

Then the Elephant's child sat back on his little haunches, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose began to stretch. And the Crocodile floundered into the water, making it all creamy with great sweeps of his tail, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled.

And the Elephant's Child's nose kept on stretching; and the Elephant's child spread all his little four legs and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose kept on stretching; and the Crocodile threshed his tail like an oar, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at each pull the Elephant's Child's nose grew longer and longer--and it hurt him hijjus!!

Then the Elephant's Child felt his legs slipping, and he said through his nose, which was now nearly five feet long, "This is to butch for be!"

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake came down from the bank, and knotted himself in a double-clove-hitch round the Elephant's Child's hind legs, and said, "Rash and inexperienced traveller, we will now seriously devote ourselves to a little high tension, because if we do not, it is my impression that yonder self-propelling man-of-war with the armour-plated upper deck" (and by this, O Best Beloved, he meant the Crocodile) "will permanently vitiate your future career."

That is the way all Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk.

So he pulled, and the Elephant's Child pulled, and the Crocodile pulled, but the Elephant's Child and the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake pulled hardest; and at last the Crocodile let go of the Elephant's Child's nose with a plop that you could hear all up and down the Limpopo.

Then the Elephant's Child sat down most hard and sudden; but first he was careful to say "Thank you" to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake; and next he was kind to his poor pulled nose, and wrapped it all up in cool banana leaves, and hung it in the great grey-green greasy Limpopo to cool.

"What are you doing that for?" said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake.

"'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child, "but my nose is badly out of shape, and I am waiting for it to shrink"

"Then you will have to wait a long time," said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. "Some people do not know what is good for them."

The Elephant's Child sat there for three days waiting for his nose to shrink. But it never grew any shorter, and, besides, it made him squint. For, O Best Beloved, you will understand that the Crocodile had pulled it out into a really truly trunk, same as all Elephant's have today.

At the end of the third day a fly came and stung him on the shoulder, and before he knew what he was doing he lifted up his trunk and hit that fly dead with the end of it.

"'Vantage number one!" said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. "You couldn't have done that with a mere-smear nose. Try and eat a little now."

Before he thought what he was doing the Elephant's Child put out his trunk and plucked a large bundle of grass, dusted it clean against his forelegs, and stuffed it into his mouth. "'Vantage number two!" said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. "You couldn't have done that with a mere-smear nose. Don't you think the sun is very hot here?"

"It is," said the Elephant's Child, and before he thought what he was doing he schlooped up a schloop of mud from the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo, and slapped it on his head, where it made a cool schloopy-sloshy mud-cap all trickly behind his ears.

"'Vantage number three!" said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. "You couldn't have done that with a mere-smear nose. Now how do you feel about being spanked again?"

"'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child, "but I should not like it at all."

"How would you like to spank somebody?" said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake.

"I should like it very much indeed," said the Elephant's Child.

"Well," said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, "you will find that new nose of yours very useful to spank people with."

"Thank you," said the Elephant's child, "I'll remember that; and now I think I'll go home to all my dear families and try."

So the Elephant's Child went home across Africa frisking and whisking his trunk. When he wanted fruit to eat he pulled fruit down from a tree, instead of waiting for it to fall as he used to do. When he wanted grass he plucked grass up from the ground, instead of going on his knees as he used to do. When the flies bit him he broke off the branch of a tree and used it as a fly-whisk; and he made himself a new, cool slushy-squshy mud-cap whenever the sun was hot. When he felt lonely walking through Africa he sang to himself down his trunk, and the noise was louder than several brass bands. He went especially out of his way to find a broad Hippopotamus (she was no relation of his), and he spanked her very hard, to make sure that the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake had spoken the truth about his new trunk. The rest of the time he picked up the melon rinds that he had dropped on his way to the Limpopo--for he was a Tidy Pachyderm.

One dark evening he came back to all his dear families, and he coiled up his trunk and said, "How do you do?" They were very glad to see him, and immediately said, "Come here and be spanked for your 'satiable curtiosity."

"Pooh," said the Elephant's Child. "I don't think you people's know anything about spanking; but I do, and I'll show you."

Then he uncurled his trunk and knocked two of his dear brothers head over heels.

"O Bananas!" said they, "Where did you learn that trick, and what have you done to your nose?"

"I got a new one from the Crocodile on the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River," said the Elephant's Child. "I asked him what he had for dinner, and he gave me this to keep."

"It looks very ugly," said his hairy uncle, the Baboon.

"It does," said the Elephant's Child. "But it's very useful," and he picked up his hairy uncle, the Baboon, by one hairy leg, and hove him into a hornets' nest.

Then that bad Elephant's Child spanked all his dear families for a long time, till they were very warm and greatly astonished. He pulled out his tall Ostrich aunt's tail-feathers; and he caught his tall uncle, the Giraffe, by the hind-leg, and dragged him through a thorn-bush; and he shouted at his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and blew bubbles into her ear when she was sleeping in the water after meals; but he never let any one touch the Kolokolo Bird.

At last things grew so exciting that his dear families went off one by one in a hurry to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to borrow new noses from the Crocodile. When they came back nobody spanked anybody any more; and ever since that day, O Best Beloved, all the Elephants you will ever see besides all those that you won't, have trunks precisely like the trunk of the 'satiable Elephant's Child.

How an Elephant Made a Poor Boy King

Once upon a time there lived a family of eight sons and their parents in a village. The family was so poor that the parents frequently had to eat all the food themselves, leaving nothing for the children. Consequently, the children starved and became very weak. The parents would cook food at night when the children were asleep. One day while the parents were handling the pots, one of the children woke up. He was asked by the parents to stay quiet. They promised to give him a share of whatever they were going to eat. However, the commotion disturbed the other children and all of them woke up. The parents tried to distract them by asking questions. They asked them what they would do for their parents when they grew up. All the sons, except the youngest who had only just learnt to speak, replied that they would help their parents in all possible ways. The parents wanted the youngest son also to respond. The child replied that he would live off the leftovers of his elder brothers all his life. The parents were so annoyed by this reply that they ordered the elder brothers to kill him. The eldest brother felt sorry for the child and took him to the forest where he sealed his eyes with some adhesive and left him there. From where the boy stood he could go in any one of eight different directions. The elder brother also left him a knife.

The child sat there the whole night and became extremely tired. As dawn came an elephant appeared and asked him about his problem. The boy told the elephant all that had transpired during the night. The elephant felt sorry for the child. "You are the most honest among all your father's children", said he. He unsealed the child's eyes so that he could see again. Then the elephant gave the child a reed and told him to chop it into small pieces of meat. These pieces of meat were to be hung on the reeds and the boy was to take shelter under the remains of the elephant. The boy did as he was told, and slept under the skeleton that night.

The next morning the boy found himself inside a big palace. The skeleton of the elephant had been transformed into the palace during the night. Where the boy had kept the pieces of meat, there was an annexe to the palace. Thus the little boy found himself the king of a beautiful rich city.

News spread far and wide of the sudden emergence of the new city. The cruel parents meanwhile had become poorer than ever and lived by begging. One day they, along with their other sons, came upon their youngest son, now a king. He recognized his parents and without any ill will towards them ordered a feast in their honour. However, during the feast his mother and father were to receive severe punishment from God for their misdeeds. They were made to confess their crimes against their own children. The moment they finished with their confession they were struck down by chuk-kiubo (a strange disease causing the tongue to fall out of the mouth). the mother's eyes too fell out of their sockets, and they both died. The brothers however stayed happily with the king for many years.

Shooting an Elephant is a story which should be read by all. It tells us something about the nature of man. It gives us a glance into colonialism. The story lets us see how the white man justified his actions even to the unneccesary shooting of an elephant just to save face.

Shooting an Elephant, by George Orwell

IN MOULMEIN, IN LOWER BURMA, I was hated by large numbers of people--the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.

All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically--and secretly, of course--I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos--all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest's guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.

One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism--the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old .44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant's doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone "must." It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of "must" is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours' journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody's bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.

The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of "Go away, child! Go away this instant!" and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man's dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast's foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend's house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.

The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant--I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary--and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd's approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.

I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant--it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery--and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of "must" was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.

But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man's dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd--seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the "natives," and so in every crisis he has got to do what the "natives" expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing--no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man's life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.

But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast's owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.

It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn't be frightened in front of "natives"; and so, in general, he isn't frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.

There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.

When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick--one never does when a shot goes home--but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frighfful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time--it might have been five seconds, I dare say--he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.

I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open--I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.

In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dahs and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.

Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool.

PRAYER - PARTNER PRAYERS - PAST AND FUTURE

The Elephant - Wednesday, June 6, 2001

God, Bless the Animals... and especially this week, the elephants -- the world's largest living land mammals. Native to India and Africa, elephants are now found on all the continents of the planet, serving as work animals and animals used for show and entertainment. Within their natural herds, God, You created elephants to demonstrate great affection for and loyalty to one another. Show us how to emulate those traits in our care for these giants, today. Send to them, wherever they are, those souls who will treat them with kindness and affection and appreciate their innate loyalty. Grant each elephant in Your loving care God, a safe place to live, a long and comfortable life and gentle caretakers. Thank You, God, for bringing our attention to these marvelous animals today. Bless the elephants -- everywhere. Amen.

