"These are our ancestors, and their history is our
Remember that as surely as we one day
swung down out of the trees and walked upright,
just as surely, on a far earlier day,
did we crawl up out of the sea
and achieve our first adventure on land."
Pictures! Pictures! Pictures! Often, before I learned, did
I wonder whence came the multitudes of pictures that thronged
my dreams; for they were pictures the like of which I had never
seen in real wake-a-day life. They tormented my childhood,
making of my dreams a procession of nightmares and a little
later convincing me that I was different from my kind, a
creature unnatural and accursed.
In my days only did I attain any measure of happiness. My
nights marked the reign of fear--and such fear! I make bold to
state that no man of all the men who walk the earth with me
ever suffer fear of like kind and degree. For my fear is the
fear of long ago, the fear that was rampant in the Younger
World, and in the youth of the Younger World. In short, the
fear that reigned supreme in that period known as the
What do I mean? I see explanation is necessary before I
can tell you of the substance of my dreams. Otherwise, little
could you know of the meaning of the things I know so well. As
I write this, all the beings and happenings of that other world
rise up before me in vast phantasmagoria, and I know that to
you they would be rhymeless and reasonless.
What to you the friendship of Lop-Ear, the warm lure of
the Swift One, the lust and the atavism of Red-Eye? A screaming
incoherence and no more. And a screaming incoherence, likewise,
the doings of the Fire People and the Tree People, and the
gibbering councils of the horde. For you know not the peace of
the cool caves in the cliffs, the circus of the drinking-places
at the end of the day. You have never felt the bite of the
morning wind in the tree-tops, nor is the taste of young bark
sweet in your mouth.
It would be better, I dare say, for you to make your
approach, as I made mine, through my childhood. As a boy I was
very like other boys--in my waking hours. It was in my sleep
that I was different. From my earliest recollection my sleep
was a period of terror. Rarely were my dreams tinctured with
happiness. As a rule, they were stuffed with fear--and with a
fear so strange and alien that it had no ponderable quality. No
fear that I experienced in my waking life resembled the fear
that possessed me in my sleep. It was of a quality and kind
that transcended all my experiences.
For instance, I was a city boy, a city child, rather, to
whom the country was an unexplored domain. Yet I never dreamed
of cities; nor did a house ever occur in any of my dreams. Nor,
for that matter, did any of my human kind ever break through
the wall of my sleep. I, who had seen trees only in parks and
illustrated books, wandered in my sleep through interminable
forests. And further, these dream trees were not a mere blur on
my vision. They were sharp and distinct. I was on terms of
practised intimacy with them. I saw every branch and twig; I
saw and knew every different leaf.
Well do I remember the first time in my waking life that I
saw an oak tree. As I looked at the leaves and branches and
gnarls, it came to me with distressing vividness that I had
seen that same kind of tree many and countless times n my
sleep. So I was not surprised, still later on in my life, to
recognize instantly, the first time I saw them, trees such as
the spruce, the yew, the birch, and the laurel. I had seen them
all before, and was seeing them even then, every night, in my
This, as you have already discerned, violates the first
law of dreaming, namely, that in one's dreams one sees only
what he has seen in his waking life, or combinations of the
things he has seen in his waking life. But all my dreams
violated this law. In my dreams I never saw ANYTHING of which I
had knowledge in my waking life. My dream life and my waking
life were lives apart, with not one thing in common save
myself. I was the connecting link that somehow lived both
Early in my childhood I learned that nuts came from the
grocer, berries from the fruit man; but before ever that
knowledge was mine, in my dreams I picked nuts from trees, or
gathered them and ate them from the ground underneath trees,
and in the same way I ate berries from vines and bushes. This
was beyond any experience of mine.
I shall never forget the first time I saw blueberries
served on the table. I had never seen blueberries before, and
yet, at the sight of them, there leaped up in my mind memories
of dreams wherein I had wandered through swampy land eating my
fill of them. My mother set before me a dish of the berries. I
filled my spoon, but before I raised it to my mouth I knew just
how they would taste. Nor was I disappointed. It was the same
tang that I had tasted a thousand times in my sleep.
Snakes? Long before I had heard of the existence of
snakes, I was tormented by them in my sleep. They lurked for me
in the forest glades; leaped up, striking, under my feet;
squirmed off through the dry grass or across naked patches of
rock; or pursued me into the tree-tops, encircling the trunks
with their great shining bodies, driving me higher and higher
or farther and farther out on swaying and crackling branches,
the ground a dizzy distance beneath me. Snakes!--with their
forked tongues, their beady eyes and glittering scales, their
hissing and their rattling--did I not already know them far too
well on that day of my first circus when I saw the
snake-charmer lift them up? They were old friends of mine,
enemies rather, that peopled my nights with fear.
Ah, those endless forests, and their horror-haunted gloom!
For what eternities have I wandered through them, a timid,
hunted creature, starting at the least sound, frightened of my
own shadow, keyed-up, ever alert and vigilant, ready on the
instant to dash away in mad flight for my life. For I was the
prey of all manner of fierce life that dwelt in the forest, and
it was in ecstasies of fear that I fled before the hunting
When I was five years old I went to my first circus. I
came home from it sick--but not from peanuts and pink lemonade.
