TOOMAI OF THE ELEPHANTS
I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain—
I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane:
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break—
Out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress;
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!
 KALA NAG, which means Black Snake, had served the Indian Government in every way that an elephant could serve it for
forty-seven years, and as he was fully twenty years old when he was caught, that makes him nearly
seventy—a ripe age for an elephant. He remembered pushing, with a big leather pad on his forehead, at a
gun stuck in deep mud, and that was before the Afghan War of 1842, and he had not then come to his full
His mother Radha Pyari,—Radha the darling,—who had been caught in the same drive with Kala Nag,
told him, before his little milk tusks had dropped out, that elephants who were afraid always got hurt; and
 Nag knew that that advice was good, for the first time that he saw a shell burst he backed, screaming, into a
stand of piled rifles, and the bayonets pricked him in all his softest places. So, before he was twenty-five,
he gave up being afraid, and so he was the best-loved and the best-looked-after elephant in the service of the
Government of India. He had carried tents, twelve hundred pounds' weight of tents, on the march in Upper
India. He had been hoisted into a ship at the end of a steam crane and taken for days across the water, and
made to carry a mortar on his back in a strange and rocky country very far from India, and had seen the
Emperor Theodore lying dead in Magdala, and had come back again in the steamer entitled, so the soldiers said,
to the Abyssinian War medal. He had seen his fellow elephants die of cold and epilepsy and starvation and
sunstroke up at a place called Ali Musjid, ten years later; and afterward he had been sent down thousands of
miles south to haul and pile big balks of teak in the timberyards at Moulmein. There he had half killed an
insubordinate young elephant who was shirking his fair share of work.
KALA NAG WAS THE BEST LOVED ELEPHANT IN THE SERVICE.
After that he was taken off timber-hauling, and employed, with a few score other elephants
 who were trained to the business, in helping to catch wild elephants among the Garo hills. Elephants are very
strictly preserved by the Indian Government. There is one whole department which does nothing else but hunt
them, and catch them, and break them in, and send them up and down the country as they are needed for work.
Kala Nag stood ten fair feet at the shoulders, and his tusks had been cut off short at five feet, and bound
round the ends, to prevent them splitting, with bands of copper; but he could do more with those stumps than
any untrained elephant could do with the real sharpened ones.
When, after weeks and weeks of cautious driving of scattered elephants across the hills, the forty or fifty
wild monsters were driven into the last stockade, and the big drop gate, made of tree trunks lashed together,
jarred down behind them, Kala Nag, at the word of command, would go into that flaring, trumpeting pandemonium
(generally at night, when the flicker of the torches made it difficult to judge distances), and, picking out
the biggest and wildest tusker of the mob, would hammer him and hustle him into quiet while the men on the
backs of the other elephants roped and tied the smaller ones.
 There was nothing in the way of fighting that Kala Nag, the old wise Black Snake, did not know, for he had
stood up more than once in his time to the charge of the wounded tiger, and, curling up his soft trunk to be
out of harm's way, had knocked the springing brute sideways in mid-air with a quick sickle cut of his head,
that he had invented all by himself; had knocked him over, and kneeled upon him with his huge knees till the
life went out with a gasp and a howl, and there was only a fluffy striped thing on the ground for Kala Nag to
pull by the tail.
"Yes," said Big Toomai, his driver, the son of Black Toomai who had taken him to Abyssinia, and grandson of
Toomai of the Elephants who had seen him caught, "there is nothing that the Black Snake fears except me. He
has seen three generations of us feed him and groom him, and he will live to see four."
"HE IS AFRAID OF ME," SAID LITTLE TOOMAI, AND HE MADE KALA NAG
LIFT UP HIS FEET ONE AFTER THE OTHER.
"He is afraid of me also," said Little Toomai, standing up to his full height of four feet, with
only one rag upon him. He was ten years old, the eldest son of Big Toomai, and, according to custom, he would
take his father's place on Kala Nag's neck when he grew up, and would handle the heavy iron ankus, the
elephant goad, that had been worn smooth
 by his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather.