The Buddha Elephant

A long time ago in India there lived a very
special elephant. India is a very special
place its where the Buddha came from. In
India there are the tallest mountains in the
world they are called the Himalayas. It was
in these mountains where this elephant
lived. This elephant was special because
he shined out a beautiful golden. His
golden light shone everywhere so
everybody could see it. It's the same
golden light that shines around the Buddha
that you can see here. Because of this light
the elephant was known as the Buddha elephant.

The Blind Men and the Elephant, A Hindu fable, by John Godfrey Saxe

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
`God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!'

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, `Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me 'tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!'

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
`I see,' quoth he, `the Elephant
Is very like a snake.'

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
`What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,' quoth he;
`'Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!'

The Fifth who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: `E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most:
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!'

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
`I see,' quoth he, `the Elephant
Is very like a rope!'

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

So, oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

KANDAKORAN, A SOUTH INDIAN TALE

The procession would take place in the inner precinct of the temple according to a precise deambulatory order and for a time period fixed in advance. There was never any need whatsoever to guide Kandakoran: he would stop at the appropriate times and would move with all desired slowness. There was only one problem. If for any reason the authorities decided to speed up the ceremony, Kandakoran would not prove to be very cooperative. No force in the world could make him change his routine. In this regard, it has been said that when Kandakoran led the procession it was impossible to cheat on the amount of oil put in the lamps as the festival would always last the exact amount of time it was supposed to.

The last day of the ceremony, during the performances that would run late into the night, never would one see Kandakoran misbehave and fight with the other elephants; never did one see him run like a beast or frighten the crowd, taking advantage of a commotion. He always sat calmly, tranquilly, holding his immense ears as if he too was enjoying the entertainment. One evening, the festivities had just ended and Kandakoran was walking alone, as was his habit, searching for a place to stretch out for the night. As he was on a badly fit, out-of-the-way road, an old woman, half-blind, arrived all the way up to him without noticing him. Perceiving the elephant at the last moment, she started with fear and fell senseless to the ground, in front of his powerful feet. The attendants who were following her began emitting cries of terror and fled.

The road being too narrow for Kandakoran to push the old woman to the side, he stayed there, without moving. The woman finally came to her senses and pulled herself up, crawling to the side. Then Kandakoran, kicking free the umbrella she had let fall on the road, started off again on his way. Who has ever heard of an elephant as intelligent as that? Was he not the most marvelous elephant who ever existed? When Kandakoran would haul the fully grown trees that grew in such vast quantity in Kerala, there was never a tree trunk too heavy for him. Yet, without his consent, it would have been impossible to get him to lift a mere stick.

For him to accept a job, it was necessary first of all to agree on a price, one part set apart for the temple, the other for his own use, in the form of food. The handlers would inform him of the size of the tree he was to move; they would tell him where he was to leave it and the salary fixed for the job. If the deal appealed to him, he would trumpet his agreement, going to fetch the tree trunk and carry it to the designated spot. If he was not immediately given his portion of bananas, coconuts, or sweets, he would pick the tree trunk up again and immediately haul it back to its starting point.

One day, a man arrived at the temple requesting his services to move an enormous tree. A price was agreed upon. Then the handlers asked the man: "What do you intend to give to Kandakoran?" Ten bunches of bananas, ten coconuts, and twenty pounds of molasses," the man responded, without hesitation. When this proposition was communicated to Kandakoran, he trumpeted loudly to express his satisfaction and accomplished his task with diligence. The man then said that Kandakoran would receive his food several days later. Kandakoran immediately returned to the spot where he had just deposited the tree and moved it back to where he had taken it. Not knowing what to do, the man approached several other elephants, but their combined efforts were in vain: the tree would not move even the distance of a mustard seed. In the end, the man, completely vexed, went back to Subramania temple. A new deal was struck and Kandakoran, taking his usual bath in the river, was called in. But he refused to obey at any price whatsoever.

There are many tales about the elephants of Kerala. Each has its own characteristics and personality but none has the free will of Kandakoran! The forest of Kerala abound in herds of wild elephants. From time to time, an elephant may fall into a trap and be captured. Thence begins the long, arduous, and unrelenting work of training it. Once tamed, it is usually sold to a temple or a king. Kandakoran, the hero of our story, was sold to the temple of Subramania in the city of Travancore. He was an enormous, magnificent beast, one of the most beautiful elephants that had ever been seen in Kerala. His height harmonized marvelously with his massive bulk and made him a well-proportioned animal. His long, curved tusks thrust straight forward, leaning neither too much to the left or right. Even the way he held his head was majestic, and his ears, abnormally large, hung from either side of his jutting brow. In short, he possessed all the qualities that are the mark of an exceptional elephant.

Despite his size, he was sweet-tempered and never, it was said, in the course of his long life did he harm the smallest of creatures, even when he was rutting and crazy juices swam through his temples. As everyone knows, each elephant has his own personality, and Kandakoran was no exception. He loved to do things his own way and it was impossible to make him change his mind as he had a natural aversion for orders, no matter what they were. The handlers who cared for him were aware early on of this character trait and became used to letting him act in his own manner and as it seemed best to him. Unlike other elephants, Kandakoran was never tied up as he refused to submit to such an indignity. When night fill, he would choose a comfortable spot and stretch out.

Kandakoran loved to bathe in the river that ran nearby, north of the temple. He stayed out of the heat as much as possible and when he wasn't working would pass the warm hours of the day in the water, at the spot where it was deepest. He became the faithful friend of the water buffalos who would pass along the banks or splash in the pools not far from him. Sometimes, during the dry season, the buffalos would no longer be able to find pasturage to graze. Kandakoran could not bear to see his friends starve, above all when fields of sugarcane grew along the riverbanks, under their very nose. These fields were fenced in and the buffalos could only look at them. But this was not an obstacle for Kandakoran. One day, followed by the herd of buffalos, he left the river and had soon made an opening in the fence, waiting for his companions to eat their fill. The owners of the field arrived quickly, brandishing sticks to frighten away the buffalos, but as soon as Kandakoran saw them he charged upon them.

He was careful not to hurt anyone, but the peasants fled, frightened by his surges forward, seized with panic. When the buffalos had eaten to their hearts' content, Kandakoran escorted them back to the river, and recom-menced his interrupted swim. It was said that he never took a single stick of sugarcane for himself. And it's a fact that he was never seen to take any food not expressly intended for him. Another time, Kandakoran was lazing in the river. A boat laden with ginger, coconuts, and bananas was making its way downstream. Its cargo was so heavy that the rim of the boat was barely above water level. Kanda-koran saw the boat but the bargemen didn't see him and their skiff landed on his back. As soon as this happened, he lifted his trunk and grabbed hold of the boat. While its occupants, terrified, threw themselves into the current to swim to shore, Kandakoran tore the boat to pieces....

From that time on, the river folk bore some ill-will toward Kandakoran. And, as the feeling was mutual, never for the rest of his life did Kandakoran permit a boat to pass him whenever he was in the river. If perchance a boat appeared, the elephant would move either upstream or downstream, depending, and smash it to pieces. Soon, it was necessary to reroute river traffic by several kilo-meters to avoid Kandakoran. The bargemen would even come down by foot to determine his presence or absence before starting their long, arduous journey. If he was there, they had to wait until he left. Many of them would bring offerings to Subra-mania temple in hopes that Kanda-koran would be gone by the time they had to pass that spot in the river. Still today, one can see in the temple a raw of lamps offered by bargemen on such occasions.

Kandakoran was considered the first elephant of the temple, and thus it was he who was designated to carry the idol in the processions on festival days. But on these occasions, it was not necessary for the handlers to disturb him. Because Kandakoran, as soon as he was aware it was time, would leave the river on his own accord and head for the temple. There, he would station himself under the large steeple of the golden temple and patiently await the attendants to come adorn him with the traditional coiffure. He would lift one of his back legs to let an attendant climb up on his back. He would affix the idol firmly, then climb back down again in the same manner- Kandakoran would never have permitted anyone ever to mount him from the front. The man holding the silk umbrella, the one who plied the fan of peacock feathers, and the attendant who spun the fly-swatter of yak-tails, a11 mounted him from behind.

INTIMATE ELEPHANT, Plutarch, Moralia, early 2nd century

The loves of some animals are wild and furious, while others have a refinement which is not far from human and an intercourse conducted with much grace. Such was the elephant which at Alexandria played the rival to Aristophanes the grammarian. They were, in fact, in love with the same flower-girl; nor was the elephant's love the less manifest: as he passed by the market, he always brought her fruit and stood beside her for a long time and would insert his trunk, like a hand, within her garments and gently caress her fair breasts.

ON THE CHARACTERISTICS OF ANIMALS, BY AELIAN, EARLY 3RD CENTURY

Touching the sagacity of Elephants I have spoken elsewhere; and further, I have spoken too of the manner of hunting them, mentioning but a few of the numerous facts recorded by others. For the present I intend to speak of their sense for music and their readiness to obey and their aptitude for learning things which are difficult even for mankind, to say nothing of so huge an animal and one hitherto so fierce to encounter. The movements of a chorus, the steps of a dance, how to march in time, how to enjoy the sound of flutes, how-to distinguish different notes, when to slacken pace as permitted or when to quicken at command-all these things the Elephant has learnt and knows how to do, and does accurately without making mistakes. Thus, while nature has created him to be the largest of animals, learning has tendered him the most gentle and docile.