Let me tell you. As we entered the animal tent, a hoarse
roaring shook the air. I tore my hand loose from my father's
and dashed wildly back through the entrance. I collided with
people, fell down; and all the time I was screaming with
terror. My father caught me and soothed me. He pointed to the
crowd of people, all careless of the roaring, and cheered me
with assurances of safety.
Nevertheless, it was in fear and trembling, and with much
encouragement on his part, that I at last approached the lion's
cage. Ah, I knew him on the instant. The beast! The terrible
one! And on my inner vision flashed the memories of my
dreams,--the midday sun shining on tall grass, the wild bull
grazing quietly, the sudden parting of the grass before the
swift rush of the tawny one, his leap to the bull's back, the
crashing and the bellowing, and the crunch crunch of bones; or
again, the cool quiet of the water-hole, the wild horse up to
his knees and drinking softly, and then the tawny one--always
the tawny one!-- the leap, the screaming and the splashing of
the horse, and the crunch crunch of bones; and yet again, the
sombre twilight and the sad silence of the end of day, and then
the great full-throated roar, sudden, like a trump of doom, and
swift upon it the insane shrieking and chattering among the
trees, and I, too, am trembling with fear and am one of the
many shrieking and chattering among the trees.
At the sight of him, helpless, within the bars of his
cage, I became enraged. I gritted my teeth at him, danced up
and down, screaming an incoherent mockery and making antic
faces. He responded, rushing against the bars and roaring back
at me his impotent wrath. Ah, he knew me, too, and the sounds I
made were the sounds of old time and intelligible to him.
My parents were frightened. "The child is ill," said my
mother. "He is hysterical," said my father. I never told them,
and they never knew. Already had I developed reticence
concerning this quality of mine, this semi-disassociation of
personality as I think I am justified in calling it.
I saw the snake-charmer, and no more of the circus did I
see that night. I was taken home, nervous and overwrought, sick
with the invasion of my real life by that other life of my
I have mentioned my reticence. Only once did I confide the
strangeness of it all to another. He was a boy--my chum; and we
were eight years old. From my dreams I reconstructed for him
pictures of that vanished world in which I do believe I once
lived. I told him of the terrors of that early time, of Lop-Ear
and the pranks we played, of the gibbering councils, and of the
Fire People and their squatting places.
He laughed at me, and jeered, and told me tales of ghosts
and of the dead that walk at night. But mostly did he laugh at
my feeble fancy. I told him more, and he laughed the harder. I
swore in all earnestness that these things were so, and he
began to look upon me queerly. Also, he gave amazing garblings
of my tales to our playmates, until all began to look upon me
It was a bitter experience, but I learned my lesson. I was
different from my kind. I was abnormal with something they
could not understand, and the telling of which would cause only
misunderstanding. When the stories of ghosts and goblins went
around, I kept quiet. I smiled grimly to myself. I thought of
my nights of fear, and knew that mine were the real
things--real as life itself, not attenuated vapors and surmised
For me no terrors resided in the thought of bugaboos and
wicked ogres. The fall through leafy branches and the dizzy
heights; the snakes that struck at me as I dodged and leaped
away in chattering flight; the wild dogs that hunted me across
the open spaces to the timber--these were terrors concrete and
actual, happenings and not imaginings, things of the living
flesh and of sweat and blood. Ogres and bugaboos and I had been
happy bed-fellows, compared with these terrors that made their
bed with me throughout my childhood, and that still bed with
me, now, as I write this, full of years.
I have said that in my dreams I never saw a human being.
Of this fact I became aware very early, and felt poignantly the
lack of my own kind. As a very little child, even, I had a
feeling, in the midst of the horror of my dreaming, that if I
could find but one man, only one human, I should be saved from
my dreaming, that I should be surrounded no more by haunting
terrors. This thought obsessed me every night of my life for
years--if only I could find that one human and be saved!
I must iterate that I had this thought in the midst of my
dreaming, and I take it as an evidence of the merging of my two
personalities, as evidence of a point of contact between the
two disassociated parts of me. My dream personality lived in
the long ago, before ever man, as we know him, came to be; and
my other and wake-a-day personality projected itself, to the
extent of the knowledge of man's existence, into the substance
of my dreams.
Perhaps the psychologists of the book will find fault with
my way of using the phrase, "disassociation of personality." I
know their use of it, yet am compelled to use it in my own way
in default of a better phrase. I take shelter behind the
inadequacy of the English language. And now to the explanation
of my use, or misuse, of the phrase.
It was not till I was a young man, at college, that I got
any clew to the significance of my dreams, and to the cause of
them. Up to that time they had been meaningless and without
apparent causation. But at college I discovered evolution and
psychology, and learned the explanation of various strange
mental states and experiences. For instance, there was the
falling-through-space dream--the commonest dream experience,
one practically known, by first-hand experience, to all men.
This, my professor told me, was a racial memory. It dated
back to our remote ancestors who lived in trees. With them,
being tree-dwellers, the liability of falling was an
ever-present menace. Many lost their lives that way; all of
them experienced terrible falls, saving themselves by clutching
branches as they fell toward the ground.
