The Project Gutenberg eBook, Two-Legs, by Carl Ewald, Translated by Alexander Teixeira De Mattos, Illustrated by Johan Briede and Helen Jacobs

TWO-LEGS

A HUGE NUMBER OF VISITORS

TWO-LEGS

BY CARL EWALD

TRANSLATED FROM
THE DANISH BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
AND
ILLUSTRATED BY
JOHAN BRIEDE
AND
HELEN JACOBS

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Printed in the United States of America

For Lily Teixeira de Mattos.

Dear,

Of all Carl Ewald’s stories Two-Legs has always been your favourite. Now that I am reissuing it, amplified by four chapters which did not appear in the original edition, it is only fit that I should dedicate this translation, with my love, to you.

A. T. de M.

Chelsea, 2 September, 1921.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PROLOGUE
THE STORY OF THE FAIRY-TALE

Once upon a time, ever so many years ago, Truth suddenly vanished from out of the world.

When people perceived this, they were greatly alarmed and at once sent five wise men in search of it. They set out, one in this direction and one in that, all plentifully equipped with travelling-expenses and good intentions. They sought for ten long years. Then they returned, each separately. While still at a distance, they waved their hats and shouted that they had found Truth.

The first stepped forward and declared that Truth was Science. He was not able to finish his report, however, for, before he had done, another thrust him aside and shouted that that was a lie, that Truth was Theology and that he had found it. Now, while these two were at loggerheads—for the Science man replied vigorously to the attack—there came a third and said, in beautiful words, that Truth was Love, without a doubt. Then came the fourth and stated, quite curtly, that he had Truth in his pocket, that it was Gold and that all the rest was childish nonsense. At last came the fifth. He could not stand on his legs, gave a hiccoughing laugh and said that Truth was Wine. He had found Truth in Wine, after looking for it everywhere.

Then the five wise men began to fight and they pummelled one another so lustily that it was horrible to see. Science had its head broken and Love was so ill-treated that it had to change its clothes before it could show itself again in respectable society. Gold was so thoroughly stripped of every covering that people felt awkward about knowing it; and the bottle broke and Wine flowed away into the mud. But Theology came off worst of all; everybody had a blow at it; and it received such a basting that it became the laughing-stock of all beholders.

And people took sides, some with this one and some with that, and they shouted so loud that they could neither see nor hear for the din. But far away, at the extreme end of the earth, sat a few and mourned because they thought that Truth had gone to pieces and would never be made whole again.

Now, as they sat there, a little girl came running up and said that she had found Truth. If they would just come with her ... it was not very far.... Truth was sitting in the midst of the world, in a green meadow.

Then there came a pause in the fighting, for the little girl looked so very sweet. First one went with her; then another; and ever more and more.... At last they were all in the meadow and there discovered a figure the like of which they had never seen before. There was no distinguishing whether it was a man or a woman, an adult or a child. Its forehead was pure as that of one who knows no sin; its eyes deep and serious as those of one who has read into the heart of the whole world. Its mouth opened with the brightest smile and then quivered with a sadness greater than any could describe. Its hand was soft as a mother’s and strong as the hand of a king; its foot trod the earth firmly, yet crushed not a flower. And then the figure had large, soft wings, like the birds that fly at night.

Now, as they stood there and stared, the figure drew itself erect and cried, in a voice that sounded like ringing bells:

“I am Truth!”

“It’s a Fairy-tale!” said Science.

“It’s a Fairy-tale!” cried Theology and Love and Gold and Wine.

Then the five wise men and their followers departed and they went on fighting till the earth was shaken to its centre.

But a few old and tired men and a few young men with ardent and eager souls and many women and thousands of children with great wide eyes: these remained in the meadow where the Fairy-tale was....

THE OLD ANIMALS

1

It was once upon a time, many, many, many years ago.

And it was in the warm lands where the sun shines stronger than here and the rain falls closer and all animals and plants thrive better, because the winter does not stunt their growth.

The forest was full of life and noise.

The flies buzzed, the sparrow ate the flies and the hawk ate the sparrow. The bees crept into the flowers in search of honey, the lion roared and the birds sang, the brook rippled and the grass grew. The trees stood and rustled, while their roots sucked sap from the earth. The flowers were radiant and fragrant.

All at once, it became strangely still.

It was as though everything held its breath and listened and stared. The rustling of the trees ceased. The violet woke from her dreams and looked up in wonder. The lion raised his head and stood with one paw uplifted. The stag stopped grazing, the eagle rested high in the air on his wings, the little mouse ran out of his hole and pricked up his ears.

There came two through the forest who were different from the others and whom no one had ever seen before.

They walked erect. Their foreheads were high, their eyes firm and steady. They went hand in hand and looked around them as though they did not know where they were.

