Following which there were swear words, expressed in circus fashion. Elephants, or “bulls,” as they are known, are becoming scarce. They’re as protected in India—and India, not Africa, is the supply point of the circus elephant—as deer in America. They’re hard to get, and yet they must be gotten, for the simple reason that they are the backbone, the sinew, the bones and what-not of the circus. The menagerie is only a vacant tent without the pachydermic stake line and its peanut mendicants; the circus parade is only so much hollow mockery without that inevitable cry of:
“Hold yo’ hosses, everaybodie-e-e-e-e! The ellyphants are coming!”
With the result that the notice of a shipment of elephants is a signal for scurrying about in the outdoor show world, of hasty summoning of finances, of notes at the bank if necessary. Circuses are in the business of knowing what the public—the mass public, gauged upon a standard of millions of persons a year—really wants in them. And what that public desires above everything else is elephants! This in spite of the fact that this same public knows less about the big animals than almost any other beasts in the menagerie, notwithstanding that element of personal association via the bag of peanuts and the daily visiting in front of the picket line before the announcers begin their bawling warnings that the “beeg show, the be-e-g show,” is about to begin!
Nor is the public alone in its affection. Back of the public is the circus man himself, with a love for those same elephants exceeded only by his love for the “opery,” an affection, incidentally, expressed in the reverse; you’ll never hear a circus man announce his affection for “the trick” while the season is in progress. On the contrary he swears at it, at the hardships, the weather, the long jumps, the longer hours, and everything else connected with the life of his canvas world. In the same fashion he swears at the elephants, for their prankishness, for their prowling proclivities, for their temperamental natures, their appetites, their inclination to rampage at the slightest provocation, and for the very fact that they’re elephants. But nevertheless he’ll fight for them almost as soon as he’ll fight for the circus itself, because he loves them, and because he knows them. The reason? Simply because they’re circus folks themselves in a different sort of package, even to the extent of conversation!
A few years ago, a scientist discovered that monkeys could talk, and thereby believed he had discovered something new about animals. It created a great deal of interest, except in the circus. For why should a showman worry about a little thing like a monkey, when he can not only listen to pachyderm’s conversation, but understand it! The veriest “punk” about a circus menagerie can tell you without even a glance at the picket line, what is going on among the elephants, from ordinary contentment to the preludes of a breakaway!
Incidentally, it is simple to learn that language. When an elephant desires to make an imperative demand, it does so by a sharp blast which is used for that purpose, and that alone. When it begs or coaxes, the trumpet call is soft and pleading, almost a whine. When one elephant is frightened and another isn’t, the calm member soothes the companion by a soft announcement which carries a low and expressive note. To say nothing of the love lullaby—and, an elephant in love is as thorough about the matter as a sixteen-year-old boy—the fear signal, the danger signal, the warning chirrup which inevitably gives the announcement of an impending stampede; the wailing cry of pain or distress by which a “bull” tells when he is ill, and lastly, the sound of gratitude or contentment. When a pachyderm thumps on the ground with his trunk to attract your attention, then places the end of his trunk in his ear, using that ear as a sort of diaphragm, and blows with the softness of a reed instrument in the hands of a practiced musician, you can mark it down for certain that there’s one elephant in the world that is pleased almost beyond speech!
So, perhaps it’s because they understand the elephantine language that circus men like elephants. Perhaps it isn’t. For the one real reason is the fact that the bulls can be the most foolish, yet at the same time, remain fundamentally the most sagacious beasts of the whole animal kingdom! This goes for everything, from government on down. In elephantdom, there are even elections, to say nothing of a rare case now and then of a complete change of administration.
The elephant is a strong believer in government, of the feminine sort. There aren’t any male party leaders. It’s the female every time which forms the head of an elephant herd and which handles the reins of administration. But one queen can be better than another, and the subjects are quick to recognize the fact!
In 1903, a Western circus, which at that time possessed an elephant herd of six members, ruled by a comparatively young and inexperienced queen, decided that it needed more pachyderms. It therefore sent to Germany for two additions to the herd, with the result that a month or so later there arrived in America a determined feminine named Old Mom, accompanied by her equally feminine sidekick, Frieda.
Mom and Frieda had been boss and assistant boss of a herd in Germany. A wise old bull was Mom. Sixty years of age, slightly puffy under the eyes—elephants have a strange way of showing their years, in much the same manner as a human—with a few teeth missing, but with a bump of sagacity and determination which had made her outstanding even among a group of thirty elephants in Germany, old Mom was a sort of Queen Victoria among pachyderms. A strong friendship between the owners of the animal farm in Germany and the owner of the circus had been responsible for her shipment, friendship which the circus owner looked upon as a bit left-handed as he read the letter which announced her coming.