Now had I set out to write about the readiness to obey and to learn among elephants in India or in Ethiopia or in Libya, anyone might suppose that I was concocting some pretentious tale, that in Fact I was on the strength of hearsay about the beast giving a completely false account of its nature. That is the last thing that a man in pursuit of knowledge and an ardent lover of the truth has any right to do. Instead I have preferred to state what I have myself seen and what others have recorded as having formerly occurred in Rome, treating summarily a few facts our of many, which nevertheless sufficiently demonstrate the peculiar nature of the beast.

The Elephant when once tamed is the gentlest of creatures and is easily induced to do whatever one wants. Now keeping due eye on the time, I shaft state the most important events first. Germanicus Caesar was about to give some shows for the Romans. (He would be the nephew of Tiberius.) There were in Rome several full-grown male and female elephants, and there were calves born of them in the country; and when their limbs began to grow firm, a man who was clever at dealing with such beasts trained them and instructed them with uncanny and astounding dexterity. To begin with he introduced them in a quiet, gentle fashion to his instructions, supplying wheeled into a circle when he so ordered them, and if they had to deploy, that also they did. And then they sprinkled flowers to deck the floor, but with moderation and economy, and now and again they stamped, keeping time in a rhythmical dance.

MOTI-GUJ-MUTINEER, BY RUDYARD KIPLING

The happy medium for stump-clearing is the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and threes, and fill to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast's name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which would never have been the case under native rule: for Moti Guj was a creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Because the British government was in the land, Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undisturbed. He was dissipated.

When he had made much money through the strength of his elephant, he would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating was over, Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love and his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj was very fond of liquor--arrack for choice, though he would drink palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep between Moti Guj's forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up.

There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter's clearing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj's neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps--for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks: or pulled at the end of a rope--for he had a magnificent pair of shoulders¡Xwhile Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his three hundred pounds' weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj's legs till it was time to go to bed.

Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Guj lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa went over him with a coir swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in case of sores or budding ophthalmia. After inspection the two would "come up with a song from the sea," Moti Gui, all black and shining, waving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his own long wet hair.

MY LORD THE ELEPHANT, BY RUDYARD KIPLING, 1902

"Seed the battery this mornin'? said Ortheris. He meant the newly-arrived elephant-battery, otherwise he would have said simply "guns." Three elephants harnessed in tandem go to each gun, and those who have not seen the big forty-pounders of position trundling along in the wake of their gigantic team have yet something to behold. The lead-elephant had behaved very badly on parade; and had been cut loose, sent back to the lines in disgrace, and was at that hour squealing and lashing out with his trunk at the end of the line; a picture of blind, bound, bad temper. His mahout, standing clear of the flail-like blows, was trying to soothe him. "That's the beggar that cut up on parade. 'E's must," said Ortheris pointing. "There'll be murder in the lines soon, and then, per'aps, e'll get loose an' we'll 'ave to be turned out to shoot 'im, same as when one o' they native king's elephants musted last June. 'Ope'e will.'

"Must be sugared!" said Mulvaney contemptuously from his resting-place on a pile of dried bedding. "He's no more than in a powerful bad timper wid bein' put upon. I'd lay my kit he's new to the gun-team, an' by natur' he hates haulin'. Ask the mahout, sorr." I hailed the old white-bearded mahout who was lavishing pet words on his sulky red-eyed charge. "He is not musth," the man replied indignantly, only his honor has been touched. Is an elephant an ox or a mule that he should tug at a trace? His strength is in his head--Peace, peace, my Lord! It was not my fault that they yoked thee this morning!---Only a low-caste elephant will pull a gun, and he is a Kumeria of the Doon."

It cost a year and the life of a man to break him to burden. They of the Artillery put him in the gun-team because one of their base-born brutes had gone lame. No wonder that he was, and is wrath." "Rummy! Most unusual rum," said Ortheris. "Gawd, 'e is in a temper, though! S'pose 'e got loose!¡¨ Mulvaney began to speak but checked himself, and I asked the mahout what would happen if the heel--chains broke. "God knows, who made elephants," he said simply.

"In his now state peradventure he might kill YOU three, or run at large till his rage abated. He would not kill me, except he were musth. Then would he kill me before any one in the world, because he loves me. Such is the custom of the elephant-folk, and the custom of us mahout--people matches it for foolishness. We trust each our own elephant, till our own elephant kills us. Other castes trust women, but we the elephant-folk. I have seen men deal with enraged elephants and live; but never was man yet born of woman that met my lord the elephant in his musth and lived to tell of the taming. They are enough bold who meet him angry."

"THE MAMMOTHS OF SIBERIA" from An Illustrated Study of Animals. "Mammals," vol. 2, 1860 by Alfred Edmund Brehm

The burial grounds of this elephant are found in the lands of the Ostyaks, the Tungus, the Samoyeds, and the Burates, along the banks of the Ob River, the Yenisey, and the Yena, between 58„a N and the Arctic Ocean. When the sandy beaches thaw, one discovers entire mountains of gigantic teeth, into which enormous bones arc mixed. Sometimes, these teeth are firmly implanted in jawbones; some have even been found covered with flesh that is still bloody, hair, and skin. The indigenous peoples called this animal mammont; they said it was of an enormous height, 6 to 10 feet; that it had a long, broad head, feet resembling a bear's; that it lived underground; that during its subterranean walks it would at times stick its head above ground and withdraw it immediately as it found sunlight hurtful; that it ate mud, and died if it was ever on sandy soil, because it could not pull its feet out; that it perished as soon as it came into the open air. This was what Ides wrote when, on a diplo-matic mission to China in 1692, he heard people speak about these deposits of bones.

The natural illustrator Pallas, at the end of the last century, gave us very exact renderings of the fossil remains of the mammoth. But the greatest discovery in terms of this species was made by Adams, at the mouth of the Lena River. Having learned that a mammoth with its skin and hair had been found, Adams left as soon as possible to go salvage the precious remains, joining the Tungus chief responsible for the find. The Tungus had discovered the animal in 1799 but had not touched it, as the ancients told of a similar monster being found on the same peninsula, and that this brought a curse on the family of the person who had encountered it; everyone perished. This tale frightened the chief to the point where he became ill. However, the enormous tusks excited his greed and he resolved to get them. In March 1804 he gave both of them up in exchange for merchandise of little value.

Adams made his voyage two years later; he found the animal in the same spot, yet torn apart. The Yakuts had stripped away the flesh to feed their dogs. Isatis, wolves, wolverines, foxes had fed on it. The skeleton was intact, with the exception of one its feet. A dry skin covered its head. An eye and the brain were still there. The feet had their callouses. An ear, covered with silky hair, was equally well preserved. Three-quarters of the skin still existed. This skin was of a dark grey color; the down covering it was reddish, the bristle black and thicker than the eyelashes of a horse. Adams collected what he could. He skinned the animal, and ten men could barely lift the hide. He had all the hair scattered around the ground collected, and got almost 38 pounds of it.

The entirety was sent to Saint Petersburg and didn't arrive without some deterioration, the skin having lost its hair, nonetheless, thanks to the efforts and perseverance of this naturalist, the matter was put beyond all question. The longest hair was from the neck; it measured more than two feet. The rest of the body was covered by an abundant fur, irrefutable proof that the mammoth lived in a cold climate. Its tusks were even more curved than those of elephants living today (some of them traced three--quarters of a circle). Adams saw tusks that measured 23 feet in length. The discovery of this animal long preoccupied scholars; nobody could explain the sudden disappearance of the beasts of this region. Some, based on Vegetal remains, entertained the idea of a sudden change in the earth's axis of rotation; others tended toward the notion of a flood that might have submerged Siberia.

GOT ME AN ELEPHANT


Got me an elephant
Only two inches tall
Lives in my pocket
And that's not all...

Got me an elephant
Tiny as can be
Smaller than a breadbox
Bigger than a pea

Got me an elephant
Though it's only a toy
Every time I hold it
My heart fills with joy

Got me an elephant
was sitting on the ground
Good fortune smiled upon me
The day that it was found

Got me an elephant
My favorite good luck charm
Keeps my mind from worry
Keeps my friends from harm

Got me an elephant
My lucky charm that's true
Cause the day I found it
Was the day that I met YOU!!


THE END

Poem © Jason M. Hall

The Judgment of the Baboon -- an African Text

ONE day, it is said, the following story happened:

Mouse had torn the clothes of Itkler (the tailor), who then went to Baboon, and accused Mouse with these words:

"In this manner I come to thee: Mouse has torn my clothes, but will not know anything of it, and accuses Cat; Cat protests likewise her innocence, and says, 'Dog must have done it; but Dog denies it also, and declares Wood has done it; and Wood throws the blame on Fire, and says, 'Fire did it'; Fire says, ' have not, Water did it'; Water says, 'Elephant tore the clothes'; and Elephant says, 'Ant tore them.' Thus a dispute has arisen among them. Therefore, 1, Itkler, come to thee with this proposition: Assemble the people and try them in order that I may get satisfaction."

Thus he spake, and Baboon assembled them for trial. Then they made the same excuses which had been mentioned by Itkler, each one putting the blame upon the other.

So Baboon did not see any other way of punishing them, save through making them punish each other; he therefore said,

"Mouse, give Itkler satisfaction."

Mouse, however, pleaded not guilty. But Baboon said, "Cat, bite Mouse." She did so.

He then put the same question to Cat, and when she exculpated herself, Baboon called to Dog, "Here, bite Cat."

In this manner Baboon questioned them all, one after the other, but they each denied the charge. Then he addressed the following words to them, and said,

Wood, beat Dog.
Fire, burn Wood.
Water, quench Fire.
Elephant, drink Water.