He knew what he was talking of; for he had been born under Kala Nag's shadow, had played with the end of his
trunk before he could walk, had taken him down to water as soon as he could walk, and Kala Nag would no more
have dreamed of disobeying his shrill little orders than he would have dreamed of killing him on that day when
Big Toomai carried the little brown baby under Kala Nag's tusks, and told him to salute his master that was to
"Yes," said Little Toomai, "he is afraid of me," and he took long strides up to Kala Nag, called
him a fat old pig, and made him lift up his feet one after the other.
"Wah!" said Little Toomai, "thou art a big elephant," and he wagged his fluffy head, quoting his father. "The
Government may pay for elephants, but they belong to us mahouts. When thou art old, Kala Nag, there will come
some rich rajah, and he will buy thee from the Government, on account of thy size and thy manners, and then
thou wilt have nothing to do but to carry gold earrings in thy ears, and a gold howdah on thy back, and a red
cloth covered with gold on thy sides, and walk at the head
 of the processions of the King. Then I shall sit on thy neck, O Kala Nag, with a silver ankus, and men
will run before us with golden sticks, crying, 'Room for the King's elephant!' That will be good, Kala Nag,
but not so good as this hunting in the jungles."
"Umph!" said Big Toomai. "Thou art a boy, and as wild as a buffalo-calf. This running up and down among the
hills is not the best Government service. I am getting old, and I do not love wild elephants. Give me brick
elephant lines, one stall to each elephant, and big stumps to tie them to safely, and flat, broad roads to
exercise upon, instead of this come-and-go camping. Aha, the Cawnpore barracks were good. There was a bazaar
close by, and only three hours' work a day."
Little Toomai remembered the Cawnpore elephant-lines and said nothing. He very much preferred the camp life,
and hated those broad, flat roads, with the daily grubbing for grass in the forage reserve, and the long hours
when there was nothing to do except to watch Kala Nag fidgeting in his pickets.
What Little Toomai liked was to scramble up bridle paths that only an elephant could take; the
 dip into the valley below; the glimpses of the wild elephants browsing miles away; the rush of the frightened
pig and peacock under Kala Nag's feet; the blinding warm rains, when all the hills and valleys smoked; the
beautiful misty mornings when nobody knew where they would camp that night; the steady, cautious drive of the
wild elephants, and the mad rush and blaze and hullabaloo of the last night's drive, when the elephants poured
into the stockade like boulders in a landslide, found that they could not get out, and flung themselves at the
heavy posts only to be driven back by yells and flaring torches and volleys of blank cartridge.
Even a little boy could be of use there, and Toomai was as useful as three boys. He would get his torch and
wave it, and yell with the best. But the really good time came when the driving out began, and the
Keddah—that is, the stockade—looked like a picture of the end of the world, and men had to make
signs to one another, because they could not hear themselves speak. Then Little Toomai would climb up to the
top of one of the quivering stockade posts, his sun-bleached brown hair flying loose all over his shoulders,
and he looking like a goblin in the torch-light. And as soon as there was a lull you
 could hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement to Kala Nag, above the trumpeting and crashing, and
snapping of ropes, and groans of the tethered elephants. "Mael, mael, Kala Nag! (Go on, go on,
Black Snake!) Dant do! (Give him the tusk!) Somalo! Somalo! (Careful, careful!)
Maro! Mar! (Hit him, hit him!) Mind the post! Arre! Arre! Hai! Yai! Kya-a-ah!" he
would shout, and the big fight between Kala Nag and the wild elephant would sway to and fro across the Keddah,
and the old elephant catchers would wipe the sweat out of their eyes, and find time to nod to Little Toomai
wriggling with joy on the top of the posts.
He did more than wriggle. One night he slid down from the post and slipped in between the elephants and threw
up the loose end of a rope, which had dropped, to a driver who was trying to get a purchase on the leg of a
kicking young calf (calves always give more trouble than full-grown animals). Kala Nag saw him, caught him in
his trunk, and handed him up to Big Toomai, who slapped him then and there, and put him back on the post.
HE WOULD GET HIS TORCH AND WAVE IT, AND YELL WITH THE BEST.
Next morning he gave him a scolding and said, "Are not good brick elephant lines and a little tent
 carrying enough, that thou must needs go elephant catching on thy own account, little worthless? Now those
foolish hunters, whose pay is less than my pay, have spoken to Petersen Sahib of the matter." Little Toomai
was frightened. He did not know much of white men, but Petersen Sahib was the greatest white man in the world
to him. He was the head of all the Keddah operations—the man who caught all the elephants for the
Government of India, and who knew more about the ways of elephants than any living man.