“Who, in the name of wonder, are these?” asked the lion.

“They’re animals,” said the stag. “They can walk. But how oddly they do it! Why don’t they leap on all fours, seeing that they have four legs? Then they would get along much faster.”

“Oh,” said the snake, “I have no legs at all and it seems to me I get along pretty fast!’

“I don’t believe they are animals,” said the nightingale. “They have no feathers and no hair, except that bit on their heads.”

“Scales would do quite as well,” said the pike, popping his head out of the river.

“Some of us have to manage with our bare skin,” said the earth-worm, quietly.

“They have no tails,” said the mouse. “Never in their lives have they been animals!”

“I have no tail,” said the toad. “And nobody can deny that I am an animal.”

“Look!” said the lion. “Just look! One of them is taking up a stone in his fore-paws: I couldn’t do that.”

“But I could,” said the orang-outang. “There’s nothing in that. For the rest, I can satisfy your curiosity. Those two, in point of fact, are animals. They are husband and wife, their name is Two-Legs and they are distant relations of my own.”

“Oh, really?” said the lion. “Then how is it they have no fur?”

“I daresay they’ve lost it,” said the orang-outang.

“Why don’t you go and talk to them?” asked the lion.

THERE CAME TWO THROUGH THE FOREST

“I don’t know them,” replied the orang-outang. “And I’m not at all anxious to have anything to do with them. I have only heard of them. You must know, they are a sort of very inferior, second-rate ape. I shall be pleased to give them an apple or an orange now and again, but I won’t undertake the smallest responsibility for them.”

“They look very nice,” said the lion. “I shouldn’t mind trying what they taste like.”

“Pray do, for all that I care,” said the orang-outang. “They will never be a credit to the family and, sooner or later, they will come to a bad end.”

The lion went towards them, as they came, but, when he stood before them, he suddenly lost courage. He could not understand this himself, for there was not another thing in the forest that he feared. But the two new animals had such strange eyes and walked the earth so fearlessly that he thought they must possess some mysterious power which he could not see. There was nothing particular about their teeth; and their claws were not worth speaking of. But something about them there must be.

So he hung his head and moved out of their way.

“Why didn’t you eat them?” asked the lioness.

“I wasn’t feeling hungry,” he answered.

He lay down to rest in the high grass and did as though he were no longer thinking of them. The other animals did the same, for he was their chief. But none of them meant it. They were all taken up with the new animals.

2

Meanwhile, Two-Legs and his wife walked on; and, the farther they walked, the more they wondered at the splendour of the world. They had no suspicion of the attention which they attracted and they did not see that all the animals were stealthily following in their tracks. Wherever they came, the trees put their tops together and whispered, the birds flew in the air above their heads and astonished eyes started at them from every bush.

“We will live here,” said Two-Legs and pointed to a wonderful little meadow, where the river flowed between flowers and grass.

“No, here!” cried his wife and ran into the adjoining wood, where the trees dispensed a deep shade and the moss was thick and soft.

“How strange their voices sound!” said the nightingale. “They have more notes than I.”

“If they were not so big, I should advise them to build a nest beside me in the rushes,” said the reed-warbler.

The two new animals walked on and constantly found a place which was prettier than the last which they had seen; and they could not make up their minds to stay anywhere. Then they met the dog, who was limping badly, having cut his foot on a sharp stone. He tried to run away from them, but could not. Mrs. Two-Legs took hold of him and looked at the injured foot:

“I’ll help you, you poor fellow,” she said. “Wait a minute. I hurt my own foot the other day and healed it with leaves.”

The dog saw that she meant well by him. He waited patiently while she ran into the copsewood for leaves. Two-Legs patted him on the back and talked kindly to him. Then she came back with the leaves, put them on his foot and bound a tendril round them:

“Run away now,” she said. “To-morrow you’ll be quite well again.”

They went on, but the dog stood looking after them and wagging his tail. The other animals came out of the bushes and copses:

“You’ve been talking to the strangers. What did they say? What are they like?” they all asked in chorus.

“They are better than the other animals in the forest,” replied the dog. “They have healed my foot and stroked my skin. I shall never forget it.”

“They have healed the dog’s foot.... They have stroked the dog’s skin....”

It ran from mouth to mouth through the forest. The trees whispered it to one another, the flowers sighed and nodded, the lizards rushed round with the story and the nightingale set it to music. The new animals went on and thought no more of the dog.

3

At last, however, they were so tired that they sat down. They stooped over the spring and drank and laughed at their own image in the water. They plucked juicy fruits from the trees and ate them. When the sun went down, they lay down to rest in the grass and went to sleep with their arms about each other’s necks. A little way off, the dog, who had followed in their footsteps, lay with his head on his paws, watching them. The round full moon shone straight down upon them. She also shone in the big face of the ox, who stood looking at them.

