III.—A London Landmark
I am the biggest of the elephants—the one that keeps on nodding its head. Why I do that I’ll tell you later. The habit began some years ago. You see, I am getting on. I have been here ever since 1876, and that’s a long time. I was thinking the other day of all the things that have happened since I moved to Regent’s Park from Ceylon, and really it is wonderful. For I hear what’s going on. In between remarks about how big I am, and how restless I am, and what a wicked little eye I’ve got, the people say all kinds of things about the events of the day. Last Sunday I heard all about the Suffragettes, for instance. There wasn’t much talk about Suffragettes in 1876.
I read what’s going on too. Now and then some one drops a paper or I borrow the keeper’s. It took me a long time to learn to read, but I know now. I began with the notices about pickpockets, which are everywhere in these Gardens. That’s an old thing, isn’t it? We four-footed creatures, whom you all come to stare at and patronize, at any rate have no pockets to pick, and therefore are spared one of your weaknesses. (Except of course the kangaroo.) I mastered the pickpocket notice first, and then I learned the meaning of the one about smoking in my house. And so by degrees I knew it all, and it’s now quite simple. I can read anything. I wish the people who came here could read as well. It says as plain as can be on my little door-plate thing, in front of the railings, that I am—that I am a lady—but how many visitors do you suppose refer to me as “she” or “her”? Not more than three out of the hundred. I count sometimes, just for fun. That’s really why I nod: I’m counting. “Isn’t he enormous?” they say. “Look at his funny little eye?” “Would you like to give him a bun, dearie?” and so on. And all the time, if only education were properly managed in this country, they could read my sex. It’s on the board all right.
I have been here longer than any one except the hippopotamus, which was born here in 1872. But to be born here is dull. I had six years of Ceylon first; I am a traveller. Supposing that I got away I should know what to do; but that old hippo wouldn’t. Homekeeping hippos have ever homely wits, as the proverb has it.
Do you know that in 1876 Winston was only two years old? Think of it. He used to be brought to see me when he was a tiny toddle with quite a small head. I’ve given him many a ride on my back. I often wonder what is the future of the children who put buns in my trunk and ride on my back, but this is the only one I can remember who got into office so young.
It’s an old place, the Zoo. Such queer creatures come and look at me,—lean, eager naturalists, lovers, uncles with small nephews, funny men trying to think of jokes about me. I like the Bank Holidays the best. There’s some pleasure in astonishing simple people; and I like Sundays the least because the clever ones come then. Schoolmasters are the worst, because they lecture on me. My keeper hates them too, because they ask such lots of questions and never give any tips. There’s a fearful desire to know how heavy I am. What does that matter? “My word, I wouldn’t like him (him, of course) to tread on my favourite corn!”—I wonder how often I’ve heard that joke. The English make all their jokes again. They say things, too, about my trunk—packing it up and so on—till I could die of sheer ennui.
The Interviewer’s Bag
I.—The Autographer
He was sitting forlornly on the shore at Swanage, toying with an open knife. Fearing that he might be about to do himself a mischief, I stopped and spoke.