Ant, bite Elephant in his most tender parts."

They did so, and since that day they cannot any longer agree with each other.

Ant enters into Elephant's most tender parts and bites him.

Elephant swallows Water.
Water quenches Fire.
Fire consumes Wood.
Wood beats Dog.
Dog bites Cat.
And Cat bites Mouse.

Through this judgment Itkler got satisfaction, and addressed Baboon in the following manner:

"Yes! Now I am content, since I have received satisfaction, and with all my heart I thank thee, Baboon, because thou hast exercised justice on my behalf and given me redress."

Then Baboon said, "From to-day I will not any longer be called Jan, but Baboon shall be my name."

Since that time Baboon walks on all fours, having probably lost the privilege of walking erect through this foolish judgment.

Handling the Elephant-Hook – a Hinduism Text

"Sanjaya said, 'Meanwhile towards the northern part of the Pandava army, a loud uproar arose of cars and elephants and steeds and foot-soldiers as those were being massacred by Dandadhara. Turning the course of the car, but without stopping the steeds which were as fleet as Garuda or the wind, Keshava, addressing Arjuna, said, "The chief of the Magadhas, with his (foe-crushing) elephant is unrivalled in prowess. In training and might he is not inferior to Bhagadatta himself. Having slain him first, thou wilt then slay the samsaptakas." At the conclusion of his words, Keshava bore Partha to the presence of Dandadhara. The chief of the Magadhas, peerless in handling the elephant-hook even as the headless planet Ketu (is peerless) among all the planets, was destroying the hostile army like a fierce comet destroying the whole earth. Riding on his foe-slaying and well-equipped elephant which looked like the danava with elephantine face and form, and whose roar resembled that of a congregated mass of clouds, Dandadhara was destroying with his shafts thousands of cars and steeds and elephants and men. The elephants also, treading upon cars with their feet, pressed down into the Earth a large number of men with their steeds and drivers. Many were the elephants, also, which that foremost of elephants, crushed and slew with his two forefeet and trunk. Indeed, the beast moved like the wheel of Death. Slaying men adorned with steel coats of mail, along with their horses and foot-soldiers, the chief of the Magadhas caused these to be pressed down into the earth, like thick reeds pressed down with crackling sounds, by means of that mighty and foremost of elephants belonging to him. Then Arjuna, riding on that foremost of cars, rushed quickly towards that prince of elephants in the midst of that host teeming with thousands of cars and steeds and elephants, and resounding with the beat and blare of innumerable cymbals and drums and conchs and uproarious with the clatter of car-wheels, the twang of bow-strings, and the sound of palms. Even Dandadhara pierced Arjuna with a dozen foremost of shafts and Janardana with sixteen and each of the steeds with three, and then uttered a loud shout and laughed repeatedly. Then Partha, with a number of broad-headed shafts, cut off the bow of his antagonist with its string and arrow fixed thereon, as also his well-decked standard, and then the guides of his beast and the footmen that protected the animal. At this, the lord of Girivraja became filled with rage. Desirous of agitating Janardana with that tusker of his, whose temples had split from excitement, and which resembled a mass of clouds and was endued with the speed of the wind, Dandadhara struck Dhananjaya with many lances. The son of Pandu then, with three razor-headed arrows, cut off, almost at the same instant of time, the two arms each looking like the trunk of an elephant, and then the head, resembling the full Moon, of his foe. Then Arjuna struck the elephant of this antagonist with hundreds of arrows. Covered with the gold-decked arrows of Partha, that elephant equipped with golden armour looked as resplendent as a mountain in the night with its herbs and trees blazing in a conflagration. Afflicted with the pain and roaring like a mass of clouds, and exceedingly weakened, the elephant crying and wandering and running with tottering steps, fell down with the guide on its neck, like a mountain summit riven by thunder. Upon the fall of his brother in battle, Danda advanced against Indra's younger brother and Dhananjaya, desirous of slaying them, on his tusker white as snow and adorned with gold and looking like a Himalayan summit. Danda struck Janardana with three whetted lances bright as the rays of the sun, and Arjuna with five, and uttered a loud shout. The son of Pandu then uttering a loud shout cut off the two arms of Danda. Cut off by means of razor-headed shafts, those two arms, smeared with sandal-paste, adorned with angadas, and with lances in grasp, as they fell from the elephant's back at the same instant of time, looked resplendent like a couple of large snakes of great beauty falling down from a mountain summit. Cut off with a crescent-shaped arrow by the diadem-decked (Partha), the head also of Danda fell down on the Earth from the elephant's back, and covered with blood it looked resplendent as it lay like the sun dropped from the Asta mountain towards the western quarter. Then Partha pierced with many excellent arrows bright as the rays of the sun that elephant of his foe, resembling a mass of white clouds whereupon it fell down with a noise like a Himalayan summit riven with thunder. Then other huge elephants capable of winning victory and resembling the two already slain, were cut off by Savyasaci, in that battle, even as the two (belonging to Danda and Dandadhara) had been cut off. At this the vast hostile force broke. Then elephants and cars and steeds and men, in dense throngs, clashed against one another and fell down on the field. Tottering, they violently struck one another and fell down deprived of life. Then his soldiers, encompassing Arjuna like the celestials encompassing Purandara, began to say, "O hero, that foe of whom we had been frightened like creatures at the sight of Death himself, hath by good luck been slain by thee. If thou hadst not protected from that fear those people that were so deeply afflicted by mighty foes, then by this time our foes would have felt that delight which we now feel at their death, O slayer of enemies." Hearing these and other words uttered by friends and allies, Arjuna, with a cheerful heart, worshipped those men, each according to his deserts, and proceeded once more against the samsaptakas.'"

Rataplan, a Rogue Elephant by Ellen Velvin

In one of the thick, shady and tangled forests of Ceylon a fine, fully-grown elephant was one day standing moodily by himself. His huge form showed high above the tangled brushwood, but his wide, flat feet and large, pillar-like legs were hidden in the thick undergrowth.

He was not standing still, however--for no elephant has ever been known to do that yet--his massive, elongated head, with its wide, flat ears, its long, snake-like, flexible trunk, its magnificent pair of ivory tusks and its ridiculous, little eyes moved gravely to and fro-- up and down--in a wearied but restless manner.

Every now and then he would lift one of his massive legs and put it down again, or sway his whole body from side to side, or throw his trunk up in the air and then wave it round his head and over his back in all directions.

But, in spite of his moody, wearied air, the elephant's tiny eyes looked particularly wicked. And wicked they were, and a true index to the mischief going on in his elephant mind.

He had no herd round him, no brother or sister elephant with whom he could wave trunks, nod heads, or carry on a conversation in elephant language; he was alone, and preferred to be alone, for his irritable nature and morose disposition made it impossible for him to live with others.

It was not entirely due to himself that he lived alone, for his character was so bad, alas! that no herd would admit him into its ranks, no drive would have anything to do with him; for he was Rataplan, the Rogue, and he was feared, avoided and hated as much as it is possible for the gentle-natured and good-tempered Indian elephant to fear and hate anything.

There had been a time--long, long ago--when he had been one of a herd; but his roguishness had developed early, and after much forbearance and long-suffering the herd had turned him out; and from that time he had been a solitary wanderer.

From the first Rataplan pretended that he did not care, and tossed his trunk disdainfully when driven from the herd. He had felt it, nevertheless, and it had made him more morose, more irritable, more mad than ever.

He cared for nothing now: the only thing in which he took a delight was, destroying as much as possible in mere wantonness, and in working as much mischief as he could find time to plan and accomplish.

There had been times in the past when, in his better moments, he had longed to go back to the herd; had longed to be taken into some grand troop of elephants such as those he watched march through the forests. He longed to be one of them, and to feel that he was a respectable, well-conducted elephant.

But his overtures had always been received with disfavor and firm refusals, and the time had now come when nothing would have induced him to live with any elephants whatever; he preferred to be alone; and his evil nature and irritable temper thrived on his solitary life and mischief-making propensities, and to know that he was feared and dreaded was a very delight to him.

Out of pure mischief he would, at times, tear madly through the forest, trumpeting at the very top of his shrill voice, merely to give the elephants, or any other animals that might be about, a thorough fright.

Many and many a time had some horrid, insignificant little creatures who walked about on two legs, and carried things of fire in their hands, tried their very best to inveigle and entrap him, but in vain. Once, indeed, he had very nearly fallen into a horrible pit in which, at the very bottom, in the centre, was a dreadful, long, sharp stake, which, had he fallen, would have been driven through his thick body by its own weight, and he would have perished miserably and in agony.

But he had found it out in time--only just in time--for one of his hind legs had shot out suddenly behind him, and it was only by a mighty effort of his huge strength that he scrambled up and away from the source of danger.

But oh, what havoc he made! How he tore up anything and everything within his reach! Iron fences which those silly, little fire-carriers had stuck into the ground to protect their crops; silly, little, brick walls which he knocked over with one push of his huge body; young, healthy trees which had been planted so carefully a few years back, and which he pulled up with his long trunk as though they were little radishes; not to speak of the miles of rice and sugar-cane which he had trodden down in wanton waste and as a means of venting his temper.

Another time they had tried to drive him into a horrid place called a Keddah, which had been built with stout logs, and had huge buttresses which even he would have found it difficult to move.

He had been really startled one dark night on seeing huge bunches of fire coming towards him, and in spite of his daring he began to run in the opposite direction.