“Boo!” said the ox.

“Bo!” said the moon. “What are you staring at?”

“I’m looking at those two who are lying there asleep,” said the ox. “Do you know them?”

“I believe something of the kind used to crawl over my face years and years ago,” replied the moon. “But I’m not sure. My memory has become very bad in the last hundred thousand years. It’s almost more than I can do to concentrate my thoughts upon my celestial course.”

“Yes, thinking is not my strong point either,” said the ox. “But I am frightened.”

“Of those two there?” asked the moon.

“I don’t know why,” said the ox, “but I can’t bear them.”

“Then trample them to death!” cried the moon.

“I dare not,” said the ox. “Not by myself. But perhaps I can persuade some one to help me.”

“That’s your look-out,” said the moon. “It’s all one to me.”

And she sailed on. But the ox stood and chewed the cud and thought and got no further.

“Are you asleep?” asked the sheep, sticking out her long face beside the ox.

And suddenly the whole meadow came to life.

All the animals were there who had followed the two on their walk. There were both those who sleep by day and hunt at night and those who do their work while the sun shines. None of them was now thinking of working or resting. None thought of hurting the others. The lion and the stag, the wolf and the sheep, the cat and the mouse and the horse and the ox and many others stood side by side on the grass. The eagle sat in a tree-top, surrounded by all the little birds of the forest. The orang-outang sat on one of the lower branches eating an orange. The hen stood on a mound beside the fox; the duck and the goose lay in the brook and stuck out their necks.

“Now that we are all here together, let us discuss the matter,” said the lion.

“Have you had enough to eat?” asked the ox.

“Quite,” answered the lion. “To-night we shall keep the peace and be friends.”

“Then I move that we kill those two strange animals forthwith and without more ado,” said the ox.

“What in the wide world is the matter with you?” asked the lion. “Generally you’re such a peaceful fellow, grazing, attending to your business and not hurting a living thing. What makes you so bloodthirsty all of a sudden?”

“I can’t account for it,” said the ox. “But I have a decided conviction that we ought to kill them as soon as possible. They bring misfortune. They are evil. If you don’t follow my advice, rely upon it, one day you will all regret it.”

“I agree with the ox,” cried the horse. “Bite them to death! Kick them to pieces! And the sooner the better!”

“Kill them, kill them!” cried the sheep, the goat and the stag, with one voice.

“Yes, do, do!” screamed the duck, the goose and the hen.

“I have never heard anything like this in my life,” said the lion, looking round in surprise at the crowd. “It’s just the most peaceable and timid animals in the forest that want to take the strangers’ lives. What have they done to you? What are you afraid of?”

“I can’t tell you any more than the ox can,” said the horse. “But I feel that they are dangerous. I have such pains in my loins and legs.”

“When I think of those two, I feel as if I were being skinned,” said the ox. “I feel teeth biting into my flesh.”

“There’s a tugging at my udders,” said the cow.

“I’m shivering all over, as though all my wool had been shorn off,” said the sheep.

“I have a feeling as if I were being roasted before the fire and eaten,” said the goose.

“So have I! So have I!” screamed the duck and the hen.

“This is most remarkable,” said the lion. “I have never heard anything like it and I can’t understand your fears. What can those strangers do to you? They go about naked among us, eat an apple or an orange and don’t do the least harm. They go on two poor legs, whereas you have four, so that you can run away from them anyhow. You have horns and claws and teeth: what are you afraid of?”

“You’ll be sorry one day,” said the ox. “The new animals will be the ruin of us all. The danger threatens you as well as the rest of us.”

“I see no danger and I know no fear,” said the lion, proudly. “But is there really not one of you to take the strangers’ part?”

“If they did not belong to my family, I would do so gladly,” said the orang-outang. “But it looks bad to recommend one’s own relations. Let them go their way and starve. They are quite harmless.”

“Then I at least will say a good word for them,” said the dog. “My foot is almost well again and I believe that they are cleverer than all the rest of you put together. I shall never forget what they did for me.”

“That’s right, cousin,” said the lion. “You’re a fine fellow and one can see that you come of a good stock. I don’t believe that these Two-Legs are dangerous and I have no intention of doing them any harm. To be sure, if I meet them one day when I’m hungry, I shall eat them. That’s a different thing. Hunger knows no law. But to-night I have had enough to eat and I am going home to bed. Good night, all of you!”

Then none of the animals said another word. They went away as noiselessly as they had come. The night came to an end and the day broke in the east.

4

Then suddenly the ox and the horse and the sheep and the goat came galloping over the meadow. Behind them, as fast as they could, came the goose and the duck and the hen. The ox was at their head and rushed with lowered horns to the place where the strangers lay sleeping.

