1 It was once upon a time, many, many, many years ago.
 
And it was in the warm lands where the sun shines stronger than here and the rain falls closer and all animals and plants thrive better, because the winter does not their growth.
 
The forest was full of life and noise.
 
The flies buzzed, the sparrow ate the flies and the ate the sparrow. The bees crept into the flowers in search of honey, the lion roared and the birds sang, the and the grass grew. The trees stood and , while their roots sucked sap from the earth. The flowers were radiant and .
 
All at once, it became strangely still.
 
It was as though everything held its breath and listened and stared. The of the trees ceased. The violet woke from her dreams and looked up in wonder. The lion raised his head and stood with one paw uplifted. The stag stopped grazing, the eagle rested high in the air on his wings, the little mouse ran out of his hole and up his ears.
 
 
There came two through the forest who were different from the others and whom no one had ever seen before.
 
They walked . Their foreheads were high, their eyes firm and steady. They went hand in hand and looked around them as though they did not know where they were.
 
“Who, in the name of wonder, are these?” asked the lion.
 
“They’re animals,” said the stag. “They can walk. But how oddly they do it! Why don’t they leap on all fours, seeing that they have four legs? Then they would get along much faster.”
 
“Oh,” said the snake, “I have no legs at all and it seems to me I get along pretty fast!’
 
“I don’t believe they are animals,” said the nightingale. “They have no feathers and no hair, except that bit on their heads.”
 
“Scales would do quite as well,” said the pike, popping his head out of the river.
 
“Some of us have to manage with our bare skin,” said the earth-worm, quietly.
 
“They have no tails,” said the mouse. “Never in their lives have they been animals!”
 
“I have no tail,” said the . “And nobody can deny that I am an animal.”
 
“Look!” said the lion. “Just look! One of them is taking up a stone in his fore-paws: I couldn’t do that.”
 
“But I could,” said the orang-outang. “There’s nothing in that. For the rest, I can satisfy your curiosity. Those two, in point of fact, are animals. They are husband and wife, their name is Two-Legs and they are distant relations of my own.”
 
“Oh, really?” said the lion. “Then how is it they have no fur?”
 
“I daresay they’ve lost it,” said the orang-outang.
 
“Why don’t you go and talk to them?” asked the lion.
 
“I don’t know them,” replied the orang-outang. “And I’m not at all anxious to have anything to do with them. I have only heard of them. You must know, they are a sort of very inferior, second-rate ape. I shall be pleased to give them an apple or an orange now and again, but I won’t undertake the smallest responsibility for them.”
 
“They look very nice,” said the lion. “I shouldn’t mind trying what they taste like.”
 
“Pray do, for all that I care,” said the orang-outang. “They will never be a credit to the family and, sooner or later, they will come to a bad end.”
 
The lion went towards them, as they came, but, when he stood before them, he suddenly lost courage. He could not understand this himself, for there was not another thing in the forest that he feared. But the two new animals had such strange eyes and walked the earth so fearlessly that he thought they must possess some mysterious power which he could not see. There was nothing particular about their teeth; and their claws were not worth speaking of. But something about them there must be.
 
So he hung his head and moved out of their way.
 
“Why didn’t you eat them?” asked the lioness.
 
“I wasn’t feeling hungry,” he answered.
 
He lay down to rest in the high grass and did as though he were no longer thinking of them. The other animals did the same, for he was their chief. But none of them meant it. They were all taken up with the new animals.
 
2
Meanwhile, Two-Legs and his wife walked on; and, the farther they walked, the more they wondered at the splendour of the world. They had no suspicion of the attention which they attracted and they did not see that all the animals were stealthily following in their tracks. Wherever they came, the trees put their tops together and whispered, the birds flew in the air above their heads and astonished eyes started at them from every bush.
 
“We will live here,” said Two-Legs and to a wonderful little meadow, where the river flowed between flowers and grass.
 
