Buffalo by Ellen
In the thick mud of one of the marshy swamps of South Africa a herd of
buffaloes, some sixteen in number, stood almost knee-deep. The thick
fog which arose from the swamp hung round and about like a huge,
vapory cloud, making the hot air moist and stifling.
But the buffaloes cared not; to them it was pleasant and enjoyable,
and they, one and all, stood placidly chewing their cuds and gazing
calmly at nothing in particular.
The leader of the herd, a sturdy, shaggy animal of exceptional size,
stood a little apart from the others, on guard and on the lookout for
danger. The birds of the herd fluttered and hopped around and appeared
to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.[Footnote: A herd of buffaloes is
generally accompanied by one or more red-beaked rhinoceros birds.
These birds feed on the ticks or insects which infest the animals'
skin, and also give warning of danger.—Author.]
It was such fun to fly from one animal to another, perching lightly on
the mass of woolly hair, and then to peep and hunt, first with one
bright little eye and then with the other, until some unwary insect
came in sight. These little insects—the ticks—were quick and moved
with lightning-like rapidity, but they were not so quick as the birds,
for, almost before they realized their danger, the sharp red beaks
opened simultaneously with a quick dart forward of their heads, and
the next instant the insects were out of sight.
Bulon, the leader of the herd, glanced from under his shaggy brows,
first at the birds and then at the buffaloes; his wild fiery eyes were
blood-red, and his shaggy mane and almost hairless shanks—for he was
getting old—showed unmistakable signs of a recent fight.
And a terrible fight it had been, too, for one of the younger males
had dared to show a little attention to one of Bulon's wives, and this
in buffalo land is a great insult and not to be overlooked.
So Bulon had promptly challenged the offender; his rival had just as
promptly responded to the challenge, and a great fight they had. In
times gone by no one would have dared to interfere with Bulon, unless,
perhaps, the leader of some other herd, for in those days his strength
had been magnificent, and even lions and tigers quailed before him.
But old age was creeping on, which the other buffaloes realized only
too quickly. His massive shoulders and sturdy limbs were shrinking a
little, while his tough, thick skin was now almost hairless, except
for his mane and a thin fringe on his back and withers.
But, in spite of his age and diminished strength, Bulon had won the
day. It had seemed doubtful at first, very doubtful, and some of the
herd had looked on with interest, but with grave doubts as to the
A male buffalo is one of the most jealous things on the face of the
earth, and his jealousy makes him quite mad for the time being. In a
fight neither will give in until one kills the other, and so it was in
Bulon's case. He was determined to get the best of it, for he knew
that, should the other buffalo kill him, the herd would probably
select the conqueror as its leader in his place.
But, after a great clashing of horns, stamping of hoofs, and sharp
snorts and grunts, Bulon's opponent began to breathe heavily and show
signs of distress, and when this took place the fight soon came to an
Bulon followed up his advantage with true buffalo skill, and in a very
short time his enemy was in the dust and panting out his life. The
fight once over, the herd moved on, leaving the dying buffalo by
himself, for, in animal life, the old, sick or decrepit, are always
treated with contempt.
Bulon led the way until they reached a nice, muddy swamp. The birds,
however, having given warning of approaching danger, the males
stationed themselves in an irregular circle in all the most dangerous
positions—having first put the mothers and calves in the middle—
while Bulon stood a little apart and kept his wicked little eyes first
on the herd and then on the birds. He knew as well as the birds that
an enemy was near, and but for this would have given the signal to
feed. But the buffaloes were quite content; they were knee-deep in
mud, surrounded by a thick, damp, hot mist, and as they were not
particularly hungry, stood still and ruminated—that is to say, chewed
their cuds and enjoyed themselves.
Having four stomachs, buffaloes' food has the same process to go
through as the food of all ruminants; that is to say, when vegetable
matter is first eaten, it passes into the first stomach, where it
stays until it is ready for the next one. The second stomach is much
smaller, and covered with a number of curious little cells. After it
has been in the second stomach for some time, and whenever the buffalo
feels ready for it, the food comes back into the mouth, and he then
bites or masticates it just as long as he likes. This is "chewing the
cud." When he has finished chewing the cud, the food goes into the
third stomach, and after it has been there some time, it passes into
the fourth one, where it is at last digested. So, although Bulon would
not give the signal to feed, the buffaloes were quite happy, as they
had plenty of food with which to chew the cud—an action which is
invariably a sign of placid content among ruminants.
Bulon was the only one who was not ruminating. But then he was on the
lookout for enemies, and, moreover, his temper was still exceedingly
There were signs of a storm coming up; the air was quiet and still,
and it was in this peculiar stillness that Bulon thought he heard an
unusual sound in the bushes. He turned his huge head and sharp eyes in
that direction, but in the next instant there was a short, sharp
sound—a stinging, burning, pain in his shoulder and the old buffalo
knew that he had been wounded.