Now a terrible fall, averted in such fashion, was
productive of shock. Such shock was productive of molecular
changes in the cerebral cells. These molecular changes were
transmitted to the cerebral cells of progeny, became, in short,
racial memories. Thus, when you and I, asleep or dozing off to
sleep, fall through space and awake to sickening consciousness
just before we strike, we are merely remembering what happened
to our arboreal ancestors, and which has been stamped by
cerebral changes into the heredity of the race.
There is nothing strange in this, any more than there is
anything strange in an instinct. An instinct is merely a habit
that is stamped into the stuff of our heredity, that is all. It
will be noted, in passing, that in this falling dream which is
so familiar to you and me and all of us, we never strike
bottom. To strike bottom would be destruction. Those of our
arboreal ancestors who struck bottom died forthwith. True, the
shock of their fall was communicated to the cerebral cells, but
they died immediately, before they could have progeny. You and
I are descended from those that did not strike bottom; that is
why you and I, in our dreams, never strike bottom.
And now we come to disassociation of personality. We never
have this sense of falling when we are wide awake. Our
wake-a-day personality has no experience of it. Then--and here
the argument is irresistible--it must be another and distinct
personality that falls when we are asleep, and that has had
experience of such falling--that has, in short, a memory of
past-day race experiences, just as our wake-a-day personality
has a memory of our wake-a-day experiences.
It was at this stage in my reasoning that I began to see
the light. And quickly the light burst upon me with dazzling
brightness, illuminating and explaining all that had been weird
and uncanny and unnaturally impossible in my dream experiences.
In my sleep it was not my wake-a-day personality that took
charge of me; it was another and distinct personality,
possessing a new and totally different fund of experiences,
and, to the point of my dreaming, possessing memories of those
totally different experiences.
What was this personality? When had it itself lived a
wake-a-day life on this planet in order to collect this fund of
strange experiences? These were questions that my dreams
themselves answered. He lived in the long ago, when the world
was young, in that period that we call the Mid-Pleistocene. He
fell from the trees but did not strike bottom. He gibbered with
fear at the roaring of the lions. He was pursued by beasts of
prey, struck at by deadly snakes. He chattered with his kind in
council, and he received rough usage at the hands of the Fire
People in the day that he fled before them.
But, I hear you objecting, why is it that these racial
memories are not ours as well, seeing that we have a vague
other-personality that falls through space while we sleep?
And I may answer with another question. Why is a
two-headed calf? And my own answer to this is that it is a
freak. And so I answer your question. I have this
other-personality and these complete racial memories because I
am a freak.
But let me be more explicit.
The commonest race memory we have is the
falling-through-space dream. This other-personality is very
vague. About the only memory it has is that of falling. But
many of us have sharper, more distinct other-personalities.
Many of us have the flying dream, the pursuing-monster dream,
color dreams, suffocation dreams, and the reptile and vermin
dreams. In short, while this other-personality is vestigial in
all of us, in some of us it is almost obliterated, while in
others of us it is more pronounced. Some of us have stronger
and completer race memories than others.
It is all a question of varying degree of possession of
the other-personality. In myself, the degree of possession is
enormous. My other-personality is almost equal in power with my
own personality. And in this matter I am, as I said, a freak--a
freak of heredity.
I do believe that it is the possession of this
other-personality--but not so strong a one as mine--that has in
some few others given rise to belief in personal reincarnation
experiences. It is very plausible to such people, a most
convincing hypothesis. When they have visions of scenes they
have never seen in the flesh, memories of acts and events
dating back in time, the simplest explanation is that they have
But they make the mistake of ignoring their own duality.
They do not recognize their other-personality. They think it is
their own personality, that they have only one personality; and
from such a premise they can conclude only that they have lived
But they are wrong. It is not reincarnation. I have
visions of myself roaming through the forests of the Younger
World; and yet it is not myself that I see but one that is only
remotely a part of me, as my father and my grandfather are
parts of me less remote. This other-self of mine is an
ancestor, a progenitor of my progenitors in the early line of
my race, himself the progeny of a line that long before his
time developed fingers and toes and climbed up into the trees.
I must again, at the risk of boring, repeat that I am, in
this one thing, to be considered a freak. Not alone do I
possess racial memory to an enormous extent, but I possess the
memories of one particular and far-removed progenitor. And yet,
while this is most unusual, there is nothing over-remarkable
Follow my reasoning. An instinct is a racial memory. Very
good. Then you and I and all of us receive these memories from
our fathers and mothers, as they received them from their
fathers and mothers. Therefore there must be a medium whereby
these memories are transmitted from generation to generation.
This medium is what Weismann terms the "germplasm." It carries
the memories of the whole evolution of the race. These memories
are dim and confused, and many of them are lost. But some
strains of germplasm carry an excessive freightage of
memories--are, to be scientific, more atavistic than other
strains; and such a strain is mine. I am a freak of heredity,
an atavistic nightmare--call me what you will; but here I am,
real and alive, eating three hearty meals a day, and what are
you going to do about it?
And now, before I take up my tale, I want to anticipate
the doubting Thomases of psychology, who are prone to scoff,
and who would otherwise surely say that the coherence of my
dreams is due to overstudy and the subconscious projection of
my knowledge of evolution into my dreams. In the first place, I
have never been a zealous student. I graduated last of my
class. I cared more for athletics, and--there is no reason I
should not confess it--more for billiards.
