Two bright eyes shine for a moment from the grass; the jackal is investigating the case. He meets Maami’s eye and cannot face it, so he slinks away to a safe distance and howls to his heart’s content. “Blood!” he cries; “meat for one and all!” And to far corners of the plain, to rocky holes that form a day refuge for carrion, the shrill cry penetrates. If there are any lions near by they are sleeping after a successful night’s hunting, for never an answering cry follows the jackal’s summons.
Maami is conscious of a strange gathering of ugly birds and foul beasts, but it does not concern him now. He is growing so cold that even the tropical sun above his head is powerless to warm him; his eyes are being veiled, the landscape is very blurred, the herd has passed from sight. His head droops slowly—he does not feel the teeth of the old hyæna that, mad with hunger, has flung herself upon him.
| [2] | Though the giraffe is perhaps the only large animal that never makes a sound, travellers and hunters are agreed that these animals can communicate many thoughts to each other. |
THE WHITE STORK
In the afternoon little Tsamani would go in the company of Fatima, his mother, to the flat roof of his father’s house, but in the morning he was allowed to go up there by himself, with only the little slave girl Ayesha to guard him.
The happiest hours of Tsamani’s young life were passed upon the flat house-top, where he could see the Tensift river winding its way among the palms, and the Atlas mountains with their peaks covered in snow, and the wonderful tower called Kutubia, that flanks the Mosque of the Library. He could see one of the markets, crowded with heavily laden camels and noisy tribesmen from the South; and at times when the Sultan was in the city he would watch him riding in state under the green umbrella that is Morocco’s symbol of sovereignty. These sights pleased Tsamani, and delighted the little slave-girl, who was at once his guardian and his playmate; but Father and Mother Stork pleased him most of all.
When the warm spring weather came, and most of the storks in Marrakesh took their long flight oversea to cooler climes, Father Stork and Mother Stork remained behind. She sat in her rough nest upon three white eggs and he stood on one leg by her side, with his neck bent, and his bill resting on his breast. They both looked at Tsamani with great interest, perhaps because he was the son of a powerful governor—more likely because they were sorry for him on account of his loneliness. For, though Tsamani had a very soft white djellaba and bright yellow slippers, he was a lonely boy enough—not half so happy as many of the little beggars who ran all over the streets in the bazaars, as merry as they were hungry.
Father Stork made a great rattling noise with his bill, and his mate responded rather more quietly.
“That’s a funny noise, O Father of the Red Legs,” said Tsamani. “I can’t make it with my mouth.”