“No, here!” cried his wife and ran into the adjoining wood, where the trees a deep shade and the was thick and soft.
 
“How strange their voices sound!” said the nightingale. “They have more notes than I.”
 
“If they were not so big, I should advise them to build a nest beside me in the rushes,” said the reed-warbler.
 
The two new animals walked on and constantly found a place which was prettier than the last which they had seen; and they could not make up their minds to stay anywhere. Then they met the dog, who was limping badly, having cut his foot on a sharp stone. He tried to run away from them, but could not. Mrs. Two-Legs took hold of him and looked at the injured foot:
 
“I’ll help you, you poor fellow,” she said. “Wait a minute. I hurt my own foot the other day and healed it with leaves.”
 
The dog saw that she meant well by him. He waited patiently while she ran into the copsewood for leaves. Two-Legs patted him on the back and talked to him. Then she came back with the leaves, put them on his foot and bound a tendril round them:
 
“Run away now,” she said. “To-morrow you’ll be quite well again.”
 
They went on, but the dog stood looking after them and wagging his tail. The other animals came out of the bushes and copses:
 
“You’ve been talking to the strangers. What did they say? What are they like?” they all asked in chorus.
 
“They are better than the other animals in the forest,” replied the dog. “They have healed my foot and stroked my skin. I shall never forget it.”
 
“They have healed the dog’s foot.... They have stroked the dog’s skin....”
 
It ran from mouth to mouth through the forest. The trees whispered it to one another, the flowers sighed and nodded, the rushed round with the story and the nightingale set it to music. The new animals went on and thought no more of the dog.
 
3
At last, however, they were so tired that they sat down. They stooped over the spring and drank and laughed at their own image in the water. They plucked juicy fruits from the trees and ate them. When the sun went down, they lay down to rest in the grass and went to sleep with their arms about each other’s necks. A little way off, the dog, who had followed in their footsteps, lay with his head on his paws, watching them. The round full moon shone straight down upon them. She also shone in the big face of the ox, who stood looking at them.
 
“Boo!” said the ox.
 
“Bo!” said the moon. “What are you staring at?”
 
“I’m looking at those two who are lying there asleep,” said the ox. “Do you know them?”
 
“I believe something of the kind used to crawl over my face years and years ago,” replied the moon. “But I’m not sure. My memory has become very bad in the last hundred thousand years. It’s almost more than I can do to concentrate my thoughts upon my course.”
 
“Yes, thinking is not my strong point either,” said the ox. “But I am frightened.”
 
“Of those two there?” asked the moon.
 
“I don’t know why,” said the ox, “but I can’t bear them.”
 
“Then them to death!” cried the moon.
 
“I dare not,” said the ox. “Not by myself. But perhaps I can persuade some one to help me.”
 
“That’s your look-out,” said the moon. “It’s all one to me.”
 
And she sailed on. But the ox stood and chewed the cud and thought and got no further.
 
“Are you asleep?” asked the sheep, sticking out her long face beside the ox.
 
And suddenly the whole meadow came to life.
 
All the animals were there who had followed the two on their walk. There were both those who sleep by day and hunt at night and those who do their work while the sun shines. None of them was now thinking of working or resting. None thought of hurting the others. The lion and the stag, the wolf and the sheep, the cat and the mouse and the horse and the ox and many others stood side by side on the grass. The eagle sat in a tree-top, surrounded by all the little birds of the forest. The orang-outang sat on one of the lower branches eating an orange. The hen stood on a beside the fox; the duck and the goose lay in the brook and stuck out their necks.
 
“Now that we are all here together, let us discuss the matter,” said the lion.
 
“Have you had enough to eat?” asked the ox.
 
“Quite,” answered the lion. “To-night we shall keep the peace and be friends.”
 
“Then I move that we kill those two strange animals forthwith and without more ado,” said the ox.
 
“What in the wide world is the matter with you?” asked the lion. “Generally you’re such a peaceful fellow, grazing, attending to your business and not hurting a living thing. What makes you so bloodthirsty all of a sudden?”
 