Further, I had no knowledge of evolution until I was at
college, whereas in my childhood
and youth I had already lived in my dreams all the
details of that other, long-ago life. I
will say, however, that these details were mixed and
incoherent until I came to know the
science of evolution. Evolution was the key. It gave the
explanation, gave sanity to the
pranks of this atavistic brain of mine that, modern and
normal, harked back to a past
so remote as to be contemporaneous with the raw
beginnings of mankind.
For in this past I know of, man, as we to-day know him,
did not exist. It was in the period of his becoming that I must
have lived and had my being.
The commonest dream of my early childhood was something
like this: It seemed that I was very small and that I lay
curled up in a sort of nest of twigs and boughs. Sometimes I
was lying on my back. In this position it seemed that I spent
many hours, watching the play of sunlight on the foliage and
the stirring of the leaves by the wind. Often the nest itself
moved back and forth when the wind was strong.
But always, while so lying in the nest, I was mastered as
of tremendous space beneath me. I never saw it, I never peered
over the edge of the nest to see; but I KNEW and feared that
space that lurked just beneath me and that ever threatened me
like a maw of some all-devouring monster.
This dream, in which I was quiescent and which was more
like a condition than an experience of action, I dreamed very
often in my early childhood. But suddenly, there would rush
into the very midst of it strange forms and ferocious
happenings, the thunder and crashing of storm, or unfamiliar
landscapes such as in my wake-a-day life I had never seen. The
result was confusion and nightmare. I could comprehend nothing
of it. There was no logic of sequence.
You see, I did not dream consecutively. One moment I was a
wee babe of the Younger World lying in my tree nest; the next
moment I was a grown man of the Younger World locked in combat
with the hideous Red-Eye; and the next moment I was creeping
carefully down to the water-hole in the heat of the day.
Events, years apart in their occurrence in the Younger World,
occurred with me within the space of several minutes, or
It was all a jumble, but this jumble I shall not inflict
upon you. It was not until I was a young man and had dreamed
many thousand times, that everything straightened out and
became clear and plain. Then it was that I got the clew of
time, and was able to piece together events and actions in
their proper order. Thus was I able to reconstruct the vanished
Younger World as it was at the time I lived in it--or at the
time my other-self lived in it. The distinction does not
matter; for I, too, the modern man, have gone back and lived
that early life in the company of my other-self.
For your convenience, since this is to be no sociological
screed, I shall frame together the different events into a
comprehensive story. For there is a certain thread of
continuity and happening that runs through all the dreams.
There is my friendship with Lop-Ear, for instance. Also, there
is the enmity of Red-Eye, and the love of the Swift One. Taking
it all in all, a fairly coherent and interesting story I am
sure you will agree.
I do not remember much of my mother. Possibly the earliest
recollection I have of her--and certainly the sharpest--is the
following: It seemed I was lying on the ground. I was somewhat
older than during the nest days, but still helpless. I rolled
about in the dry leaves, playing with them and making crooning,
rasping noises in my throat. The sun shone warmly and I was
happy, and comfortable. I was in a little open space. Around
me, on all sides, were bushes and fern-like growths, and
overhead and all about were the trunks and branches of forest
Suddenly I heard a sound. I sat upright and listened. I
made no movement. The little noises died down in my throat, and
I sat as one petrified. The sound drew closer. It was like the
grunt of a pig. Then I began to hear the sounds caused by the
moving of a body through the brush. Next I saw the ferns
agitated by the passage of the body. Then the ferns parted, and
I saw gleaming eyes, a long snout, and white tusks.
It was a wild boar. He peered at me curiously. He grunted
once or twice and shifted his weight from one foreleg to the
other, at the same time moving his head from side to side and
swaying the ferns. Still I sat as one petrified, my eyes
unblinking as I stared at him, fear eating at my heart.
It seemed that this movelessness and silence on my part
was what was expected of me. I was not to cry out in the face
of fear. It was a dictate of instinct. And so I sat there and
waited for I knew not what. The boar thrust the ferns aside and
stepped into the open. The curiosity went out of his eyes, and
they gleamed cruelly. He tossed his head at me threateningly
and advanced a step. This he did again, and yet again.
Then I screamed...or shrieked--I cannot describe it, but
it was a shrill and terrible cry. And it seems that it, too, at
this stage of the proceedings, was the thing expected of me.
From not far away came an answering cry. My sounds seemed
momentarily to disconcert the boar, and while he halted and
shifted his weight with indecision, an apparition burst upon
She was like a large orangutan, my mother, or like a
chimpanzee, and yet, in sharp and definite ways, quite
different. She was heavier of build than they, and had less
hair. Her arms were not so long, and her legs were stouter. She
wore no clothes--only her natural hair. And I can tell you she
was a fury when she was excited.
And like a fury she dashed upon the scene. She was
gritting her teeth, making frightful grimaces, snarling,
uttering sharp and continuous cries that sounded like "kh-ah!
kh-ah!" So sudden and formidable was her appearance that the
boar involuntarily bunched himself together on the defensive
and bristled as she swerved toward him. Then she swerved toward
me. She had quite taken the breath out of him. I knew just what
to do in that moment of time she had gained. I leaped to meet
her, catching her about the waist and holding on hand and
foot--yes, by my feet; I could hold on by them as readily as by
my hands. I could feel in my tense grip the pull of the hair as
her skin and her muscles moved beneath with her efforts.