Just as he realized this a small, upright form came forward from the
left side and stood in front of him. Had the form, which was a man,
only been in front at first, Bulon would have seen it; but he could
not—like all buffaloes—see very well unless things were in a
straight line before him.
The moment Bulon caught sight of his enemy he made a mad rush, and as
he plunged violently he splashed and covered the traveler with thick
mud, which nearly blinded him. Unfortunately, Bulon was in a soft
spot, and the more he wallowed the deeper he sank in the mud. But he
made one grand struggle, and, getting a slight grasp, he floundered up
and made another wild dash at his enemy. It would, indeed, have gone
hard with the enemy if just behind him there had not grown one of
those peculiarly thick thorn bushes which grow so plentifully in South
Africa—a bush which has long, thick thorns like big needles.
As Bulon plunged madly at his enemy, the man darted to one side, and
Bulon crashed into the bush, running the cruel thorns into his nose
and eyes, and tumbling head over heels with the impetus. He gathered
himself up, nearly mad with pain—for the cruel thorns had completely
blinded him—and in his agony tore round and round—forgetting his
enemy—forgetting the soft, boggy spot—forgetting the herd—
forgetting everything except the awful anguish and bewildering
It went hard with Bulon after this, for he was in a sad plight. He had
spent the greater part of his strength in the fight; the wallowing in
the soft mire had exhausted him; he had a burning, raging pain in his
shoulder caused by the bullet fired by his human enemy, while the pain
in his poor, blinded eyes and his sensitive nose took nearly all his
remaining strength. He felt he could not keep up his wild career much
longer, but he kept on for a time, only stopping occasionally to rub
his poor nose and eyes in the soft, wet ground—an action which only
added to his misery, for the harder he rubbed the deeper he drove in
the thorns which pierced and lacerated him, poisoning his blood and
sowing the seeds of death.
Meanwhile, the buffaloes at the sound of that peculiar "bang" stopped
chewing their cuds instantly, and in one of their wild, excitable fits
started off in a mad rush, males, mothers and calves all huddled
together. In an almost incredible time the buffaloes were out of
sight, except a few unfortunate mothers and little ones who, having
once stumbled, lost their lives by being trampled to death by the
others. This was the reason that Bulon, with all his bellowings of
rage, pain and distress, received no answer to his cries, and could
find no one of his fellow-creatures to give him comfort.
The hunter had such a narrow escape from the sudden onrush of the
buffalo that he deemed it wise—not realizing that the animal had been
blinded—to retreat. Had he only known the piteous plight in which
poor Bulon was, it would have been an easy matter to have put another
bullet into him, and so ended his life and sufferings.
As it was, Bulon wandered about for days in a pitiable plight. The
wound in his shoulder, although it still contained the bullet, was not
enough to kill him, and, although his blinded eyes and swollen nose
caused him intense suffering, there was no likelihood of his dying for
some days. So it was that he wandered on seeking food, and, when it
was found, having the greatest difficulty in eating it, owing to his
swollen nose and mouth. He did his best to follow the herd, but, as
the days went on, he grew weaker and weaker. The thorns had caused
inflammation now, and the only thing he could do was to sway his huge
head from side to side, and totter with short, uneven steps over the
heavy, marshy ground.
Then came a day when he struck another treacherous, soft spot, and
this time he had neither strength nor will to save himself. He sank
softly and slowly into the liquid mud, which covered him as with a
mantle, and soothed him in spite of himself, for, in any case, it
saved him from the sharp, stinging bites of the great gadflies, which
are able to pierce even the thick skin of the buffalo.
By the time night swept over the land the only thing to be seen of
Bulon was his grand, huge head and big horns standing out in a bold
curve; his shaggy, woolly masses of hair, and his nose and mouth
swollen now into an almost shapeless mass. As the night wore on,
Bulon's sufferings increased, and his groans were unearthly sounds,
echoing and re-echoing through the darkness.
But he grew quieter at last, and towards morning, just as the sun was
tinting the sky with glorious colors, Bulon sank a little further into
the soft mud he had always loved so well and died.
His own particular herd had forgotten all about him long before this,
and had chosen a new leader—a young, strong, vigorous male, who was
looked up to and respected far more than Bulon had been during the
last few months of his life, for the buffaloes had already begun to
realize that Bulon was getting old, and had been losing their respect
for him accordingly.
His day had passed. He had guarded his herd carefully and well; led
them to the best swamps and pastures, and on hot days picked out the
softest and coolest mud for his wives to wallow in, while he had
always left the youngest and freshest food for the calves.
So he had fulfilled his duties, and his many children grew up strong
and healthy, became fathers and mothers themselves, and did very much
the same sort of things that Bulon, the noted leader of buffaloes, had