But then the dog sprang up and barked like mad. The two new animals woke and leapt to their feet. And, when they stood there, tall and slender, with their white limbs and their steady eyes, and the sun shone down upon them, the old animals were seized with terror and ran back the way they came.

“Thank you, friend,” said Two-Legs and patted the dog.

Mrs. Two-Legs looked to his bad foot and spoke to him in her pretty voice. He licked their hands with delight.

Then the new animals bathed in the river. And then Two-Legs climbed up an apple-tree to get some breakfast for himself and his wife.

In the tree sat the orang-outang eating an apple.

“Get out of that!” said Two-Legs, in a threatening tone. “This is my tree and don’t you forget it. Don’t you dare touch a single apple!”

“Goodness gracious me!” said the orang-outang. “What a tone to take up! And I who defended you last night when all the other animals wanted to kill you!”

“Get out, you disgusting ape!” said Two-Legs.

He broke a branch off the tree and caught the orang-outang a couple of such lusty cracks that he ran off crying into the forest.

MRS TWO-LEGS HAS A SON

1

The days passed.

Things were busy in the forest, both above and below. All the wives had eggs or young and all the husbands had their work cut out to provide food for their families. Every one attended to his business and took no heed of his neighbour, except when he wanted to eat him.

The new animals had taken up their abode on an island in the river.

This was because the lion had met them one day on the borders of the copsewood. He had got out of their way, as on the first occasion; but he had given them such a look that Mrs. Two-Legs trembled with fright:

“He’ll eat us one day,” she said. “I dare not sleep in the meadow again.”

Then Two-Legs discovered the little island and built a hut on it of branches and grass. Every day they waded through the river and went to gather fruit in the forest. At night they slept in their hut. The other animals had gradually all got used to them and spoke of them but seldom. Only the dog never forgot to run down to the river every morning to look across at the island and bark “Good morning!” to them. And the orang-outang slandered them wherever he went.

“Who minds what he says?” asked the stag. “They’re relations; and we all know what that means.”

2

One night, a child was born to the new animals.

“The Two-Legs have had a youngster,” said the sparrow, who went everywhere and always had some news to tell.

“Really! I must run and have a look at the baby,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “My eggs will keep warm for four or five minutes.”

“Mrs. Fox has gone there herself, so I can leave my goslings alone for a moment,” said the goose.

Down by the river was a huge number of visitors and enquirers.

All the wives had hurried from hearth and home to have a look at the Two-Legs. Mrs. Two-Legs was sitting on the grass in front of the hut with her child at her breast. Two-Legs sat beside her, eating an orange.

“He’s just the same as other husbands,” observed Mrs. Stag.

“There are some who are worse,” said Mrs. Mole. “My husband eats the children, if I don’t look after them.”

“Husbands are mere rubbish,” said Mrs. Spider. “I ate mine as soon as I had laid my eggs.”

“Do spare us those gruesome stories,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “But he might sing to her a little. That’s what my husband does.”

“Oh, but look at the baby! Isn’t he sweet?” exclaimed Mrs. Reed-Warbler.

“Poor little thing!” said Mrs. Stag. “He can’t even stand on his legs and the sparrow was saying that he was born at eleven o’clock last night. When my fawn was an hour old, he was jumping merrily over the meadow.”

“There’s no sense in carrying a poor little mite like that in one’s arms,” said Mrs. Kangaroo. “If he were mine, he should stay snugly in my pouch until he knew how to behave himself. But probably the poor woman hasn’t even got a pouch.”

“At least he can see!” said Mrs. Fox. “My children are blind for quite nine days.”

“Don’t forget that they are poor people,” said the orang-outang.

“Stuff!” said Mrs. Nightingale. “It’s a dear little baby, as any mother can see. Hi! Mrs. Two-Legs! Be sure you feed him on maggots. Then he’ll grow up nice and fat.”

“And, for goodness’ sake, sit on him at night!” cried Mrs. Reed-Warbler. “Else he’ll catch cold.”

“Don’t mind what any of them say!” cried Mrs. Stag. “You stick to the milk! That’s good enough. And put him down on the grass and let him run about. You had much better make him used to it from the start.”

Mrs. Two-Legs looked at her baby and did not listen to what they said. He had now finished drinking and began to crow and kick about his little legs and arms. Two-Legs took him and lifted him high in the air and laughed at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi!... Ho!... Murder!... Help!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWO-LEGS KILLS

1

The sun was scorching and the ground was shockingly dry.

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

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

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

2

But one day the rain came.

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

And a great gladness reigned on every hand.

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

But it went on raining.

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

“Baby’s cold,” said Mrs. Two-Legs.

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

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

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

ONE DAY THE RAIN CAME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then they went away.

3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How delicious!” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5

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

“This way, this way,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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