But it takes a rogue to catch a Rogue, and Rataplan was pretty wary. He had sense enough to know that those silly, little things on two legs would not take the trouble to run after him with bunches of fire unless they wanted him to run away somewhere, to some particular place. And so, after the first few, heavy, swinging steps, the reflection of the fire behind him showed him the outline of a keddah just in front, and with a shrill roar of rage Rataplan turned suddenly and fiercely round, dashed headlong through the line of fire, and, with a mighty trumpeting, disappeared into the forest.

So sudden and unexpected had been his onslaught that he had put out quite half a dozen of the bunches of fire: he had also put out the lives of the six, silly, little things who carried them. For a few swift pressures of his mighty feet had squeezed out their breath and destroyed their power to invent mischief with which to entrap the Rogue elephant.

For some time after this Rataplan had been more mad and wicked than ever. He knew perfectly well that he had killed a few of the fire- carriers, and he fully intended to kill a few more before he had done with them. But they were very cunning, these fire-carriers, and, although he had nearly caught a few of them, once or twice, they had generally escaped him when quite close by suddenly disappearing, and this caused Rataplan many serious cogitations and musings.

Wicked and clever as he was, he had only the instincts of his kind. All his senses were alert, and his eyes looked for enemies in all directions but one, and that one direction was above. He never looked up, and it never occurred to his stupid, old head, sharp as he thought himself, that the little fire-carriers might have climbed up into the trees above him. When they disappeared from his range of vision he gave up the chase, although, more often than not, the wicked, little things were sitting just above his head, where, had he only turned his trunk upwards, he could have picked them off as though they were little birds.

But he always did the same thing: he floundered blunderingly on through the forest, trumpeting, roaring, pulling up and tearing down everything within his reach, but never having sense enough to look above him. And so it was that he found it very difficult to get hold of the fire carriers, and he became madder and more full of rage than ever.

Even the herds of elephants were now getting afraid of him, although could they only have made up their gentle, docile minds to attack him he would have come to his end in no time.

But Indian elephants dislike warfare or disagreements, and often, even when severely wounded, will turn about and go away, not seeming to realize that a momentary pressure of one of their huge feet, or one straight blow with their tusks, would be more than sufficient to finish their enemies. More often than not the most an Indian elephant will do to his foe is to kick him from one huge foot to another until he is either dead or dying.

But from Rataplan, the Rogue, the other elephants preferred to keep aloof. Only once had a herd attempted to chase him, and this was when he had actually presumed to pay a little attention to the wife of its leader.

Then the leader, followed by the remainder of the herd, turned upon him, and for just once in his life Rataplan was frightened, and simply turned tail and ran--ran crashing and stumbling through the forest at a terrific speed, making the air resound with his trumpeting.

Had it not been that the dense forest was suddenly broken by a river, it would indeed have gone hard with him.

For an instant Rataplan thought he would stop--for, although elephants are beautiful swimmers, they are not particularly fond of the sport-- but only for a moment; for the herd was close behind him and pressing him, and the leader could almost reach him with his trunk. Into the water dashed Rataplan, throwing up a mountain of spray which sprinkled the whole herd, and for a few moments he was lost to sight.

After the spray cleared away his huge form, with his trunk held high in the air, could be seen swimming easily and steadily towards the other side, and after a little conference with the herd the leader decided to let him go. But, as Rataplan knew only too well, woe betide him if ever he met that herd again.

And so it was that Rataplan, the Rogue, congratulated himself that so far he had never been caught, neither had any other elephant been able to hurt him.

But on this particular day he was very miserable and very lonely, and he had a restless, uneasy, wild feeling which inclined him to something daring. He was sick and tired of trying to catch the silly things that carried fire; he was tired of the forest; he was tired of himself. He felt more irritable, restless and evil-natured than ever, and as he stood there, swaying heavily from side to side and waving his trunk about him, he was a very miserable elephant indeed.

If he had only known it, one of the silly, little things who carried the fire had been watching him for some time.

Rataplan had been keeping very still for an elephant, but there is a certain sound which he and all his brethren make, unknown to themselves, and over which they have no control. This is a curious, little, bubbling noise which is caused by the water which is stored up in their insides in case of emergency; and this little bubbling noise had been heard by the fire-carrier.

He watched the huge beast with interest, and knew by his restless manner and the wicked look in his small eyes that he was in about as dangerous a state as it is possible for an elephant to be, and he made his plans accordingly.

He was very busy for a few minutes with some long, thick ropes, which had a heavy noose at each end. The ends of these ropes he fastened carefully to some heavy trees, and then he went quietly away. The little fire-carrier was a Mahout, hunter or rider, who was trained in the capture of elephants, and he felt sure that if Rataplan would only stay where he was a short time longer he would be able to catch him.

So he went away and looked carefully at his Koomkies.[Female elephants which are trained for the purpose of catching wild elephants] He had some particularly good ones just then, and they one and all turned their large, gentle heads towards him and awaited his pleasure. For they loved the chase, and entered into it with as much interest as he did himself.

As a rule he sent several koomkies out together, but on this occasion he decided to send only one.

This was Kinka, a gentle and tractable, little Indian elephant, who was well versed in the chase, and who was about as pretty and graceful as it is possible for a koomkie to be.

The mahout talked to her and patted her, and Kinka seemed to quite understand, nodding her head wisely, and touching his face and shoulders gently with the tip of her trunk.

When he had finished and began to lead her out she made a quiet, little trumpeting noise, which signified how delighted she was to go.

The mahout did not trouble himself about Kinka, once he had let her go. She knew her business and was about as deep and crafty as any mahout could wish. He selected his strongest little horse and followed her.

Kinka went quietly and steadily through the forest, making straight for the place where Rataplan was still standing, moodily moving his head to and fro.

Once within sight of him she put on a careless, coquettish air, and began to move carelessly towards him, plucking leaves and grass as though perfectly oblivious of his presence.

Rataplan suddenly stopped moving his huge head, and his wicked little eyes were bent on her with scrutiny and interest. He was not, however, going to be caught so easily. He did not care for society in any shape or form, not even the society of a koomkie, so he took no notice of her, but, after a few minutes' quiet contemplation, turned his head the other way.

Kinka, however, was not to be daunted. Still plucking little twigs and delicate buds and knocking them carefully and fastidiously against her forelegs in order to shake off any little fragment of dust that might have stuck there, she made her way steadily towards him, and as Rataplan, even then, took not the slightest notice she became bolder, and, trotting quietly up to him, began caressing him with her trunk and making several other endearing signs which were enough to melt the heart of any elephant under the sun.

Rataplan's heart was not exactly melted, but he was evidently interested and touched by the delicate attentions, and he became a little less morose and a little less moody; he even moved out of the tangled mass of undergrowth in which he had been standing, and deigned to talk to her a little bit; and Kinka made herself just as interesting as she possibly could.

Soon Rataplan began to forget his hatred of company, his dislike of his fellow-creatures; he began even to forget his evil thoughts and his mad rage, and he was just beginning to think what a nice, little elephant Kinka was when he felt, sharp pulls at his feet.

The next instant there was such a sudden pull on all his legs that, with a huge thud Rataplan found himself lying on the ground. With one furious cry of rage he did his best to turn, displaying a flexibility of body and limb which was quite astonishing in so clumsy an animal.

Rolling on the ground and uttering more cries of rage, it suddenly occurred to him to ask the nice, little elephant to help him. But alas! the nice, little elephant, Kinka, was nowhere to be seen.

Having done her duty and treacherously inveigled him in to the snare, with a little, triumphant wave of her trunk and a funny, little, trumpeting noise she had marched with a sort of "conquering hero" air back to her stable, there to tell the other koomkies of her prowess and successful capture.

In vain Rataplan butted the tree nearest to him with all his huge strength; it never moved, scarcely even shook, and he rolled again on the ground in despair. He wound his trunk round and round one of the ropes, doing his best to break and split it, but the rope was good and strong and only squeaked dismally.

He shrieked and roared, writhed and turned, until the forest re-echoed with his cries, and the cruel ropes cut into his ankles, making deep, red wounds which stained the ground all round his feet.

After a time his shrill cries of rage developed into hoarse moans of humiliation and despair.

All that night and the next Rataplan was left there. The ropes cut deeper and deeper into his poor, swollen ankles, his body getting fainter and fainter for want of food. But he was not a Rogue elephant for nothing, and would not give in.

In vain a whole lot of koomkies were brought out to try and induce him to follow them into the keddah; he was not to be tempted, and tore and strained at his ropes to such a degree that the mahout feared he would make wounds that could never be healed; so he took away the koomkies and waited yet another night.

The third night the koomkies were brought out again, this time with Kinka at their head. But the sight of Kinka nearly drove Rataplan mad; he strained and tore at the ropes, trumpeting and roaring, until even the koomkies were frightened. Could he only have got at Kinka, he would have torn her limb from limb. But although he stretched to his utmost, and his hind legs went out behind him in the struggle, he could not get near her.

The mahout was getting troubled, for Rataplan's ankles were now in such a state as to make him almost valueless, and he knew, even did the elephant give in now, it would be months before they were healed, if indeed they ever healed at all.

Yet another long, weary day and night did poor Rataplan lay there, getting weaker and weaker and suffering untold agonies caused by those cruel ropes.

He had by this time torn his ankles so fearfully that they were all ulcerated, and stiff from lying on the ground. To add to his misery, he had caught violent inflammation in his eyes.

