Ethel Talbot

Lions

The Lion is the King of all Beasts. Far away in Africa he is fierce lord of the forests and plains. Deep in the Indian jungle he lurks and prowls; and here at home his blood relations sit quietly at our fireside thinking of their hunting too!

For the cat, who stretches her limbs out and rests so dreamlessly before the fire through the daytime, is a prowler, and a hunter when night falls. Tame cats, as we call them, are not always tame by any means; and birds, mice, and small animals which fall victims to their cruel claws must think them very fierce beasts indeed. Yes, if we are anxious to know almost exactly how the Lion waits in ambush for his prey—how he crouches under cover, springs, and seizes it—there is a way of finding out that is far better than just by reading all about his ways in books. Watch Puss as she tip-toes out in search of food; see how noiselessly she treads on her cushioned feet, and notice how she takes care to hide under every single bit of cover that comes in her way; watch her crouch under a bush, perhaps, to see the movements of young birds on a bough close by; then you will see her sudden spring, and the strong, clever blows that she can deal with those "soft" paws of hers as soon as the prey is her own. If we study Pussy's hunting carefully, we can get a very good idea indeed of the way that the Lion hunts his prey.

Baby Lions are not at all unlike our own kittens; though I have heard people say that in size and colour they are just like little pug dogs. They are sweet little cuddlesome chaps, with such tremendous appetites that their affectionate father and mother must hunt extra hard if the children are to have as much to eat as they want—that is, when they are old enough to ask for meat, of course, for milk at first is the Lion cubs' food, just as it is the food of kittens, young tigers, and many baby beasts.

In colour they are like their parents—tawny; but there are always brown markings on the cubs' coats, which disappear as they grow older. And there is a reason for the tawny colour of the Lion's coat—it is another bit of Mother Nature's camouflage. The King of the Beasts was born to be an animal of the plains; and in Africa, which country is said to be his kingdom, he generally makes his home in great open stretches. In the distance it is difficult to see him there, because the colour of his coat is so much the same as that of the ground over which he passes; and he can follow his prey unnoticed, or he can escape from his enemies without being seen half so soon as he would if he were moving along against a background of bright green grasses or deep blue water. He is helped in the hunt and protected in the chase by the colour of his coat; and even if he be overtaken in a forest, he has learned to hide himself behind a piece of brown bush, or to watch for his "kill" from under the cover of some brown tree trunk.

The Lion spends most of the daytime in resting, or in lurking beside some river. He is often thirsty after his last night's supper, so he wants to be able to go down to the water-side to drink. Daytime is not his hunting time—though that does not mean that he will let the chance of a tit-bit pass should a deer, an antelope, or some other prey come near his lurking-place: then out springs the Lion. But it is at night that his hunting time really begins. And he has different ways of tracking and taking his prey; some of them he uses on some nights, and some of them on others.

One of his ways is to go down to the water-side and there to roar and roar and roar his loudest, till the smaller animals are all so terrified at the sound that they race about in fear, unable to think in their terror which is the safest way to take; and so at last they run straight into his great, wide, hungry jaws. Another of the Lion's ways is to join forces with a partner, with whom he makes his night plans. Soon one of the pair is chasing a herd of frightened deer towards the lair of the other, who springs out as their victims approach, and does the killing for two. Then, on other nights, the King of the Beasts prowls round at his leisure, searching for a particularly fine meal. His great glowing eyes glare like fires as he lies in wait, and his body is very still as he crouches ready to mark and spring. He may choose a bull or even a buffalo for his supper, but he has a wise dread of the weapons of these beasts, and springing on to the back of his prey, he clings there, doing business with his great strong claws and his huge jaws, and keeping well out of the way, meanwhile, of the victim's sharp, fierce horns.

Lions, however, are not always satisfied with the prey that the forests and plains afford them; sometimes they make for flocks and herds, and in many districts of Africa the natives suffer dreadful loss. The Arabs often arrange hunts, and a wide ring of men surrounds the Lion's lair—narrowing itself down gradually until at last the prey is brought into view of the hunters. Then they all fire together at a given signal. Sometimes the Lion bursts through the ring and escapes, and sometimes he is brought down by one of the shots and finished off by others. There are great rejoicings, of course, amongst the natives when a Lion is killed. The flesh is eaten by the warriors amidst feasting and merriment. But the Arab women are very particular that the wild beast's heart shall not be eaten by the hunters. It must be cut up and divided amongst the mothers of the tribe, who cook their little portion, and give the tit-bit to their baby boys to eat; for if little Arab boys eat of the flesh of the Lion's heart, they will be certain, so think their mothers, to grow up as brave and courageous as the King of the Beasts himself. The hair of the Lion's mane, too, is twisted into armlets, which are worn as charms, and supposed to bring great good luck.

