As He Could Hardly, At His
Tender Age, Have Had Any Previous Experience With Fire, This
Instinctive Fear Was To Me Very Interesting.
The monkeys had only one genuine enemy.
That was an innocent
plush lion named Little Simba. It had been given us in joke
before we left California, we had tucked it into an odd corner of
our trunk, had discovered it there, carried it on safari out of
sheer idleness, and lo! it had become an important member of the
expedition. Every morning Mahomet or Yusuf packed it-or rather
him-carefully away in the tin box. Promptly at the end of the
day's march Little Simba was haled forth and set in a place of
honour in the centre of the table, and reigned there-or
sometimes in a little grass jungle constructed by his faithful
servitors-until the march was again resumed. His job in life was
to look after our hunting luck. When he failed to get us what we
wanted, he was punished; when he procured us what we desired he
was rewarded by having his tail sewed on afresh, or by being
presented with new black thread whiskers, or even a tiny blanket
of Mericani against the cold. This last was an especial favour
for finally getting us the greater kudu. Naturally as we did all
this in the spirit of an idle joke our rewards and punishments
were rather desultory. To our surprise, however, we soon found
that our boys took Little Simba quite seriously. He was a fetish,
a little god, a power of good or bad luck. We did not appreciate
this point until one evening, after a rather disappointing day,
Mahomet came to us bearing Little Simba in his hand.
"Bwana," said he respectfully, "is it enough that I shut Simba in
the tin box, or do you wish to flog him?"
On one very disgraceful occasion, when everything went wrong, we
plucked Little Simba from his high throne and with him made a
beautiful drop-kick out into the tall grass. There, in a loud
tone of voice, we sternly bade him lie until the morrow. The camp
was bung-eyed. It is not given to every people to treat its gods
in such fashion: indeed, in very deed, great is the white man! To
be fair, having published Little Simba's disgrace, we should
publish also Little Simba's triumph: to tell how, at the end of a
certain very lucky three months' safari he was perched atop a
pole and carried into town triumphantly at the head of a howling,
singing procession of a hundred men. He returned to America, and
now, having retired from active professional life, is leading an
honoured old age among the trophies he helped to procure.
Funny Face first met Little Simba when on an early investigating
tour. With considerable difficulty he had shinnied up the table
leg, and had hoisted himself over the awkwardly projecting table
edge. When almost within reach of the fascinating affairs
displayed atop, he looked straight up into the face of Little
Simba!
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