92 TROPIC DAYS 



wont to treat me as a chum, and perhaps as a slightly 

 inferior animal, was reluctantly parted from. His face 

 displayed his emotions — astonishment, grief, resigna- 

 tion — and once, and only once, did he permit himself 

 to protest vocally. But for a week his mother's sorrow 

 has been insistent. Early on the morning following 

 the banishment, she led off the rest of the herd in 

 Indian file, to search accustomed scenes. At times 

 she hastened — perhaps she heard in fancy the loved 

 one's voice — but more often and with rare persistency 

 she shrewdly scrutinised every possible hiding-place, 

 lowing plaintively and with a coaxing, wistful tone. 

 Frequently, attended by silent, sympathising com- 

 panions, she made frantic appeals to me, and then 

 there seemed to be a note as of upbraiding, if not accusa- 

 tion, in her voice. Knowing her feelings, it was easy 

 to interpret them, and her doleful mood and loud yet 

 melodious protests against the arbitrary usage of man 

 atfected the wonted serenity of the Isle. 



How many lusty, fat, sleek, good-humoured, straight- 

 backed, frolicsome calves had she reared, and when 

 they had come to the age when a mother's pride must 

 be in the full, each in its turn had mysteriously dis- 

 appeared. Was this not a subject of moan ? Why 

 should she not tell her grief to the responsive hills, 

 and send it as far as her voice might carry over the 

 irresponsive sea ? 



Time soothes all such pangs. She calls now when 

 she spies me in the forest, still suspecting where re- 

 sponsibility rests, and mumbles as she crops the succu- 

 lent herbage. A few more days and her sturdy off- 

 spring will be forgotten; but the recollection of her 

 material woes excites the thought that human beings, 

 in guiding the destinies of domestic animals, may not 

 always be conscious of certain moral aspects of such 