As I say, I leaped to meet her, and on the instant she
leaped straight up into the air, catching an overhanging branch
with her hands. The next instant, with clashing tusks, the boar
drove past underneath. He had recovered from his surprise and
sprung forward, emitting a squeal that was almost a trumpeting.
At any rate it was a call, for it was followed by the rushing
of bodies through the ferns and brush from all directions.
From every side wild hogs dashed into the open space--a
score of them. But my mother swung over the top of a thick
limb, a dozen feet from the ground, and, still holding on to
her, we perched there in safety. She was very excited. She
chattered and screamed, and scolded down at the bristling,
tooth-gnashing circle that had gathered beneath. I, too,
trembling, peered down at the angry beasts and did my best to
imitate my mother's cries.
From the distance came similar cries, only pitched deeper,
into a sort of roaring bass. These grew momentarily louder, and
soon I saw him approaching, my father--at least, by all the
evidence of the times, I am driven to conclude that he was my
He was not an extremely prepossessing father, as fathers
go. He seemed half man, and half ape, and yet not ape, and not
yet man. I fail to describe him. There is nothing like him
to-day on the earth, under the earth, nor in the earth. He was
a large man in his day, and he must have weighed all of a
hundred and thirty pounds. His face was broad and flat, and the
eyebrows over-hung the eyes. The eyes themselves were small,
deep-set, and close together. He had practically no nose at
all. It was squat and broad, apparently with-out any bridge,
while the nostrils were like two holes in the face, opening
outward instead of down.
The forehead slanted back from the eyes, and the hair
began right at the eyes and ran up over the head. The head
itself was preposterously small and was supported on an equally
preposterous, thick, short neck.
There was an elemental economy about his body--as was
there about all our bodies. The chest was deep, it is true,
cavernously deep; but there were no full-swelling muscles, no
wide-spreading shoulders, no clean-limbed straightness, no
generous symmetry of outline. It represented strength, that
body of my father's, strength without beauty; ferocious,
primordial strength, made to clutch and gripe and rend and
His hips were thin; and the legs, lean and hairy, were
crooked and stringy-muscled. In fact, my father's legs were
more like arms. They were twisted and gnarly, and with scarcely
the semblance of the full meaty calf such as graces your leg
and mine. I remember he could not walk on the flat of his foot.
This was because it was a prehensile foot, more like a hand
than a foot. The great toe, instead of being in line with the
other toes, opposed them, like a thumb, and its opposition to
the other toes was what enabled him to get a grip with his
foot. This was why he could not walk on the flat of his foot.
But his appearance was no more unusual than the manner of
his coming, there to my mother and me as we perched above the
angry wild pigs. He came through the trees, leaping from limb
to limb and from tree to tree; and he came swiftly. I can see
him now, in my wake-a-day life, as I write this, swinging along
through the trees, a four-handed, hairy creature, howling with
rage, pausing now and again to beat his chest with his clenched
fist, leaping ten-and-fifteen-foot gaps, catching a branch with
one hand and swinging on across another gap to catch with his
other hand and go on, never hesitating, never at a loss as to
how to proceed on his arboreal way.
And as I watched him I felt in my own being, in my very
muscles themselves, the surge and thrill of desire to go
leaping from bough to bough; and I felt also the guarantee of
the latent power in that being and in those muscles of mine.
And why not? Little boys watch their fathers swing axes and
fell trees, and feel in themselves that some day they, too,
will swing axes and fell trees. And so with me. The life that
was in me was constituted to do what my father did, and it
whispered to me secretly and ambitiously of aerial paths and
At last my father joined us. He was extremely angry. I
remember the out-thrust of his protruding underlip as he glared
down at the wild pigs. He snarled something like a dog, and I
remember that his eye-teeth were large, like fangs, and that
they impressed me tremendously.
His conduct served only the more to infuriate the pigs. He
broke off twigs and small branches and flung them down upon our
enemies. He even hung by one hand, tantalizingly just beyond
reach, and mocked them as they gnashed their tusks with
impotent rage. Not content with this, he broke off a stout
branch, and, holding on with one hand and foot, jabbed the
infuriated beasts in the sides and whacked them across their
noses. Needless to state, my mother and I enjoyed the sport.
But one tires of all good things, and in the end, my
father, chuckling maliciously the while, led the way across the
trees. Now it was that my ambitions ebbed away, and I became
timid, holding tightly to my mother as she climbed and swung
through space. I remember when the branch broke with her
weight. She had made a wide leap, and with the snap of the wood
I was overwhelmed with the sickening consciousness of falling
through space, the pair of us. The forest and the sunshine on
the rustling leaves vanished from my eyes. I had a fading
glimpse of my father abruptly arresting his progress to look,
and then all was blackness.
The next moment I was awake, in my sheeted bed, sweating,
trembling, nauseated. The window was up, and a cool air was
blowing through the room. The night-lamp was burning calmly.
And because of this I take it that the wild pigs did not get
us, that we never fetched bottom; else I should not be here
now, a thousand centuries after, to remember the event.