"What—what will happen?" said Little Toomai.
"Happen! The worst that can happen. Petersen Sahib is a madman. Else why should he go hunting these wild
devils? He may even require thee to be an elephant catcher, to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles,
and at last to be trampled to death in the Keddah. It is well that this nonsense ends safely. Next week the
catching is over, and we of the plains are sent back to our stations. Then we will march on smooth roads, and
forget all this hunting. But, son, I am angry that thou shouldst meddle in the business that belongs to these
dirty Assamese jungle folk. Kala Nag will obey none but me, so I must go with him into the Keddah, but
 he is only a fighting elephant, and he does not help to rope them. So I sit at my ease, as befits a
mahout,—not a mere hunter,—a mahout, I say, and a man who gets a pension at the end of his
service. Is the family of Toomai of the Elephants to be trodden underfoot in the dirt of a Keddah? Bad one!
Wicked one! Worthless son! Go and wash Kala Nag and attend to his ears, and see that there are no thorns in
his feet. Or else Petersen Sahib will surely catch thee and make thee a wild hunter—a follower of
elephant's foot tracks, a jungle bear. Bah! Shame! Go!"
Little Toomai went off without saying a word, but he told Kala Nag all his grievances while he was examining
his feet. "No matter," said Little Toomai, turning up the fringe of Kala Nag's huge right ear. "They have said
my name to Petersen Sahib, and perhaps—and perhaps—and perhaps—who knows? Hai! That is a big
thorn that I have pulled out!"
The next few days were spent in getting the elephants together, in walking the newly caught wild elephants up
and down between a couple of tame ones to prevent them giving too much trouble on the downward march to the
 in taking stock of the blankets and ropes and things that had been worn out or lost in the forest.
Petersen Sahib came in on his clever she-elephant Pudmini; he had been paying off other camps among the hills,
for the season was coming to an end, and there was a native clerk sitting at a table under a tree, to pay the
drivers their wages. As each man was paid he went back to his elephant, and joined the line that stood ready
to start. The catchers, and hunters, and beaters, the men of the regular Keddah, who stayed in the jungle year
in and year out, sat on the backs of the elephants that belonged to Petersen Sahib's permanent force, or
leaned against the trees with their guns across their arms, and made fun of the drivers who were going away,
and laughed when the newly caught elephants broke the line and ran about.
Big Toomai went up to the clerk with Little Toomai behind him, and Machua Appa, the head tracker, said in an
undertone to a friend of his, "There goes one piece of good elephant stuff at least. 'Tis a pity to send that
young jungle-cock to molt in the plains."
Now Petersen Sahib had ears all over him, as a man must have who listens to the most silent of
 all living things—the wild elephant. He turned where he was lying all along on Pudmini's back and said,
"What is that? I did not know of a man among the plains-drivers who had wit enough to rope even a dead
"This is not a man, but a boy. He went into the Keddah at the last drive, and threw Barmao there the rope,
when we were trying to get that young calf with the blotch on his shoulder away from his mother."
Machua Appa pointed at Little Toomai, and Petersen Sahib looked, and Little Toomai bowed to the earth.
"He throw a rope? He is smaller than a picket-pin. Little one, what is thy name?" said Petersen Sahib.
Little Toomai was too frightened to speak, but Kala Nag was behind him, and Toomai made a sign with his hand,
and the elephant caught him up in his trunk and held him level with Pudmini's forehead, in front of the great
Petersen Sahib. Then Little Toomai covered his face with his hands, for he was only a child, and except where
elephants were concerned, he was just as bashful as a child could be.
\NOT GREEN CORN, PROTECTOR OF THE POOR,—MELONS," SAID LITTLE TOOMAI.
"Oho!" said Petersen Sahib, smiling underneath
 his mustache, "and why didst thou teach thy elephant that trick? Was it to help thee steal green
corn from the roofs of the houses when the ears are put out to dry?"