The mahout realized that unless he got him into the keddah soon he would be of no use at all, and once more did his best with koomkies and dainty bits of food to tempt him to follow into the keddah.

But still Rataplan would not give in: his body was weak and getting visibly thinner, but his spirit was as strong, as wild and as unbreakable as ever.

There was a consultation among the mahouts, and it was decided, as he was still so savage, there was nothing to be done but to leave him yet one more day.

But the next day Rataplan presented a piteous sight. His poor ankles were swollen enormously; his eyes were so inflamed that he was quite blind, and, to make matters worse, the mahouts saw that he was suffering now from the Ceylon Murrain.

There was nothing to be done then but kill him.

It had been a wet night which had made his poor, ulcerated ankles as bad as they could be, and the pain in his eyes was maddening. Suffering from the murrain, too, it was far too dangerous to take him among other elephants, and so the end of Rataplan, the Rogue, was that, in spite of his grand physique, his unbreakable spirit, and his indomitable patience, he was actually shot by the very things he had despised all his life--those silly little things that carried guns.

And Kinka, when she knew that he was dead, was not even sorry. She only gave a triumphant little trumpeting as she thought of the triumph of her capture. And so no one grieved for Rataplan, no one cared or thought about him. But then we must not forget that he was and always had been Rataplan, the Rogue.

The Lesson Given To Rahula – a Buddhism Text

BEFORE Rahula, the son of Gotama Siddhattha and Yasodhara, attained to the enlightenment of true wisdom, his conduct was not always marked by a love of truth, and the Blessed One sent him to a distant vihara to govern his mind and to guard his tongue. After some time the Blessed One repaired to the place, and Rahula was filled with joy.

The Blessed One ordered the boy to bring him a basin of water and to wash his feet, and Rahula obeyed. When Rahula had washed the Tathagata's feet, the Blessed One asked: "Is the water now fit for drinking?"

"No, my Lord," replied the boy, "the water is defiled. Then the Blessed One said: "Now consider thine own case. Although thou art my son, and the grandchild of a king, although thou art a samana who has voluntarily given up everything, thou art unable to guard thy tongue from untruth, and thus defilest thou thy mind." And when the water had been poured away, the Blessed One asked again: "Is this vessel now fit for holding water to drink?"

"No, my Lord," replied Rahula, "the vessel, too, has become unclean." And the Blessed One said: "Now consider thine own case. Although thou wearest the yellow robe, art thou fit for any high purpose when thou hast become unclean like this vessel?" Then the Blessed One, lifting up the empty basin and whirling it round, asked: "Art thou not afraid lest it shall fall and break?" "No, my Lord," replied Rahula, it is cheap, its loss will not amount to much."

"Now consider thine own case, said the Blessed One. Thou art whirled about in endless eddies of transmigration, and as thy body is made of the same substance as other material things that will crumble to dust, there is no loss if it be broken. He who is given to speaking untruths is an object of contempt to the wise."

Rahula was filled with shame, and the Blessed One addressed him once more: "Listen, and I will tell thee a parable: There was a king who had a very powerful elephant, able to cope with five hundred ordinary elephants. When going to war, the elephant was armed with sharp swords on his tusks, with scythes on his shoulders, spears on his feet, and an iron ball at his tail. The elephant-master rejoiced to see the noble creature so well equipped, and, knowing that a slight wound by an arrow in the trunk would be fatal, he had taught the elephant to keep his trunk well coiled up. But during the battle the elephant stretched forth his trunk to seize a sword. His master was frightened and consulted with the king, and they decided that the elephant was no longer fit to be used in battle.

"O Rahula! if men would only guard their tongues all would be well! Be like the fighting elephant who guards his trunk against the arrow that strikes in the center. By love of truth the sincere escape iniquity. Like the elephant well subdued and quiet, who permits the king to mount on his trunk, thus the man that reveres righteousness will endure faithfully throughout his life." Rahula hearing these words was filled with deep sorrow; he never again gave any occasion for complaint, and forthwith he sanctified his life by earnest exertions.

The Elephant Train by Margo Fallis

Badeef was a small, gray elephant with big floppy ears and a long trunk. He was too little to have tusks yet, but one day he would have long ones like his fathers. Badeef and his mother stood at the watering hole. It was surrounded by the long grasses of the savannah. There were a lot of other animals around the hole. It was deep and filled with croaking frogs. The hippos lay in the center, clustered together and protective of their area. Badeef was warned not to disturb the hippos. Crocodiles, hyenas, and all types of birds were there to drink the cool, refreshing water.

Badeef lowered his trunk and sipped until he was full. His mama, Mona, started nudging him with her trunk. "It’s time to go," she said. As usual, Badeef ran beside her as they made their way through the tall grass. "That watering hole is getting too crowded. We need to find another. There are too many hyenas. It’s not safe any longer."

Badeef had to walk fast on his short legs to keep up with his mama and the other female elephants. After several hours they stopped at a baobab tree. Mona reached up with her long trunk and ripped the tender leaves and soft branches off. She handed some to Badeef and then ate the rest. Suddenly Mona’s ears went up. She’d heard something. "It’s a den of lions," she whispered to Badeef and the others.

Badeef was afraid. He’d never seen a lion before but had heard the other elephants talking about them. "Mama, I’m scared," he cried, moving closer to her large body.

"We must leave," she said. The others agreed. They got into a long line, each holding onto the tail of the elephant in front of them. They looked like a long train, stretching for yards as they walked through the tall grass. They walked, and walked, and walked. Sometimes Badeef felt tired and didn’t want to walk any further, but the female elephant behind him nudged him with her trunk and he moved on.

As the sun was set, the herd came to a large watering hole. There were only a few buzzards hanging around. "We’re here," his mama said. Badeef was glad. He ran over to the water, stuck his trunk in and sipped water until no more would fit into his tummy. "We’ll be safe here," Mona assured the little elephant.

That night, Badeef lay down in the swaying grasses and fell asleep. He knew his mama was watching for lions and he knew he was safe at last.

Tortoise and the King -- an African Tale

One year the Elephant had done a great deal of damage, breaking down the trees, drinking up the water in a time of scarcity, and eating the first tender crops from the fields.

The King's hunters tried in vain to destroy him, for Elephant knew many charms, and always escaped from their traps.

At last the King offered the hand of his daughter in marriage to anyone who would rid the country of the pest.

Tortoise went to the palace and offered to catch Elephant, and then made his preparations. Outside the town a large pit was dug, and on the top of it was laid a thin platform covered with velvet cloths and leopard-skins, like a throne.

Then Tortoise set off into the forest, accompanied by slaves and drummers. Elephant was very much surprised to see his little friend Tortoise riding in such state, and suspected a trap; but Tortoise said that the old King was dead and the people all wished Elephant to rule over them, because he was the greatest of all animals. When he heard this, Elephant was flattered, and agreed to accompany Tortoise to the town. But when he went up on to the platform to be crowned King, the wood gave way beneath him, and he crashed down into the pit and was speedily slain by the King's hunters.

All the people rejoiced, and praised the cunning of Tortoise, who went to the palace to receive his bride. But the King refused to give his daughter to such an insignificant creature, and Tortoise determined to have a revenge. When the new crops were just ripening, he called together all the field-mice and elves, and asked them to eat up and carry away the corn. They were only too pleased with the idea, and the farmers in distress found the fields quite bare.

Now there was prospect of a famine in the land, and the King offered the same reward as before to anyone who would rid the country of the pests.

Tortoise once again appeared in the palace and offered his help. The King was eager enough to accept it, but Tortoise cautiously refused to do anything until the Princess became his bride.

The King was thus forced to consent to the marriage, and when it had taken place, Tortoise, true to his word, called together all the mice and elves and showed them a platform loaded with dainty morsels of food. He then addressed them as follows:

The people are so distressed at the damage you have done, that they have prepared this feast for you, and they promise to do the same twice every year, before the harvesting of the first and second crops, if you will agree not to touch the corn in the fields.

The little creatures all consented, and marched in a great crowd to the platform, which they soon cleared.

The King and his people were not very pleased to hear of this arrangement, but they were so afraid of Tortoise that they could not complain, and after that the mice and elves never troubled the country again.
Gratitude (A Story About the Elephant Pit) Also Known as “From the Elephant Pit” by Catherine T. Bryce

A hunter once dug a pit to catch and trap wild elephants. One day, a man who was being chased by a lion fell into the pit, and then the lion followed a second later. Before they had time to pick themselves up, down came a mouse, closely followed by a snake who had been chasing it, and he, in turn, was followed by a falcon who had been trying to catch him.

So there they were -- all five of them -- caught in the elephant pit and unable to get out. Each as he picked himself up tried to get away as far as possible from the others, for none knew what harm might come to him.

The man thought, "I must kill the lion or he will eat me."

The lion thought, "I must eat the man or he will kill me."

The falcon thought, "I must kill the snake or it may bite me."

The mouse thought, "Oh my! how I wish I could get away from all these big creatures!"

Thus they all sat silent, each one afraid to move lest some one or another pounce upon him and kill him.

In time the lion spoke: "Oh, honored ones," said he, "we are all comrades in misfortune. Let us promise not to hurt each other. Let each abide where he now is, while we plan a way to get out of this pit."

"Agreed!" cried all the others in haste, and especially pleased was the mouse.

Thus they all sat apart trying to think of a plan to escape, when the elephant hunter came to the pit.

"Why, what is all this?" the hunter cried, looking down.