And now put yourself in my place for a moment. Walk with
me a bit in my tender childhood, bed with me a night and
imagine yourself dreaming such incomprehensible horrors.
Remember I was an inexperienced child. I had never seen a wild
boar in my life. For that matter I had never seen a
domesticated pig. The nearest approach to one that I had seen
was breakfast bacon sizzling in its fat. And yet here, real as
life, wild boars dashed through my dreams, and I, with
fantastic parents, swung through the lofty tree-spaces.
Do you wonder that I was frightened and oppressed by my
nightmare-ridden nights? I was accursed. And, worst of all, I
was afraid to tell. I do not know why, except that I had a
feeling of guilt, though I knew no better of what I was guilty.
So it was, through long years, that I suffered in silence,
until I came to man's estate and learned the why and wherefore
of my dreams.
There is one puzzling thing about these prehistoric
memories of mine. It is the vagueness of the time element. I lo
not always know the order of events;--or can I tell, between
some events, whether one, two, or four or five years have
elapsed. I can only roughly tell the passage of time by judging
the changes in the appearance and pursuits of my fellows.
Also, I can apply the logic of events to the various
happenings. For instance, there is no doubt whatever that my
mother and I were treed by the wild pigs and fled and fell in
the days before I made the acquaintance of Lop-Ear, who became
what I may call my boyhood chum. And it is just as conclusive
that between these two periods I must have left my mother.
I have no memory of my father than the one I have given.
Never, in the years that followed, did he reappear. And from my
knowledge of the times, the only explanation possible lies in
that he perished shortly after the adventure with the wild
pigs. That it must have been an untimely end, there is no
discussion. He was in full vigor, and only sudden and violent
death could have taken him off. But I know not the manner of
his going--whether he was drowned in the river, or was
swallowed by a snake, or went into the stomach of old
Saber-Tooth, the tiger, is beyond my knowledge.
For know that I remember only the things I saw myself,
with my own eyes, in those prehistoric days. If my mother knew
my father's end, she never told me. For that matter I doubt if
she had a vocabulary adequate to convey such information.
Perhaps, all told, the Folk in that day had a vocabulary of
thirty or forty sounds.
I call them SOUNDS, rather than WORDS, because sounds they
were primarily. They had no fixed values, to be altered by
adjectives and adverbs. These latter were tools of speech not
yet invented. Instead of qualifying nouns or verbs by the use
of adjectives and adverbs, we qualified sounds by intonation,
by changes in quantity and pitch, by retarding and by
accelerating. The length of time employed in the utterance of a
particular sound shaded its meaning.
We had no conjugation. One judged the tense by the
context. We talked only concrete things because we thought only
concrete things. Also, we depended largely on pantomime. The
simplest abstraction was practically beyond our thinking; and
when one did happen to think one, he was hard put to
communicate it to his fellows. There were no sounds for it. He
was pressing beyond the limits of his vocabulary. If he
invented sounds for it, his fellows did not understand the
sounds. Then it was that he fell back on pantomime,
illustrating the thought wherever possible and at the same time
repeating the new sound over and over again.
Thus language grew. By the few sounds we possessed we were
enabled to think a short distance beyond those sounds; then
came the need for new sounds wherewith to express the new
thought. Sometimes, however, we thought too long a distance in
advance of our sounds, managed to achieve abstractions (dim
ones I grant), which we failed utterly to make known to other
folk. After all, language did not grow fast in that day.
Oh, believe me, we were amazingly simple. But we did know
a lot that is not known to-day. We could twitch our ears, prick
them up and flatten them down at will. And we could scratch
between our shoulders with ease. We could throw stones with our
feet. I have done it many a time. And for that matter, I could
keep my knees straight, bend forward from the hips, and touch,
not the tips of my fingers, but the points of my elbows, to the
ground. And as for bird-nesting--well, I only wish the
twentieth-century boy could see us. But we made no collections
of eggs. We ate them.
I remember--but I out-run my story. First let me tell of
Lop-Ear and our friendship. Very early in my life, I separated
from my mother. Possibly this was because, after the death of
my father, she took to herself a second husband. I have few
recollections of him, and they are not of the best. He was a
light fellow. There was no solidity to him. He was too voluble.
His infernal chattering worries me even now as I think of it.
His mind was too inconsequential to permit him to possess
purpose. Monkeys in their cages always remind me of him. He was
monkeyish. That is the best description I can give of him.
He hated me from the first. And I quickly learned to be
afraid of him and his malicious pranks. Whenever he came in
sight I crept close to my mother and clung to her. But I was
growing older all the time, and it was inevitable that I should
from time to time stray from her, and stray farther and
farther. And these were the opportunities that the Chatterer
waited for. (I may as well explain that we bore no names in
those days; were not known by any name. For the sake of
convenience I have myself given names to the various Folk I was
more closely in contact with, and the "Chatterer" is the most
fitting description I can find for that precious stepfather of
mine. As for me, I have named myself "Big-Tooth." My eye-teeth
were pronouncedly large.)
But to return to the Chatterer. He persistently terrorized
me. He was always pinching me and cuffing me, and on occasion
he was not above biting me. Often my mother interfered, and the
way she made his fur fly was a joy to see. But the result of
all this was a beautiful and unending family quarrel, in which
I was the bone of contention.