"Not green corn, Protector of the Poor,—melons," said Little Toomai, and all the men sitting about broke
into a roar of laughter. Most of them had taught their elephants that trick when they were boys. Little Toomai
was hanging eight feet up in the air, and he wished very much that he were eight feet underground.
"He is Toomai, my son, Sahib," said Big Toomai, scowling. "He is a very bad boy, and he will end in a jail,
"Of that I have my doubts," said Petersen Sahib. "A boy who can face a full Keddah at his age does not end in
jails. See, little one, here are four annas to spend in sweetmeats because thou hast a little head under that
great thatch of hair. In time thou mayest become a hunter too." Big Toomai scowled more than ever. "Remember,
though, that Keddahs are not good for children to play in," Petersen Sahib went on.
"Must I never go there, Sahib?" asked Little Toomai with a big gasp.
 "Yes." Petersen Sahib smiled again. "When thou hast seen the elephants dance. That is the proper time. Come to
me when thou hast seen the elephants dance, and then I will let thee go into all the Keddahs."
There was another roar of laughter, for that is an old joke among elephant-catchers, and it means just never.
There are great cleared flat places hidden away in the forests that are called elephants' ball-rooms, but even
these are only found by accident, and no man has ever seen the elephants dance. When a driver boasts of his
skill and bravery the other drivers say, "And when didst thou see the elephants dance?"
Kala Nag put Little Toomai down, and he bowed to the earth again and went away with his father, and gave the
silver four-anna piece to his mother, who was nursing his baby brother, and they all were put up on Kala Nag's
back, and the line of grunting, squealing elephants rolled down the hill path to the plains. It was a very
lively march on account of the new elephants, who gave trouble at every ford, and needed coaxing or beating
every other minute.
Big Toomai prodded Kala Nag spitefully, for
 he was very angry, but Little Toomai was too happy to speak. Petersen Sahib had noticed him, and given him
money, so he felt as a private soldier would feel if he had been called out of the ranks and praised by his
"What did Petersen Sahib mean by the elephant dance?" he said, at last, softly to his mother.
Big Toomai heard him and grunted. "That thou shouldst never be one of these hill buffaloes of trackers.
That was what he meant. Oh, you in front, what is blocking the way?"
An Assamese driver, two or three elephants ahead, turned round angrily, crying: "Bring up Kala Nag, and knock
this youngster of mine into good behavior. Why should Petersen Sahib have chosen me to go down with you
donkeys of the rice fields? Lay your beast alongside, Toomai, and let him prod with his tusks. By all the Gods
of the Hills, these new elephants are possessed, or else they can smell their companions in the jungle." Kala
Nag hit the new elephant in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him, as Big Toomai said, "We have swept the
hills of wild elephants at the last catch. It is only your carelessness in driving. Must I keep order along
the whole line?"
 "Hear him!" said the other driver. "We have swept the hills! Ho! Ho! You are very wise, you
plains people. Anyone but a mud-head who never saw the jungle would know that they know that the
drives are ended for the season. Therefore all the wild elephants to-night will—but why should I waste
wisdom on a river-turtle?"
"What will they do?" Little Toomai called out.
"Ohé, little one. Art thou there? Well, I will tell thee, for thou hast a cool head. They will dance,
and it behooves thy father, who has swept all the hills of all the elephants, to
double-chain his pickets to-night."
"What talk is this?" said Big Toomai. "For forty years, father and son, we have tended elephants, and we have
never heard such moonshine about dances."
"Yes; but a plainsman who lives in a hut knows only the four walls of his hut. Well, leave thy elephants
unshackled tonight and see what comes. As for their dancing, I have seen the place
where—Bapree-bap! How many windings has the Dihang River? Here is another ford, and we must
swim the calves. Stop still, you behind there."
And in this way, talking and wrangling and
splash-  ing through the rivers, they made their first march to a sort of receiving camp for the new elephants. But
they lost their tempers long before they got there.
Then the elephants were chained by their hind legs to their big stumps of pickets, and extra ropes were fitted
to the new elephants, and the fodder was piled before them, and the hill drivers went back to Petersen Sahib
through the afternoon light, telling the plains drivers to be extra careful that night, and laughing when the
plains drivers asked the reason.
