CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE SONG OF THE ELEPHANTS Who is as heavy as we, or as strong?
Ho! but we trample the shambas down! Saw ye a swath where the trash lay long And tall trees flat like a harvest mown?
That was the path we shore in haste (Judge, is it easy to find, and wide!) Ripping the branch and bough to waste Like rocks shot loose from a mountain side! Therefore hear us: (All together, stamping steadily In time.) 'Twas we who lonely echoes woke To copy the crash of the trees we broke! Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke Shall humble the will of the Ivory Folk! Once we were monarchs from sky to sky, Many were we and the men were few; Then we would go to the Place to die-- Elephant tombs* that the oldest knew,-- Old as the trees when the prime is past, Lords unchallenged of vale and plain, Grazing aloof and alone at last To lie where the oldest had always lain.
So we sing of it: -- --------------------------- * The legendary place that every Ivory hunter hopes some day to stumble on, where elephants are said to have gone away to die of old age, and where there should therefore be almost unimaginable wealth of ivory.
The legend, itself as old as African speech, is probably due to the rarity of remains of elephants that have died a natural death.
-- ---------------------------- (All together, swinging from side to side in time, and tossing trunks.) 'Twas we who lonely echoes woke To copy the crash of the trees we broke! Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke Shall govern the strength of the Ivory Folk! Still we are monarchs! Our strength and weight Can flatten the huts of the frightened men! But the glory of smashing is lost of late, We raid less eagerly now than then, For pits are staked, and the traps are blind, The guns be many, the men be more; We fidget with pickets before and behind, Who snoozed in the noonday heat of yore.
Yet, hear us sing: (All together, ears up and trunks extended.) 'Twas we who lonely echoes woke To copy the crash of the trees we broke! Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke Have lessened the rage of the Ivory Folk! Still we are monarchs of field and stream! None is as strong or as heavy as we! We scent--we swerve--we come--we scream-- And the men are as mud 'neath tusk and knee! But we go no more to the Place to die, For the blacks head off and the guns pursue; Bleaching our scattered rib-bones lie, And men be many, and we be few.
Nevertheless: (All together, trunks up-thrown, ears extended, and stamping in slow time with the fore-feet.) 'Twas we who lonely echoes woke To copy the crash of the trees we broke! Goad, nor whip, nor wheel, nor yoke Shall humble the pride of the Ivory Folk! We had laughed at Fred's suggestion that Schillingschen might have ammunition cached away.

Fred had sneered at my guess that the German might ride donkey-back and not be so easily left behind.

Now the probability of both suggestions seemed to stiffen into reality.
Day followed day, and Schillingschen, squandering cartridges not far away behind us, always had more of them.

He seemed, too, to lose interest in keeping so extremely close to us, as we raced to get away from him toward the mountain.

If he was really crazy, as his trembling boys maintained, then for a crazy man blazing at everything or nothing he was shooting remarkably little.