The Lion has a horror of lights or fire of any kind. Travellers on African plains would never think of lying down at night unless they were surrounded by a ring of flame to keep the prowling beasts at bay; and it is amazing how many Lions there still are in Africa. In India there are few, but in Africa, the Lion's kingdom, there are still so many, that in some districts they are really masters of men. A traveller in Matabeleland once came upon a whole village of little houses up in the trees, where the natives had encamped, that they might be out of the way of the Lions, who had made their homes in such numbers near by on the plains. Up in the branches the people slept and lived, paying calls on each other by stepping over from bough to bough, and only venturing down to the ground for a little while in the daytime, when the Lions would be resting in their lairs. Another tribe of natives built their houses on tall poles about eight feet from the ground, and the people climbed up and down by the aid of a knobby tree trunk. It must be relief to them to know that Lions, unlike the panthers and leopards, can't climb trees.

A Lion grew a little bit too bold on one occasion. A colonist who had made his home in one of the African states was one day working in his yard mending his wagon and talking to his wife meanwhile, as she sat playing with her little boy and girl in the garden, when a sudden silence from his family made him turn round. There stood the children, spellbound. His wife sat as still as death and as white as a ghost; while close beside her sat a huge Lion, which had suddenly and quite unexpectedly appeared.

There stood the children.

It must have been a most terrible moment; but fortunately the father of the family kept his head. He ran like the wind round to the side of the house, for he remembered that his gun was standing on the floor just inside his bedroom window. He seized it, and crept round behind the intruder, who still crouched quite close to the terrified little group. Then came, perhaps, the most awful moment of all, for the beast lay so close to the children that the bullet must brush by the little boy's hair if it was to enter the Lion's skull. The father knew, however, that the shot must be fired, for at any minute the beast might spring; and nerving himself up he pulled the trigger, and the Lion fell dead at the threshold of his home.

Another and quite a different story of an African Lion is strange in its own way. A sportsman, Lion hunting from the back of an elephant, was followed by a great raging, roaring Lion whom he had already wounded. "Good sport!" thought he, and leaned out of his howdah to put the finishing touches to the job. But, horrors! the howdah gave way; over it toppled, and the sportsman fell straight into the Lion's mouth. The elephant, however, came to his rescue. He seized the top of a young tree in his huge trunk, bent it over on to the Lion's back, and the sportsman was released from its jaws. I must confess that when I read that story I said to myself, "I wonder if it's true!"

But perhaps one of the most interesting of all Lion stories is the true tale that the great explorer Dr. Livingstone told of his own escape from a Lion's jaws. In Mabotsa, an African village where he settled for a time, the natives were dreadfully troubled by Lions, which stole from their flocks and thieved from their herds. Several Lion hunts had been set on foot, but none of the wild beasts had been killed, and Dr. Livingstone made up his mind that he would go himself with the next hunting party, and see whether his presence would help the luck to turn.

So they set out, and when the Lion's lair was discovered they made a ring round it in the way I have described already. Before long, the circle having been narrowed down more and more and more, they came upon a solitary Lion, and fired. With no good result though, for the beast was untouched; he just bounded through the circle of men and went off.

Another ring of men was made. This time two of the great beasts were tracked, and then lost; but as there seemed no likelihood of a "kill" that day, Dr. Livingstone turned towards the village again, followed by the natives. Then the unexpected thing happened. Suddenly, as he rounded a hillock, he came upon one of the beasts taking cover behind a small bush.

C-r-r-r-ack! Livingstone fired both barrels at the bush. It seemed pretty certain that the Lion must be wounded, if not done for; but to make assurance doubly sure, the sportsman thought he would give him another charge, and he began to ram in his bullets. And just at that minute the Lion sprang! Over the bush and on to the mound where Livingstone stood it came. It caught the sportsman's shoulder and brought him down; it growled and shook him, and laid its huge paw on the back of his head. But, strange to say, Dr. Livingstone declared, when he told the story afterwards, that he felt no terror or fear. A kind of dreamy sleepiness seemed to creep over him, and he just lay still and waited and watched.

It laid its huge paw on the bank of his head.

And as he watched he saw the huge beast turn his eyes towards one of the natives who was creeping up behind. The native fired; and at that minute the Lion rose in rage and, leaving Livingstone, turned to the second victim. From him, in a worse fury than ever, he turned upon a third native, who had come racing up with a lance to take part in the sport. And then, quite suddenly, with a huge roar of rage and fury and pain, the Lion could fight no more. The bullets had done their work. His last strength was spent, and he fell dead upon the plain.