Little Toomai attended to Kala Nag's supper, and as evening fell, wandered through the camp, unspeakably
happy, in search of a tom-tom. When an Indian child's heart is full, he does not run about and make a noise in
an irregular fashion. He sits down to a sort of revel all by himself. And Little Toomai had been spoken to by
Petersen Sahib! If he had not found what he wanted, I believe he would have been ill. But the sweetmeat seller
in the camp lent him a little tom-tom—a drum beaten with the flat of the hand—and he sat down,
cross-legged, before Kala Nag as the stars began to come out, the tom-tom in his lap, and he thumped and he
 he thumped, and the more he thought of the great honor that had been done to him, the more he thumped, all
alone among the elephant fodder. There was no tune and no words, but the thumping made him happy.
The new elephants strained at their ropes, and squealed and trumpeted from time to time, and he could hear his
mother in the camp hut putting his small brother to sleep with an old, old song about the great God Shiv, who
once told all the animals what they should eat. It is a very soothing lullaby, and the first verse says:
Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,
Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,
Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,
From the King upon the guddee to the Beggar at the gate.
All things made he—Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all—
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!
Little Toomai came in with a joyous tunk-a-tunk at the end of each verse, till he felt sleepy and
stretched himself on the fodder at Kala Nag's side. At last the elephants began to lie down one after another
as is their custom, till only Kala Nag at the right of the line was left standing up; and he
 rocked slowly from side to side, his ears put forward to listen to the night wind as it blew very slowly
across the hills. The air was full of all the night noises that, taken together, make one big
silence—the click of one bamboo stem against the other, the rustle of something alive in the
undergrowth, the scratch and squawk of a half-waked bird (birds are awake in the night much more often than we
imagine), and the fall of water ever so far away. Little Toomai slept for some time, and when he waked it was
brilliant moonlight, and Kala Nag was still standing up with his ears cocked. Little Toomai turned, rustling
in the fodder, and watched the curve of his big back against half the stars in heaven, and while he watched he
heard, so far away that it sounded no more than a pinhole of noise pricked through the stillness, the
"hoot-toot" of a wild elephant.
All the elephants in the lines jumped up as if they had been shot, and their grunts at last waked the sleeping
mahouts, and they came out and drove in the picket pegs with big mallets, and tightened this rope and knotted
that till all was quiet. One new elephant had nearly grubbed up his picket, and Big Toomai took off Kala Nag's
 and shackled that elephant fore-foot to hind-foot, but slipped a loop of grass string round Kala Nag's leg,
and told him to remember that he was tied fast. He knew that he and his father and his grandfather had done
the very same thing hundreds of times before. Kala Nag did not answer to the order by gurgling, as he usually
did. He stood still, looking out across the moonlight, his head a little raised and his ears spread like fans,
up to the great folds of the Garo hills.
"Tend to him if he grows restless in the night," said Big Toomai to Little Toomai, and he went into the hut
and slept. Little Toomai was just going to sleep, too, when he heard the coir string snap with a little
"tang," and Kala Nag rolled out of his pickets as slowly and as silently as a cloud rolls out of the mouth of
a valley. Little Toomai pattered after him, barefooted, down the road in the moonlight, calling under his
breath, "Kala Nag! Kala Nag! Take me with you, O Kala Nag!" The elephant turned, without a sound, took three
strides back to the boy in the moonlight, put down his trunk, swung him up to his neck, and almost before
Little Toomai had settled his knees, slipped into the forest.
 There was one blast of furious trumpeting from the lines, and then the silence shut down on everything, and
Kala Nag began to move. Sometimes a tuft of high grass washed along his sides as a wave washes along the sides
of a ship, and sometimes a cluster of wild-pepper vines would scrape along his back, or a bamboo would creak
where his shoulder touched it. But between those times he moved absolutely without any sound, drifting through
the thick Garo forest as though it had been smoke. He was going uphill, but though Little Toomai watched the
stars in the rifts of the trees, he could not tell in what direction.
Then Kala Nag reached the crest of the ascent and stopped for a minute, and Little Toomai could see the tops
of the trees lying all speckled and furry under the moonlight for miles and miles, and the blue-white mist
over the river in the hollow. Toomai leaned forward and looked, and he felt that the forest was awake below
him—awake and alive and crowded. A big brown fruit-eating bat brushed past his ear; a porcupine's quills
rattled in the thicket; and in the darkness between the tree stems he heard a hog-bear digging hard in the
moist warm earth, and snuffing as it digged.
