Apes and Monkeys: Their Life and Language

by R. L. Garner

It is five o’clock and the shadows in the forest are beginning to deepen. I see two little gray monkeys playing in the top of a very tall tree. The birds become monotonous and tiresome. Yonder is a small snake twined around the limb of a bushy tree. He is probably hunting for a nest of young birds. The low muttering sound of distant thunder is heard. Little by little it grows louder. It is the familiar voice of the coming tornado. I must prepare for it.

The stove is now lighted and a shallow pan of water is set upon it. Into it is stirred an ounce of desiccated soup. It is heated to the boiling point, and is then set on the swinging table. A can of mutton is emptied into another pan of the same kind, and a few crackers are broken and stirred into the mutton. The soup is eaten while the meat is being warmed. This is now ready, and the flame of the stove is turned off. The second course of dinner is now served. It consists of canned mutton, crackers, and water. The dishes, consisting of three tin platters and a cup, are thrust into the adjacent bush. The ants and other insects will clean them during the night.

Moses has now had his supper and has gone to his own little house, to find shelter from the approaching storm. The curtains are hung up on the side of the cage towards which the tornado is coming. The leaves of the forest begin to rustle. It is the first cool breath of the day, but it is the herald of the furious wind that is rapidly advancing. The tree-tops begin to sway. Now they are lashing each other as if in anger. The strong trees are bending from the wind. The lightning is so vivid that it is blinding. The thunder is terrific. One shaft after another, the burning bolts are hurled through the moaning forest.

Down the frail wires of my cage the water runs in little rivulets. Acting as a prism, it refracts the vivid lightning and makes the whole fabric look like a latticework of molten fire trickling down from the overhanging boughs. Like invisible demons the shrieking winds rush through the bending forest, and the unceasing roar of the thunder reverberates from the dark recesses of the jungle. Amid the din of storming forces is heard the dull thud of falling trees, and the crackling limbs are dropping all around. All nature is in a rage. Every bird and every beast now seeks a place of refuge from the warring elements. No sign of life is visible. No sound is audible save the voice of the storm. How unspeakably desolate the jungle is at such an hour no fancy can depict. How utterly helpless against the wrath of nature a living creature is no one can realize, except by living through such an hour in such a place.

On one occasion five large trees were blown down within a radius of a few hundred feet of my cage. Scores of limbs were broken off by the wind and scattered like straws. Some of them were six or eight inches in diameter and ten or twelve feet long. One of them broke the corner of the bamboo roof over my cage. The limb was broken off a huge cotton tree near by and fell from a height of about sixty feet. It was carried by the wind some yards out of a vertical line as it fell, and just passed far enough to spare my cage. Had it struck the body of it, the cage would have been partly demolished; the main stem of the bough was about six inches in diameter and ten feet long. This particular tornado lasted for nearly three hours and was the most violent of all I saw during the entire year.

Now the storm subsides, but the darkness is impenetrable. I have no light of any kind, for that would alarm the inhabitants of the jungle and attract a vast army of insects from all quarters. Moses is fast asleep, while I sit listening to the many strange and weird sounds heard in the jungle at night. The bush crackles near by. A huge leopard is creeping through it. He is coming this way. Slowly, cautiously, he approaches. I cannot see him in the deep shadows of the foliage, but I can locate him by sound, and identify him by his peculiar tread. Perhaps when he gets near enough he will attack the cage. He is creeping up closer. He evidently smells prey and is bent on seizing it. My rifle stands by my elbow. I silently raise it and lay it across my lap. The brute is now crouching within a few yards of me, but I cannot see to shoot him. I hear him move again, as if adjusting himself to spring upon the cage. He surely cannot see it, but by means of scent he has located me. I hear a low rustling of the leaves as he swishes his tail preparatory to a leap. If I could only touch a button and turn on a bright electric light! He remains crouching near, while I sit with the muzzle of the rifle turned towards him. My hand is on the lock. It is a trying moment. If he should spring with such force as to break the frail network that is between us, there could be but one fate for me.

In the brief space of a few seconds a thousand things run through one’s mind. They are not necessarily prompted by fear, but rather by suspense. Is it best to fire into the black shadows or to wait for the leopard’s attack? What is his exact pose? What does he intend? How big is he? Can he see me? A category of similar questions rises at this critical moment.

A clash of bushes and he is gone; not with the stealthy, cautious steps with which he advanced, but in hot haste. He has taken alarm, abandoned his purpose, and far away can be heard the dry twigs crashing as he hurries to some remote nook. He flees as if he thought he was being pursued. He is gone, and I feel a sense of relief.

It is ten o’clock. The low rumbling of distant thunder is all that remains of the tornado that swept over the forest a few hours ago. The stars are shining, but the foliage of the forest is so dense, that one can only see here and there a star peeping through the tangled boughs overhead. I hear some little waif among the dead leaves, but what it is or what it wants can only be surmised.

Another hour has passed, and I retire for the night. The sounds of nocturnal birds are fewer now. I hear a strange, tremulous sound from the boughs of the bushes near the cage. The leaves are vibrating. The sound ceases and again begins at intervals. I listen with attention, for it is a singular sound. It is the movement of a huge python in search of birds. He reaches out his head, stretches his neck, grasps the bough of a slender bush, releases his coil from another, and by contraction draws his slimy body forward. The pliant bough yields to his heavy weight. The abrasion causes it to tremble and the leaves to quake.