Little Wideawake: A story book for little children

by Mrs. Sale Barker

I think it would amuse you to hear an anecdote of a revengeful lioness, which I lately read. The gentleman, who relates the story, was out with a party of hunters in Southern Africa, in search of elephants. They had not had much sport, and as they were going to encamp for a day, this gentleman thought he would ride off alone to a patch of jungle or wood not far away, which appeared likely to harbour wild beasts. He discovered no sign of elephants, but he found a new footprint made by a lion. Now he had never shot a lion, and had a great ambition to do so; accordingly, he followed the lion’s track, which of course was very brave of him, but, I must say, I think, very rash. After a little while he came suddenly upon the savage beast, and luckily shot him dead at the first shot.

Having achieved this exploit, he was anxious to carry back the skin with him as a trophy; and therefore set to work to skin the dead beast, which, it seems to me, must have been a most horrible business. This operation took a long time, and when accomplished, our friend the hunter found great difficulty in persuading his horse to carry the skin. Horses have a great horror of lions, and the poor animal probably did not feel sure that the skin alone could do him no harm.

At last all was satisfactorily arranged, and the hunter started to return to the encampment; but so much time had been lost, that before he had gone far, night began to close in, and he thought it best to bivouac where he was till daylight. There was a stream of water close by; and he had with him a blanket, a flask of brandy, and a box of matches. He took the precaution also, before it was quite dark, to shoot a guinea-fowl for his supper. Then, collecting a quantity of dry wood, he piled it up in a circle, leaving space enough inside for himself, his horse, and the skin. Setting fire to the wood, he considered himself safe from any attack of wild beasts within this magic circle of fire, and made himself comfortable for the night. He cooked and ate his supper, and then, lying down by the side of his horse, soon began to doze.

Presently he was disturbed by a loud snort from his horse. He rose up, and kicking the burning wood together with the heel of his boot, made a brighter blaze, and distinctly saw the head of an old lioness looking through the surrounding bushes. She was gone in an instant, but you may be sure the hunter did not go to sleep again. He suspected at once that she was the widow of the lion he had killed, and that she had followed the scent of his skin to be revenged upon his murderer.

Our hunter made his fire burn as brightly as he could, and remained upon the watch for the lioness. He thought he could see her again among the bushes, and seizing a piece of burning wood, threw it at her; then he detected her slinking away into the darkness. He did not fire, for he saw too imperfectly to be sure of his aim. Not long afterwards he suddenly heard a terrific roar, and at the same moment some large body flew through the air close to him. Then followed a crash, and the hunter saw his poor horse knocked down, as if shot, beneath the weight of the lioness, who stood on him, tearing at him and growling. The hunter fired: the first shot wounded her, the second killed; but she had so far revenged the lion’s death that she had killed the horse.

The hunter now had her skin as well as the lion’s, which must have been a satisfaction to him. He set to work to skin her at once, and then buried both skins in the ground that they might not be eaten or damaged by prowling animals, while he trudged back on foot to the encampment. In the afternoon he returned in a waggon, and fetched away both skins, which he kept as trophies.

My own experience of a lioness is of a very different sort to this, as my acquaintance with either lions or lionesses has been made only at the Zoological gardens. But I remember a few years ago there was a dear old lioness there, who had five little cubs; and I can only say her kindness and tenderness to her young ones would have afforded a good example to many mothers.

I will tell you another anecdote about a lion. It is related of a lion of the Zoological gardens, who died there of inflammation of the lungs many years ago. Sir Edwin Landseer was then just rising into fame as a painter of animals, and a friend of his suggested to the manager of the gardens, that the dead lion should be sent to Sir Edwin, in case he might like to paint it.

So one morning, just at daylight, (this is how the story is told) the artist was awakened by a knocking at his bedroom door. He called out to know who was there.

“Please, sir,” was the reply, “have you ordered a lion?”