 Then the branches closed over his head again, and Kala Nag began to go down into the valley—not quietly
this time, but as a runaway gun goes down a steep bank—in one rush. The huge limbs moved as steadily as
pistons, eight feet to each stride, and the wrinkled skin of the elbow points rustled. The undergrowth on
either side of him ripped with a noise like torn canvas, and the saplings that he heaved away right and left
with his shoulders sprang back again and banged him on the flank, and great trails of creepers, all matted
together, hung from his tusks as he threw his head from side to side and plowed out his pathway. Then Little
Toomai laid himself down close to the great neck lest a swinging bough should sweep him to the ground, and he
wished that he were back in the lines again.
The grass began to get squashy, and Kala Nag's feet sucked and squelched as he put them down, and the night
mist at the bottom of the valley chilled Little Toomai. There was a splash and a trample, and the rush of
running water, and Kala Nag strode through the bed of a river, feeling his way at each step. Above the noise
of the water, as it swirled round the elephant's legs, Little Toomai could hear more splashing and some
up-  stream and down—great grunts and angry snortings, and all the mist about him seemed to be full of
rolling, wavy shadows.
"Ai!" he said, half aloud, his teeth chattering. "The elephant-folk are out tonight. It
is the dance, then!"
Kala Nag swashed out of the water, blew his trunk clear, and began another climb. But this time he was not
alone, and he had not to make his path. That was made already, six feet wide, in front of him, where the bent
jungle-grass was trying to recover itself and stand up. Many elephants must have gone that way only a few
minutes before. Little Toomai looked back, and behind him a great wild tusker with his little pig's eyes
glowing like hot coals was just lifting himself out of the misty river. Then the trees closed up again, and
they went on and up, with trumpetings and crashings, and the sound of breaking branches on every side of them.
At last Kala Nag stood still between two tree-trunks at the very top of the hill. They were part of a circle
of trees that grew round an irregular space of some three or four acres, and in all that space, as Little
Toomai could see, the ground had been
 trampled down as hard as a brick floor. Some trees grew in the center of the clearing, but their bark was
rubbed away, and the white wood beneath showed all shiny and polished in the patches of moonlight. There were
creepers hanging from the upper branches, and the bells of the flowers of the creepers, great waxy white
things like convolvuluses, hung down fast asleep. But within the limits of the clearing there was not a single
blade of green—nothing but the trampled earth.
The moonlight showed it all iron gray, except where some elephants stood upon it, and their shadows were inky
black. Little Toomai looked, holding his breath, with his eyes starting out of his head, and as he looked,
more and more and more elephants swung out into the open from between the tree trunks. Little Toomai could
only count up to ten, and he counted again and again on his fingers till he lost count of the tens, and his
head began to swim. Outside the clearing he could hear them crashing in the undergrowth as they worked their
way up the hillside, but as soon as they were within the circle of the tree trunks they moved like ghosts.
There were white-tusked wild males, with fallen leaves and nuts and twigs lying in the wrinkles of
 their necks and the folds of their ears; fat, slow-footed she-elephants, with restless, little pinky black
calves only three or four feet high running under their stomachs; young elephants with their tusks just
beginning to show, and very proud of them; lanky, scraggy old-maid elephants, with their hollow anxious faces,
and trunks like rough bark; savage old bull elephants, scarred from shoulder to flank with great weals and
cuts of bygone fights, and the caked dirt of their solitary mud baths dropping from their shoulders; and there
was one with a broken tusk and the marks of the full-stroke, the terrible drawing scrape, of a tiger's claws
on his side.
They were standing head to head, or walking to and fro across the ground in couples, or rocking and swaying
all by themselves—scores and scores of elephants.
Toomai knew that so long as he lay still on Kala Nag's neck nothing would happen to him, for even in the rush
and scramble of a Keddah drive a wild elephant does not reach up with his trunk and drag a man off the neck of
a tame elephant. And these elephants were not thinking of men that night. Once they started and put their ears
 they heard the chinking of a leg iron in the forest, but it was Pudmini, Petersen Sahib's pet elephant, her
chain snapped short off, grunting, snuffling up the hillside. She must have broken her pickets and come
straight from Petersen Sahib's camp; and Little Toomai saw another elephant, one that he did not know, with
deep rope galls on his back and breast. He, too, must have run away from some camp in the hills about.