“I can’t account for it,” said the ox. “But I have a conviction that we ought to kill them as soon as possible. They bring misfortune. They are evil. If you don’t follow my advice, rely upon it, one day you will all regret it.”
 
“I agree with the ox,” cried the horse. “Bite them to death! Kick them to pieces! And the sooner the better!”
 
“Kill them, kill them!” cried the sheep, the goat and the stag, with one voice.
 
 
“Yes, do, do!” screamed the duck, the goose and the hen.
 
“I have never heard anything like this in my life,” said the lion, looking round in surprise at the crowd. “It’s just the most peaceable and timid animals in the forest that want to take the strangers’ lives. What have they done to you? What are you afraid of?”
 
“I can’t tell you any more than the ox can,” said the horse. “But I feel that they are dangerous. I have such pains in my loins and legs.”
 
“When I think of those two, I feel as if I were being skinned,” said the ox. “I feel teeth biting into my flesh.”
 
“There’s a at my udders,” said the cow.
 
“I’m shivering all over, as though all my wool had been shorn off,” said the sheep.
 
“I have a feeling as if I were being roasted before the fire and eaten,” said the goose.
 
“So have I! So have I!” screamed the duck and the hen.
 
“This is most remarkable,” said the lion. “I have never heard anything like it and I can’t understand your fears. What can those strangers do to you? They go about naked among us, eat an apple or an orange and don’t do the least harm. They go on two poor legs, whereas you have four, so that you can run away from them anyhow. You have horns and claws and teeth: what are you afraid of?”
 
“You’ll be sorry one day,” said the ox. “The new animals will be the ruin of us all. The danger threatens you as well as the rest of us.”
 
 
“I see no danger and I know no fear,” said the lion, proudly. “But is there really not one of you to take the strangers’ part?”
 
“If they did not belong to my family, I would do so gladly,” said the orang-outang. “But it looks bad to recommend one’s own relations. Let them go their way and starve. They are quite harmless.”
 
“Then I at least will say a good word for them,” said the dog. “My foot is almost well again and I believe that they are cleverer than all the rest of you put together. I shall never forget what they did for me.”
 
“That’s right, cousin,” said the lion. “You’re a fine fellow and one can see that you come of a good stock. I don’t believe that these Two-Legs are dangerous and I have no intention of doing them any harm. To be sure, if I meet them one day when I’m hungry, I shall eat them. That’s a different thing. Hunger knows no law. But to-night I have had enough to eat and I am going home to bed. Good night, all of you!”
 
Then none of the animals said another word. They went away as noiselessly as they had come. The night came to an end and the day broke in the east.
 
Then suddenly the ox and the horse and the sheep and the goat came over the meadow. Behind them, as fast as they could, came the goose and the duck and the hen. The ox was at their head and rushed with lowered horns to the place where the strangers lay sleeping.
 
But then the dog sprang up and barked like mad. The two new animals woke and leapt to their feet. And, when they stood there, tall and slender, with their white limbs and their steady eyes, and the sun shone down upon them, the old animals were seized with terror and ran back the way they came.
 
 
“Thank you, friend,” said Two-Legs and patted the dog.
 
Mrs. Two-Legs looked to his bad foot and to him in her pretty voice. He licked their hands with delight.
 
Then the new animals bathed in the river. And then Two-Legs climbed up an apple-tree to get some breakfast for himself and his wife.
 
In the tree sat the orang-outang eating an apple.
 
“Get out of that!” said Two-Legs, in a threatening tone. “This is my tree and don’t you forget it. Don’t you dare touch a single apple!”
 
“Goodness gracious me!” said the orang-outang. “What a tone to take up! And I who defended you last night when all the other animals wanted to kill you!”
 
“Get out, you disgusting ape!” said Two-Legs.
 
He broke a branch off the tree and caught the orang-outang a couple of such lusty cracks that he ran off crying into the forest.

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