2
At the time when this particular story begins, Two-Legs had put up a new summer tent in a green meadow, not far from the beach.
He was sitting outside it one evening, while the twilight was closing in. All the family had gone to bed and were sleeping soundly after the exertions of the day. All the cattle lay in the grass, munching and chewing the cud. The dog, his faithful servant, lay on the ground before him, pricking up his ears at every sound, sleeping with one eye and watching with the other.
Two-Legs did not sleep himself.
He was old now and no longer needed so much rest. And he was not tired either as in former days, for he now had so many children and grandchildren that they were able to do most of the work. Himself, he loved best to sit quietly, to think of what had happened to him in his life and to meditate on the things that were yet to come.
When he sat like that, he often seemed to hear voices on either side of him. They came from the spring that rippled past him, from the tree whose leaves whispered over his head, from the evening breeze that cooled his brow:
“Two-Legs ... the lord of the earth ... the cleverest ... the strongest,” rippled the spring.
“Two-Legs ... the vanquisher of the lion ... the terror of the wild animals ... the protector of the tame,” whispered the tree.
“Two-Legs ... whom no one can understand ... to whom all things belong,” sang the evening breeze.
Two-Legs sat and listened. He liked to hear that sort of thing, the more the better.
But, as the evening wore on, the wind grew stronger and shook the tent. The gentle whispering in the leaves sounded less home-like than before. The billows in the brook did not babble softly, but made a mighty uproar and sent their foam splashing right over his feet.
“What’s the matter?” asked Two-Legs, who was beginning to feel cold, and wrapped his cloak round him.
“Yes, who knows what’s the matter?” whispered the leaves.
“Who can tell what’s at the bottom of it?” rippled the spring.
“There is more between heaven and earth than Two-Legs knows of,” said the wind.
Two-Legs leant back against the tent and looked about him proudly:
“Then let it come,” he said. “I have vanquished the lion and subdued the horse and the wild ox; so I daresay I can conquer what remains.”
Just as he said this, there came a terrible gust of wind.
It knocked Two-Legs over, till he rolled along the ground and fell into the brook. It tore three great deer-skins from the tent and woke all those who were lying asleep inside. They started up and screamed and did not know what was happening. The dog howled at the top of his voice, with his tail between his legs. Two-Legs crawled out of the brook, dripping wet.
The moment he tried to rise to his feet, another gust came ... and another ... and another.
Two-Legs crept along the ground on all fours. The whole tent was blown down and the people inside ran and fell over one another and shouted and wailed so that it was horrible to hear.
But no one heard it, for each had enough to do to think of saving his own life. The cows and the goats and the sheep lowed and bleated with fright and ran up against one another and trampled on one another. Many of them fell down the slope and broke their legs. The horses galloped off over the meadow and ran till they dropped from exhaustion far away inland. The big tree above Two-Legs’ tent snapped in two like a stalk of grass.