No, my home-life was not happy. I smile to myself as I
write the phrase. Home-life! Home! I had no home in the modern
sense of the term. My home was an association, not a
habitation. I lived in my mother's care, not in a house. And my
mother lived anywhere, so long as when night came she was above
My mother was old-fashioned. She still clung to her trees.
It is true, the more progressive members of our horde lived in
the caves above the river. But my mother was suspicious and
unprogressive. The trees were good enough for her. Of course,
we had one particular tree in which we usually roosted, though
we often roosted in other trees when nightfall caught us. In a
convenient fork was a sort of rude platform of twigs and
branches and creeping things. It was more like a huge bird-nest
than anything else, though it was a thousand times cruder in
the weaving than any bird-nest. But it had one feature that I
have never seen attached to any bird-nest, namely, a roof.
Oh, not a roof such as modern man makes! Nor a roof such
as is made by the lowest aborigines of to-day. It was
infinitely more clumsy than the clumsiest handiwork of man--of
man as we know him. It was put together in a casual,
helter-skelter sort of way. Above the fork of the tree whereon
we rested was a pile of dead branches and brush. Four or five
adjacent forks held what I may term the various ridge-poles.
These were merely stout sticks an inch or so in diameter. On
them rested the brush and branches. These seemed to have been
tossed on almost aimlessly. There was no attempt at
thatching. And I must confess that the roof leaked
miserably in a heavy rain.
But the Chatterer. He made home-life a burden for both my
mother and me--and by home-life I mean, not the leaky nest in
the tree, but the group-life of the three of us. He was most
malicious in his persecution of me. That was the one purpose to
which he held steadfastly for longer than five minutes. Also,
as time went by, my mother was less eager in her defence of me.
I think, what of the continuous rows raised by the Chatterer,
that I must have become a nuisance to her. At any rate, the
situation went from bad to worse so rapidly that I should soon,
of my own volition, have left home. But the satisfaction of
performing so independent an act was denied me. Before I was
ready to go, I was thrown out. And I mean this literally.
The opportunity came to the Chatterer one day when I was
alone in the nest. My mother and the Chatterer had gone away
together toward the blueberry swamp. He must have planned the
whole thing, for I heard him returning alone through the
forest, roaring with self-induced rage as he came. Like all the
men of our horde, when they were angry or were trying to make
themselves angry, he stopped now and again to hammer on his
chest with his fist.
I realized the helplessness of my situation, and crouched
trembling in the nest. The Chatterer came directly to the
tree--I remember it was an oak tree--and began to climb up. And
he never ceased for a moment from his infernal row. As I have
said, our language was extremely meagre, and he must have
strained it by the variety of ways in which he informed me of
his undying hatred of me and of his intention there and then to
have it out with me.
As he climbed to the fork, I fled out the great horizontal
limb. He followed me, and out I went, farther and farther. At
last I was out amongst the small twigs and leaves. The
Chatterer was ever a coward, and greater always than any anger
he ever worked up was his caution. He was afraid to follow me
out amongst the leaves and twigs. For that matter, his greater
weight would have crashed him through the foliage before he
could have got to me.
But it was not necessary for him to reach me, and well he
knew it, the scoundrel! With a malevolent expression on his
face, his beady eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence, he began
teetering. Teetering!--and with me out on the very edge of the
bough, clutching at the twigs that broke continually with my
weight. Twenty feet beneath me was the earth.
Wildly and more--wildly he teetered, grinning at me his
gloating hatred. Then came the end. All four holds broke at the
same time, and I fell, back-downward, looking up at him, my
hands and feet still clutching the broken twigs. Luckily, there
were no wild pigs under me, and my fall was broken by the tough
and springy bushes.
Usually, my falls destroy my dreams, the nervous shock
being sufficient to bridge the thousand centuries in an instant
and hurl me wide awake into my little bed, where, perchance, I
lie sweating and trembling and hear the cuckoo clock calling
the hour in the hall. But this dream of my leaving home I have
had many times, and never yet have I been awakened by it.
Always do I crash, shrieking, down through the brush and fetch
up with a bump on the ground.
Scratched and bruised and whimpering, I lay where I had
fallen. Peering up through the bushes, I could see the
Chatterer. He had set up a demoniacal chant of joy and was
keeping time to it with his teetering. I quickly hushed my
whimpering. I was no longer in the safety of the trees, and I
knew the danger I ran of bringing upon myself the hunting
animals by too audible an expression of my grief.
I remember, as my sobs died down, that I became interested
in watching the strange light-effects produced by partially
opening and closing my tear-wet eyelids. Then I began to
investigate, and found that I was not so very badly damaged by
my fall. I had lost some hair and hide, here and there; the
sharp and jagged end of a broken branch had thrust fully an
inch into my forearm; and my right hip, which had borne the
brunt of my contact with the ground, was aching intolerably.
But these, after all, were only petty hurts. No bones were
broken, and in those days the flesh of man had finer healing
qualities than it has to-day. Yet it was a severe fall, for I
limped with my injured hip for fully a week afterward.
