Then I heard an old grizzled, long-haired Central Asian chief, who had come down with the Amir, asking questions of a native officer.

“Now,” said he, “in what manner was this wonderful thing done?”

And the officer answered, “An order was given, and they obeyed.”

“But are the beasts as wise as the men?” said the chief.

“They obey, as the men do.  Mule, horse, elephant, or bullock, he obeys his driver, and the driver his sergeant, and the sergeant his lieutenant, and the lieutenant his captain, and the captain his major, and the major his colonel, and the colonel his brigadier commanding three regiments, and the brigadier the general, who obeys the Viceroy, who is the servant of the Empress.  Thus it is done.”

“Would it were so in Afghanistan!” said the chief, “for there we obey only our own wills.”

“And for that reason,” said the native officer, twirling his mustache, “your Amir whom you do not obey must come here and take orders from our Viceroy.”

Parade Song of the Camp Animals

Elephants of the gun teams

We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules,
The wisdom of our foreheads, the cunning of our knees;
We bowed our necks to service:  they ne’er were loosed again,—­
Make way there—­way for the ten-foot teams

            Of the Forty-Pounder train!

Gun bullocks

Those heroes in their harnesses avoid a cannon-ball,
And what they know of powder upsets them one and all;
Then we come into action and tug the guns again—­
Make way there—­way for the twenty yoke

            Of the Forty-Pounder train!

Cavalry horses

By the brand on my shoulder, the finest of tunes
Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons,
And it’s sweeter than “Stables” or “Water” to me—­
The Cavalry Canter of “Bonnie Dundee”!

Then feed us and break us and handle and groom,
And give us good riders and plenty of room,
And launch us in column of squadron and see
The way of the war-horse to “Bonnie Dundee”!

     Screw-gun mules

     As me and my companions were scrambling up a hill,
     The path was lost in rolling stones, but we went forward still;
     For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
     Oh, it’s our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to
        spare!

     Good luck to every sergeant, then, that lets us pick our road;
     Bad luck to all the driver-men that cannot pack a load: 
     For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
     Oh, it’s our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to
        spare!

     Commissariat camels