But the wild animals which Two-Legs had no use for lurked round about in their hiding-places and cavilled and muttered and made no progress and did themselves no good.
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.