"Oh, hunter, good hunter, kind hunter, please help us out!" cried the animals. "You see that we are not elephants."

"No, no, good hunter, I am not an elephant, I am not an elephant," squealed the mouse.

The hunter laughed. "No, you don't look much like an elephant, my little friend," he said. "I think I must help you all to escape."

The first animal that the hunter drew up was the lion. "Oh, hunter," said the lion, "I and the other animals will prove grateful to you and will help you for your kindness to us, so rescue them. But leave the man in the pit, for I warn you he will forget your kindness and do you harm."

The hunter, however, would not listen to the lion's advice, and rescued everyone.

A short time after this, the hunter fell ill of a great fever. He could not go into the woods to hunt for game, and he and his wife would have died but for the kindness of the lion. Every day the lion brought fresh meat and left it at the hunter's door.

One day while flying through the forest, the falcon saw something bright and glistening lying on the ground. He swooped down and found some beautiful gems. He carried the gems to the hunter's house and dropped them in his lap. Thus he, too, tried to repay the hunter for saving his life.

Now the gems found by the falcon belonged to the queen. She had lost them one day while passing through the wood. As she did not miss them until the next day, she thought they must have been stolen during the night, and told the king so.

The king at once sent out a man to find the gems, and the man he sent out was the very man who had fallen into the elephant pit and had been rescued by the hunter. In his search he came to the home of the sick hunter.

"Have you seen anything of such and such gems?" asked the man.

"Yes," answered the hunter, and brought them and spread them on the table.

"Where did you get these?" asked the man.

"The falcon whom I rescued from the pit brought them to me," said the hunter.

Now when the man looked on the gems, he craved them, and he said to the hunter, "These gems belong to the queen. She thinks someone has stolen them. I have been sent to find them. Unless I tell, nobody will ever know where they are. So, my friend, let us divide them. You keep half, and give half to me. Thus shall we both gain wealth and no one be the wiser."

"What!" cried the hunter. "Do you take me for a thief? No! No, I say! The gems shall be returned to our good queen."

"Then, my honest fellow," sneered the man, "you shall go to the palace as my prisoner."

He clapped his hands, and two soldiers rushed in. "Bind him and carry him to the king! It is he who has stolen the queen's jewels!"

The poor hunter, still weak from fever and illness, was carried bound to the palace. The king, believing the false man's story, would not listen to the poor hunter, but had him chained in a deep, dark dungeon.

The poor man was now in a pitiable state.

"Alas!" he said, "the lion spoke but the truth. Because of the man that I rescued from my elephant pit I am now in this loathsome dungeon with none to pity me or to deliver me."

"Say not so, good friend," said the mouse, coming out of a corner. "I pity you, and it may be I who can deliver you. Keep up your courage. I will go now to find help."

The mouse ran off and soon returned with the snake. "Now I am glad," said the snake, "to have a chance to show my gratitude. Here is a little box of cream. Hide it in your chest. Today when the king walks in the garden, I will sting him on the heel. The cream in that little box alone can save his life. I urge you, use it."

True to his word, the snake bit the king as he walked in the garden.

"He will die! He will die!" wailed all the people. "None of our doctors know a cure for the bite of that snake."

As the queen sat weeping by the king's side, the mouse drew near and spoke to her. "O queen, there is one who can cure the king -- the hunter who lies in the lowest dungeon. Send for him quickly, lest it be too late."

Hastily the queen gave the order, and the hunter was brought to the king's side. Taking the box of cream from his chest, he put some on the wound. At once the swelling went down, the pain disappeared, and the king was well again.

"What reward shall I give you?" said the king. "Ask what you will, my deliverer."

"O king," replied the hunter, "I ask only of your one great favor, that you listen to my story."

He then told the king the whole story. When he had ended, the king said, "The lion was right. Would that you had left the ungrateful man in the pit. Ho, soldiers, bring him to me and I will see that he is fitly punished."

But though the soldiers searched everywhere for the man, they could not find him.

"I am glad he has escaped," said the hunter, "for I like not to see anybody suffer."

"Good," said the king, "it is noble thus to forgive an enemy. And now, my friend, I have need of a brave man like you in my palace. You shall live here as my chief hunter."

Thus, through the gratitude of the beasts, the hunter rose to high position and honor in the court of his king.

Spitting Watermelon Seeds by Margo Fallis

The tortoise finished ripping the last piece of watermelon rind off, crunched it in his strong jaw and then swallowed it. He felt the seed inside his mouth and spit it out. It flew a few yards and landed in the sand. "Hey, that’s pretty good," the crocodile said. "You spit that seed a long way. Can you do it again?" he asked.

The tortoise bit off another piece of melon off. This piece had three seeds in it. He spit one, and then the next, and then the next. Each seed flew through the air, landing in the hot sand. Each one went a little further than the one before. "Here, let me try that," the crocodile said. He ate a big chunk out of the watermelon and filled his mouth with seeds. He spit them out, one after another and they soared through the air, landing even further than the tortoises.

As the crocodile spit his last seed, a hippo came out of the river. He stood and watched. "You spit those seeds far, but I can spit them even further," he boasted. He bit some of the watermelon off and chewed it up. Juice ran down his chin. He gathered the seeds in his large open mouth, puckered up and spit the seeds. They shot out, flying further than the crocodiles. "Beat that," he challenged the other two animals.

A duck was waddling by and saw the animals gathered round the watermelon. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"We’re having a contest to see who can spit the watermelon seed the furthest. Do you want to try to beat mine?" the hippo asked.

"Sure, I’ll try," the duck said. She took a bite of watermelon. "Wow, there are a lot of seeds in this!" She puckered her beak and spit a seed. It shot through the air and landed even further away than the hippos.

"Wow! That was good. You’re the winner so far," The croc said.

Just then a fox came up from of his underground den. "Beat what?" he asked the other animals.

"We’re having a watermelon seed spitting contest. So far I’ve spit the seeds further than the tortoise or the crocodile. Let’s see what you can do," the hippo urged the fox.

Carefully examining all the seeds lying on the ground, the fox said, "I can beat that. Just stand back and watch the master." He bit a piece of an even riper watermelon that was hooked onto the long, meandering vine. He chewed it up. Juice ran everywhere. His fur was soon a sticky mess. "Watch this," he mumbled, not able to speak well from his mouth filled up with seeds. He took careful aim and spit the seeds. Each seed darted across the sand. "Aha," the fox laughed. "I’ve beat you, hippo. I beat you, crocodile and you too, tortoise. I am the master. I am the winner." The fox ran circles around the other three, laughing and taunting them.

Just then an elephant walked up. "What’s all this about? What are you doing?" he asked the fox, watching his gleeful dance.

"We had a watermelon seed spitting contest to see who could spit the seed the furthest. I won. I beat all three of them. Care to challenge me?" he asked the huge, gray elephant.

The elephant looked at the tortoise. It was shaking its head back and forth, saying no. He looked at the crocodile. Its mouth silently formed the word ‘NO’. The elephant then looked at the hippo. He was standing on the banks of the river, shaking his head up and down. "Yes," he mumbled.

The elephant smiled and picked up the watermelon with his trunk. He put it in his mouth and munched it all up. A puddle of watermelon juice formed by his feet as it dribbled out of his mouth. He gathered the seeds in his mouth and spit them out. They didn’t go very far. In fact they didn’t even go as far as the tortoise’s. The fox began to laugh. "Ha Ha. I knew you couldn’t beat me."

The elephant tried again, and again, but each time the seed only went a short distance. The fox ran around laughing and pointing his finger at the other animals. "You can’t beat me. I’m the best."

The elephant felt something tickle his nose. He started getting ready to sneeze. The others looked at him. The fox stopped running and put his hands over his ears. Elephants make a lot of noise when they sneeze. Suddenly the elephant let out the loudest sneeze. A watermelon seed shot out of his mouth like a bullet and flew through the air. It flew past the seeds he’d spit out earlier. It flew past the tortoise’s seeds, past the crocodile’s seeds and past the hippo’s seeds. The fox stood with his mouth agape and watched as the seed flew past his seed. It kept on going, and going, and going. Finally, when it stopped, it had gone a hundred yards.

The elephant smiled. The hippo smiled. The crocodile smiled. The tortoise smiled. "I won! I won!" the elephant began to laugh out loud.

The fox stood there, scratching his head. He couldn’t beat that. He wasn’t the winner anymore. "Congratulations," he uttered softly to the elephant. "You’re the best," he said. "I’m going home to take a bath and wash this sticky watermelon juice off my fur."

"You’ll need to use a bar of soap and warm water," the tortoise said.

The fox ignored them and ran into his burrow. The other four animals stayed where they were and ate some more watermelon. They didn’t spit any more seeds. It didn’t matter anymore. They just enjoyed eating and being friends.

The Patient Elephant

WHILE the Blessed One was residing in the Jetavana, there was a householder living in Savatthi known to all his neighbors as patient and kind, but his relatives were wicked and contrived a plot to rob him. One day they came to the householder and by worrying him with all kinds of threats took away a goodly portion of his property. He did not go to court, nor did he complain, but tolerated with great forbearance the wrongs he suffered. The neighbors wondered and began to talk about it, and rumors of the affair reached the ears of the brethren in Jetavana. While the brethren discussed the occurrence in the assembly hall, the Blessed One entered and asked "What was the topic of your conversation?" And they told him.

