“The ’orse ’e knows above a bit, the bullock’s but a fool,
The elephant’s a gentleman, the battery-mule’s a mule;
But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said and done,
’E’s a devil an’ a ostrich an’ a orphan child in one.”
But our camel is gentle, meek, anxious to oblige. The lesson is going on, while I make these valuable reflections, and the beast’s picture hangs on the easel: if he is at all like his picture, mallem errare cum Platone, I side with Mr. Kipling. The camel has been called the ship of the desert. He is very useful; he lives in very hot countries, where it is very hot. Tommy Jones, don’t fidget; listen to teacher. And he lives in the desert, where there is nothing but sand all round. Mary Smith, if you don’t give over talking, teacher will be very cross with you: yes, my word, &c., &c.
When the stream of drivel has run dry, I ask:
“Where does the camel live?”
“In very ’ot coontries.”
“Yes: but whereabouts?”
“In the desert.”
“And what does he live on there?”
“Sahnd.”
“Sand? Yes; but I mean, what does he get to eat?”