At last there was no sound of any more elephants moving in the forest, and Kala Nag rolled out from his
station between the trees and went into the middle of the crowd, clucking and gurgling, and all the elephants
began to talk in their own tongue, and to move about.
LITTLE TOOMAI LOOKED DOWN UPON SCORES AND SCORES OF BROAD BACKS.
Still lying down, Little Toomai looked down upon scores and scores of broad backs, and wagging ears, and
tossing trunks, and little rolling eyes. He heard the click of tusks as they crossed other tusks by accident,
and the dry rustle of trunks twined together, and the chafing of enormous sides and shoulders in the crowd,
and the incessant flick and hissh of the great tails. Then a cloud came over the moon, and he sat in black
darkness. But the quiet, steady hustling and pushing and gurgling
 went on just the same. He knew that there were elephants all round Kala Nag, and that there was no chance of
backing him out of the assembly; so he set his teeth and shivered. In a Keddah at least there was torchlight
and shouting, but here he was all alone in the dark, and once a trunk came up and touched him on the knee.
Then an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up for five or ten terrible seconds. The dew from the trees
above spattered down like rain on the unseen backs, and a dull booming noise began, not very loud at first,
and Little Toomai could not tell what it was. But it grew and grew, and Kala Nag lifted up one forefoot and
then the other, and brought them down on the ground—one-two, one-two, as steadily as trip-hammers. The
elephants were stamping all together now, and it sounded like a war drum beaten at the mouth of a cave. The
dew fell from the trees till there was no more left to fall, and the booming went on, and the ground rocked
and shivered, and Little Toomai put his hands up to his ears to shut out the sound. But it was all one
gigantic jar that ran through him—this stamp of hundreds of heavy feet on the raw earth. Once or twice
he could feel Kala Nag and
 all the others surge forward a few strides, and the thumping would change to the crushing sound of juicy green
things being bruised, but in a minute or two the boom of feet on hard earth began again. A tree was creaking
and groaning somewhere near him. He put out his arm and felt the bark, but Kala Nag moved forward, still
tramping, and he could not tell where he was in the clearing. There was no sound from the elephants, except
once, when two or three little calves squeaked together. Then he heard a thump and a shuffle, and the booming
went on. It must have lasted fully two hours, and Little Toomai ached in every nerve, but he knew by the smell
of the night air that the dawn was coming.
The morning broke in one sheet of pale yellow behind the green hills, and the booming stopped with the first
ray, as though the light had been an order. Before Little Toomai had got the ringing out of his head, before
even he had shifted his position, there was not an elephant in sight except Kala Nag, Pudmini, and the
elephant with the rope-galls, and there was neither sign nor rustle nor whisper down the hillsides to show
where the others had gone.
 Little Toomai stared again and again. The clearing, as he remembered it, had grown in the night. More trees
stood in the middle of it, but the undergrowth and the jungle grass at the sides had been rolled back. Little
Toomai stared once more. Now he understood the trampling. The elephants had stamped out more room—had
stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny fibers, and the
fibers into hard earth.
"Wah!" said Little Toomai, and his eyes were very heavy. "Kala Nag, my lord, let us keep by Pudmini and go to
Petersen Sahib's camp, or I shall drop from thy neck."
The third elephant watched the two go away, snorted, wheeled round, and took his own path. He may have
belonged to some little native king's establishment, fifty or sixty or a hundred miles away.
Two hours later, as Petersen Sahib was eating early breakfast, his elephants, who had been double chained that
night, began to trumpet, and Pudmini, mired to the shoulders, with Kala Nag, very footsore, shambled into the
Little Toomai's face was gray and pinched, and his hair was full of leaves and drenched with dew;
 but he tried to salute Petersen Sahib, and cried faintly: "The dance—the elephant dance! I have seen
it, and—I die!" As Kala Nag sat down, he slid off his neck in a dead faint.
