O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1919 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 309 pages of information about O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1919.

This was rather a compliment to his plump wife.  She was not offended at all.  Burman women love to be well-rounded.  But the mahout was not weighing the effect of his words.  He was busy lighting his firebrand, and his features seemed sharp and intent when the beams came out.  Rather he was already weighing the profits of little Muztagh.  He was an elephant-catcher by trade, in the employ of the great white Dugan Sahib, and the cow that was at this moment bringing a son into the world was his own property.  If the baby should be of the Kumiria—­

The mahout knew elephants from head to tail, and he was very well acquainted with the three grades that compose the breed.  The least valuable of all are the Mierga—­a light, small-headed, thin-skinned, weak-trunked and unintelligent variety that are often found in the best elephant herds.  They are often born of the most noble parents, and they are as big a problem to elephant men as razor-backs to hog-breeders.  Then there is a second variety, the Dwasala, that compose the great bulk of the herd—­a good, substantial, strong, intelligent grade of elephant.  But the Kumiria is the best of all; and when one is born in a captive herd it is a time for rejoicing.  He is the perfect elephant—­heavy, symmetrical, trustworthy and fearless—­fitted for the pageantry of kings.

He hurried out to the lines, for now he knew that the baby was born.  The mother’s cries had ceased.  The jungle, dark and savage beyond ever the power of man to tame, lay just beyond.  He could feel its heavy air, its smells; its silence was an essence.  And as he stood, lifting the fagot high, he heard the wild elephants trumpeting from the hills.

He turned his head in amazement.  A Burman, and particularly one who chases the wild elephants in their jungles, is intensely superstitious, and for an instant it seemed to him that the wild trumpeting must have some secret meaning, it was so loud and triumphant and prolonged.  It was greatly like the far-famed elephant salute—­ever one of the mysteries of those most mysterious of animals—­that the great creatures utter at certain occasions and times.

“Are you saluting this little one?” he cried.  “He is not a wild tusker like you.  He is not a wild pig of the jungle.  He is born in bonds, such as you will wear too, after the next drive!”

They trumpeted again, as if in scorn of his words.  Their great strength was given them to rule the jungle, not to haul logs and pull chains!  The man turned back to the lines and lifted higher his light.

Yes—­the little elephant in the light-glow was of the Kumiria.  Never had there been a more perfect calf.  The light of greed sprang again in his eyes.  And as he held the fagot nearer so that the beams played in the elephant’s eyes and on his coat, the mahout sat down and was still, lest the gods observe his good luck, and, being jealous, turn it into evil.

The coat was not pinky dark, as is usual in baby elephants.  It was distinctly light-coloured—­only a few degrees darker than white.

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O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1919 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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