Behind us marched the three gunbearers, all abreast,
very military and proud. Then came the porters in single file,
the one carrying the folded lion skin leading the way; those
bearing the waterbuck trophy and meat bringing up the rear. They
kept up an undertone of humming in a minor key; occasionally
breaking into a short musical phrase in full voice.
We rode an hour. The camp looked very cool and inviting under its
wide high trees, with the river slipping by around the islands of
papyrus. A number of black heads bobbed about in the shallows.
The small fires sent up little wisps of smoke. Around them our
boys sprawled, playing simple games, mending, talking, roasting
meat. Their tiny white tents gleamed pleasantly among the cool
shadows.
I had thought of riding nonchalantly up to our own tents, of
dismounting with a careless word of greeting-
"Oh, yes," I would say, "we did have a good enough day. Pretty
hot. Roy got a fine waterbuck. Yes, I got a lion." (Tableau on
part of Billy.)
But Memba Sasa used up all the nonchalance there was. As we
entered camp he remarked casually to the nearest man.
"Bwana na piga simba-the master has killed a lion."
The man leaped to his feet.
"Simba! simba! simba!" he yelled. "Na piga simba!"
Every one in camp also leaped to his feet, taking up the cry.
>From the water it was echoed as the bathers scrambled ashore. The
camp broke into pandemonium. We were surrounded by a dense
struggling mass of men. They reached up scores of black hands to
grasp my own; they seized from me everything portable and bore it
in triumph before me-my water bottle, my rifle, my camera, my
whip, my field glasses, even my hat, everything that was
detachable. Those on the outside danced and lifted up their
voices in song, improvised for the most part, and in honor of the
day's work. In a vast swirling, laughing, shouting, triumphant
mob we swept through the camp to where Billy-by now not very
much surprised-was waiting to get the official news. By the
measure of this extravagant joy could we gauge what the killing
of a lion means to these people who have always lived under the
dread of his rule.
X. LIONS
A very large lion I killed stood three feet and nine inches at
the withers, and of course carried his head higher than that. The
top of the table at which I sit is only two feet three inches
from the floor. Coming through the door at my back that lion's
head would stand over a foot higher than halfway up. Look at your
own writing desk; your own door. Furthermore, he was nine feet
and eleven inches in a straight line from nose to end of tail, or
over eleven feet along the contour of the back. If he were to
rise on his hind feet to strike a man down, he would stand
somewhere between seven and eight feet tall, depending on how
nearly he straightened up. He weighed just under six hundred
pounds, or as much as four well-grown specimens of our own
"mountain lion." I tell you this that you may realize, as I did
not, the size to which a wild lion grows. Either menagerie
specimens are stunted in growth, or their position and
surroundings tend to belittle them, for certainly until a man
sees old Leo in the wilderness he has not understood what a fine
old chap he is.
This tremendous weight is sheer strength. A lion's carcass when
the skin is removed is a really beautiful sight. The great
muscles lie in ropes and bands; the forearm thicker than a man's
leg, the lithe barrel banded with brawn; the flanks overlaid by
the long thick muscles. And this power is instinct with the
nervous force of a highly organized being. The lion is quick and
intelligent and purposeful; so that he brings to his intenser
activities the concentration of vivid passion, whether of anger,
of hunger or of desire.
So far the opinions of varied experience will jog along together.
At this point they diverge.
Just as the lion is one of the most interesting and fascinating
of beasts, so concerning him one may hear the most diverse
opinions. This man will tell you that any lion is always
dangerous. Another will hold the king of beasts in the most utter
contempt as a coward and a skulker.
In the first place, generalization about any species of animal is
an exceedingly dangerous thing. I believe that, in the case of
the higher animals at least, the differences in individual
temperament are quite likely to be more numerous than the
specific likenesses. Just as individual men are bright or dull,
nervous or phlegmatic, cowardly or brave, so individual animals
vary in like respect. Our own hunters will recall from their
personal experiences how the big bear may have sat down and
bawled harmlessly for mercy, while the little unconsidered fellow
did his best until finished off: how one buck dropped instantly
to a wound that another would carry five miles: how of two
equally matched warriors of the herd one will give way in the
fight, while still uninjured, before his perhaps badly wounded
antagonist. The casual observer might-and often does-say that
all bears are cowardly, all bucks are easily killed, or the
reverse, according as the god of chance has treated him to one
spectacle or the other. As well try to generalize on the human
race-as is a certain ecclesiastical habit-that all men are vile
or noble, dishonest or upright, wise or foolish.
The higher we go in the scale the truer this individualism holds.
We are forced to reason not from the bulk of observations, but
from their averages.