But, since native children have no nerves worth speaking of, in two hours he was lying very contentedly in
Petersen Sahib's hammock with Petersen Sahib's shooting-coat under his head, and a glass of warm milk, a
little brandy, with a dash of quinine, inside of him, and while the old hairy, scarred hunters of the jungles
sat three deep before him, looking at him as though he were a spirit, he told his tale in short words, as a
child will, and wound up with:
"Now, if I lie in one word, send men to see, and they will find that the elephant folk have trampled down more
room in their dance-room, and they will find ten and ten, and many times ten, tracks leading to that
dance-room. They made more room with their feet. I have seen it. Kala Nag took me, and I saw. Also Kala Nag is
Little Toomai lay back and slept all through the long afternoon and into the twilight, and while he slept
Petersen Sahib and Machua Appa followed the track of the two elephants for fifteen miles
 across the hills. Petersen Sahib had spent eighteen years in catching elephants, and he had only once before
found such a dance-place. Machua Appa had no need to look twice at the clearing to see what had been done
there, or to scratch with his toe in the packed, rammed earth.
"The child speaks truth," said he. "All this was done last night, and I have counted seventy tracks crossing
the river. See, Sahib, where Pudmini's leg-iron cut the bark of that tree! Yes; she was there too."
They looked at one another and up and down, and they wondered. For the ways of elephants are beyond the wit of
any man, black or white, to fathom.
"Forty years and five," said Machua Appa, "have I followed my lord, the elephant, but never have I heard that
any child of man had seen what this child has seen. By all the Gods of the Hills, it is—what can we
say?" and he shook his head.
When they got back to camp it was time for the evening meal. Petersen Sahib ate alone in his tent, but he gave
orders that the camp should have two sheep and some fowls, as well as a double ration of flour and rice and
salt, for he knew that there would be a feast.
 Big Toomai had come up hotfoot from the camp in the plains to search for his son and his elephant, and now
that he had found them he looked at them as though he were afraid of them both. And there was a feast by the
blazing campfires in front of the lines of picketed elephants, and Little Toomai was the hero of it all. And
the big brown elephant catchers, the trackers and drivers and ropers, and the men who know all the secrets of
breaking the wildest elephants, passed him from one to the other, and they marked his forehead with blood from
the breast of a newly killed jungle-cock, to show that he was a forester, initiated and free of all the
"TO TOOMAI OF TEH ELEPHANTS. BARROA!"
And at last, when the flames died down, and the red light of the logs made the elephants look as though they
had been dipped in blood too, Machua Appa, the head of all the drivers of all the Keddahs—Machua Appa,
Petersen Sahib's other self, who had never seen a made road in forty years: Machua Appa, who was so great that
he had no other name than Machua Appa,—leaped to his feet, with Little Toomai held high in the air above
his head, and shouted: "Listen, my brothers. Listen, too, you my lords in the lines there, for I, Machua Appa,
am speaking! This little one shall no more be called
 Little Toomai, but Toomai of the Elephants, as his great-grandfather was called before him. What never man has
seen he has seen through the long night, and the favor of the elephant-folk and of the Gods of the Jungles is
with him. He shall become a great tracker. He shall become greater than I, even I, Machua Appa! He shall
follow the new trail, and the stale trail, and the mixed trail, with a clear eye! He shall take no harm in the
Keddah when he runs under their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; and if he slips before the feet of the
charging bull elephant, the bull elephant shall know who he is and shall not crush him. Aihai! my
lords in the chains,"—he whirled up the line of pickets—"here is the little one that has seen your
dances in your hidden places,—the sight that never man saw! Give him honor, my lords! Salaam
karo, my children. Make your salute to Toomai of the Elephants! Gunga Pershad, ahaa! Hira Guj, Birchi Guj,
Kuttar Guj, ahaa! Pudmini,—thou hast seen him at the dance, and thou too, Kala Nag, my pearl among
elephants!—ahaa! Together! To Toomai of the Elephants. Barrao!"
And at that last wild yell the whole line flung up their trunks till the tips touched their foreheads,
 and broke out into the full salute—the crashing trumpet-peal that only the Viceroy of India hears, the
Salaamut of the Keddah.
But it was all for the sake of Little Toomai, who had seen what never man had seen before—the dance of
the elephants at night and alone in the heart of the Garo hills!
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