Said the Blessed One: "The time will come when the wicked relatives will find their punishment. O brethren, this is not the first time that this occurrence took place; it has happened before," and he told them a world-old tale: Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was king of Benares, the Bodhisattva was born in the Himalaya region as an elephant. He grew up strong and big, and ranged the hills and mountains, the peaks and caves of the torturous woods in the valleys. Once as he went he saw a pleasant tree, and took his food, standing under it. Then some impertinent monkeys came down out of the tree, and jumping on the elephant's back, insulted and tormented him greatly; they took hold of his tusks, pulled his tail and disported themselves, thereby causing him much annoyance. The Bodhisattva, being full of patience, kindliness and mercy, took no notice at all of their misconduct which the monkeys repeated again and again.

"One day the spirit that lived in the tree, standing upon the tree-trunk, addressed the elephant saying, 'My lord elephant, why dost thou put up with the impudence of these bad monkeys?' And he asked the question in a couplet as follows:

"'Why do you patiently endure each freak
These mischievous and selfish monkeys wreak?'

"The Bodhisattva, on hearing this, replied, If, Tree sprite, I cannot endure these monkeys' ill treatment without abusing their birth, lineage and persons, how can I walk in the eightfold noble path? But these monkeys will do the same to others thinking them to be like me. If they do it to any rogue elephant, he will punish them indeed, and I shall be delivered both from their annoyance and the guilt of having done harm to others.' Saying this he repeated another stanza:

"If they will treat another one like me,
He will destroy them; and I shall be free.

"A few days after, the Bodhisattva went elsewhere, and another elephant, a savage beast, came and stood in his place. The wicked monkeys thinking him to be like the old one, climbed upon his back and did as before. The rogue elephant seized the monkeys with his trunk, threw them upon the ground, gored them with his tusk and trampled them to mincemeat under his feet."

When the Master had ended this teaching, he declared the truths, and identified the births, saying: "At that time the mischievous monkeys were the wicked relatives of the good man, the rogue elephant was the one who will punish them, but the virtuous noble elephant was the Tathagata himself in a former incarnation."

After this discourse one of the brethren rose and asked leave to propose a question and when the permission was granted he said: "I have heard the doctrine that wrong should be met with wrong and the evil doer should be checked by being made to suffer, for if this were not done evil would increase and good would disappear. What shall we do?" Said the Blessed One: "Nay, I will tell you You who have left the world and have adopted this glorious faith of putting aside selfishness, you shall not do evil for evil nor return hate for hate. Neither think that you can destroy wrong by retaliating evil for evil and thus increasing wrong. Leave the wicked to their fate and their evil deeds will sooner or later in one way or another bring on their own punishment." And the Tathagata repeated these stanzas:

"Who harms the man who does no harm,
Or strikes at him who strikes him not,
Shall soon some punishment incur
Which his own wickedness begot,-
"One of the gravest ills in life,
Either a loathsome dread disease,
Or sad old age, or loss of mind,
Or wretched pain without surcease,
"Or conflagration, loss of wealth;
Or of his nearest kin he shall
See some one die that's dear to him,
And then he'll be reborn in hell."

 

The Elephant, the Camel, the Goat and the Peacock by Margo Fallis

The hot summer sun beat down on the village. Crowds of people jammed into the market place, adding to the misery and heat. Four animals were tied with ropes to small wooden sticks that had been pounded into the sand. A large sign, reading ‘Animals For Sale’ was nailed to one of the sticks.

"I’ll be the first one to go," the elephant said. "I’m strong. I can carry things. I can give rides and I can do tricks."

"You’re wrong. I’ll be the first one bought. I can sing. I am beautiful. Look at my colored feathers! They are a prized possession, wanted by many for decorations," the peacock boasted.

"You are both wrong. It shall be I who goes first. I can give milk for cheese. My hair, though rough, can be used for making Bedouin tents," the goat chimed in. He turned and looked at the camel. "Nobody will buy you," he scoffed. "You are ugly. You bite, spit and kick. You have a big hump and smell. You will still be tied to the stick, sweltering in the hot sun long after the three of us have been sold."

The camel didn’t say a word. He stood munching on some hay.

As the hours passed, more and more people came to the marketplace. The sun seemed to get hotter and hotter as it made its way higher into the sky. "I could use a drink of cool, refreshing water," the elephant complained. He was sweating and feeling very thirsty.

"I need a drink of water also," the peacock added. Its feathers were beginning to sag from the heat.

"If it gets much hotter, I’ll die of thirst," the goat said. He was covered with so much hair that he felt more miserable than the other three animals.

The camel didn’t say a word. He stood munching on some hay.

A group of men walked up to the animals. They were wearing bright-colored robes that hung to the ground. Each wore a scarf that was tied around their heads. "I think I shall buy this elephant. It can carry a heavy load," Ahmed said. The elephant beamed with pride and smiled at the peacock, goat and camel. Ahmed petted the elephant’s strong legs and trunk.

"The elephant is a strong animal, but it will not do well crossing the hot, desert sands," Rashid replied.

Ahmed rubbed his chin in thought. "You are right, Rashid," Ahmed said and walked over to the well to get a drink of water.

"I think I shall buy the peacock. It can sing me to sleep at night while we are traveling by caravan across Arabia," Ali said. He knelt down and looked at the peacock’s beautiful feathers.

The peacock smiled at the elephant, goat and camel. "The peacock does sing and it is a beautiful bird, but it could never endure the desert heat," Rashid said.

Ali rubbed his chin in thought. "You are right, Rashid," Ali said and walked into the marketplace to buy some pistachios.

"I think I will buy this goat. It can give milk for cheese and I can use its coarse hair for my tent," Khalil said. The goat smiled at the elephant, peacock and camel.

"The goat does give milk. You could make wonderful cheeses and butter. You can use its coarse hair for your tent, but it can’t walk fast enough or long enough to be in a caravan," Rashid pointed out.

Khalil rubbed his chin in thought. "You are right, Rashid," Khalil said. He walked away and bought some fine silks instead.

"I am going to buy this camel," Rashid said. He petted the camel’s neck. "You also give milk. Your hair can be used to make a tent; you can carry heavy loads, such as spices, frankincense, and precious silks. You can go for days without drinking and can walk for a week without getting tired. You aren’t huge like the elephant, nor are you as beautiful as the peacock. You can’t sing at all, but you are the best animal of the four. I will buy you," Rashid said. He paid the man and walked away with his purchase.

The camel turned and smiled at the elephant, peacock and goat, who stood sweltering in the hot summer sun.

How the Tortoise overcame the Elephant and the Hippopotamus

THE elephant and the hippopotamus always used to feed together, and were good friends.

One day when they were both dining together, the tortoise appeared and said that although they were both big and strong, neither of them could pull him out of the water with a strong piece of tie-tie, and he offered the elephant ten thousand rods if he could draw him out of the river the next day. The elephant, seeing that the tortoise was very small, said, "If I cannot draw you out of the water, I will give you twenty thousand rods." So on the following morning the tortoise got some very strong tie-tie and made it fast to his leg, and went down to the river. When he got there, as he knew the place well, he made the tie-tie fast round a big rock, and left the other end on the shore for the elephant to pull by, then went down to the bottom of the river and hid himself. The elephant then came down and started pulling, and after a time he smashed the rope.

Directly this happened, the tortoise undid the rope from the rock and came to the land, showing all people that the rope was still fast to his leg, but that the elephant had failed to pull him out. The elephant was thus forced to admit that the tortoise was the winner, and paid to him the twenty thousand rods, as agreed. The tortoise then took the rods home to his wife, and they lived together very happily.

After three months had passed, the tortoise, seeing that the money was greatly reduced, thought he would make some more by the same trick, so he went to the hippopotamus and made the same bet with him. The hippopotamus said, "I will make the bet, but I shall take the water and you shall take the land; I will then pull you into the water."

To this the tortoise agreed, so they went down to the river as before, and having got some strong tie-tie, the tortoise made it fast to the hippopotamus' hind leg, and told him to go into the water. Directly the hippo had turned his back and disappeared, the tortoise took the rope twice round a strong palm-tree which was growing near, and then hid himself at the foot of the tree.

When the hippo was tired of pulling, he came up puffing and blowing water into the air from his nostrils. Directly the tortoise saw him coming up, he unwound the rope, and walked down towards the hippopotamus, showing him the tie-tie round his leg. The hippo had to acknowledge that the tortoise was too strong for him, and reluctantly handed over the twenty thousand rods.

The elephant and the hippo then agreed that they would take the tortoise as their friend, as he was so very strong; but he was not really so strong as they thought, and had won because he was so cunning.

He then told them that he would like to live with both of them, but that, as he could not be in two places at the same time, he said that he would leave his son to live with the elephant on the land, and that he himself would live with the hippopotamus in the water.

This explains why there are both tortoises on the land and tortoises who live in the water. The water tortoise is always much the bigger of the two, as there is plenty of fish for him to eat in the river, whereas the land tortoise is often very short of food.

Sniff Sniff Sniff I need a Whiff by Margo Fallis

"Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. I need a whiff," Omar, the elephant, chanted as he walked through the tall grass, his long trunk dangling down, sniffing the ground. Omar loved to eat peanuts, but they grew under the ground, so he had to sniff them out.

All day long he walked around sniffing the ground and chanting.

Some of the other animals nearby thought Omar looked awfully silly. Sharif, the rhinoceros, started laughing when Omar walked past him. Omar didn’t even see Sharif. He was too busy sniffing. Sharif laughed even harder when he heard him chant, "Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. I need a whiff." He dropped his heavy body to the ground and rolled