Next, as I lay in the bushes, there came upon me a feeling
of desolation, a consciousness that I was homeless. I made up
my mind never to return to my mother and the Chatterer. I would
go far away through the terrible forest, and find some tree for
myself in which to roost. As for food, I knew where to find it.
For the last year at least I had not been beholden to my mother
for food. All she had furnished me was protection and guidance.
I crawled softly out through the bushes. Once I looked
back and saw the Chatterer still chanting and teetering. It was
not a pleasant sight. I knew pretty well how to be cautious,
and I was exceedingly careful on this my first journey in the
I gave no thought as to where I was going. I had but one
purpose, and that was to go away beyond the reach of the
Chatterer. I climbed into the trees and wandered on amongst
them for hours, passing from tree to tree and never touching
the ground. But I did not go in any particular direction, nor
did I travel steadily. It was my nature, as it was the nature
of all my folk, to be inconsequential. Besides, I was a mere
child, and I stopped a great deal to play by the way.
The events that befell me on my leaving home are very
vague in my mind. My dreams do not cover them. Much has my
other-self forgotten, and particularly at this very period. Nor
have I been able to frame up the various dreams so as to bridge
the gap between my leaving the home-tree and my arrival at the
I remember that several times I came to open spaces. These
I crossed in great trepidation, descending to the ground and
running at the top of my speed. I remember that there were days
of rain and days of sunshine, so that I must have wandered
alone for quite a time. I especially dream of my misery in the
rain, and of my sufferings from hunger and how I appeased it.
One very strong impression is of hunting little lizards on the
rocky top of an open knoll. They ran under the rocks, and most
of them escaped; but occasionally I turned over a stone and
caught one. I was frightened away from this knoll by snakes.
They did not pursue me. They were merely basking on flat rocks
in the sun. But such was my inherited fear of them that I fled
as fast as if they had been after me.
Then I gnawed bitter bark from young trees. I remember
vaguely the eating of many green nuts, with soft shells and
milky kernels. And I remember most distinctly suffering from a
stomach-ache. It may have been caused by the green nuts, and
maybe by the lizards. I do not know. But I do know that I was
fortunate in not being devoured during the several hours I was
knotted up on the ground with the colic.
My vision of the scene came abruptly, as I emerged from
the forest. I found myself on the edge of a large clear space.
On one side of this space rose up high bluffs. On the other
side was the river. The earth bank ran steeply down to the
water, but here and there, in several places, where at some
time slides of earth had occurred, there were run-ways. These
were the drinking-places of the Folk that lived in the caves.
And this was the main abiding-place of the Folk that I had
chanced upon. This was, I may say, by stretching the word, the
village. My mother and the Chatterer and I, and a few other
simple bodies, were what might be termed suburban residents. We
were part of the horde, though we lived a distance away from
it. It was only a short distance, though it had taken me, what
of my wandering, all of a week to arrive. Had I come directly,
I could have covered the trip in an hour.
But to return. From the edge of the forest I saw the caves
in the bluff, the open space, and the run-ways to the
drinking-places. And in the open space I saw many of the Folk.
I had been straying, alone and a child, for a week. During that
time I had seen not one of my kind. I had lived in terror and
desolation. And now, at the sight of my kind, I was overcome
with gladness, and I ran wildly toward them.
Then it was that a strange thing happened. Some one of the
Folk saw me and uttered a warning cry. On the instant, crying
out with fear and panic, the Folk fled away. Leaping and
scrambling over the rocks, they plunged into the mouths of the
caves and disappeared...all but one, a little baby, that had
been dropped in the excitement close to the base of the bluff.
He was wailing dolefully. His mother dashed out; he sprang to
meet her and held on tightly as she scrambled back into the
I was all alone. The populous open space had of a sudden
become deserted. I sat down forlornly and whimpered. I could
not understand. Why had the Folk run away from me? In later
time, when I came to know their ways, I was to learn. When they
saw me dashing out of the forest at top speed they concluded
that I was being pursued by some hunting animal. By my
unceremonious approach I had stampeded them.
As I sat and watched the cave-mouths I became aware that
the Folk were watching me. Soon they were thrusting their heads
out. A little later they were calling back and forth to one
another. In the hurry and confusion it had happened that all
had not gained their own caves. Some of the young ones had
sought refuge in other caves. The mothers did not call for them
by name, because that was an invention we had not yet made. All
were nameless. The mothers uttered querulous, anxious cries,
which were recognized by the young ones. Thus, had my mother
been there calling to me, I should have recognized her voice
amongst the voices of a thousand mothers, and in the same way
would she have recognized mine amongst a thousand.
This calling back and forth continued for some time, but
they were too cautious to come out of their caves and descend
to the ground. Finally one did come. He was destined to play a
large part in my life, and for that matter he already played a
large part in the lives of all the members of the horde. He it
was whom I shall call Red-Eye in the pages of this history--so
called because of his inflamed eyes, the lids being always red,
and, by the peculiar effect they produced, seeming to advertise
the terrible savagery of him. The color of his soul was red.
He was a monster in all ways. Physically he was a giant.
He must have weighed one hundred and seventy pounds. He was the
largest one of our kind I ever saw. Nor did I ever see one of
the Fire People so large as he, nor one of the Tree People.
Sometimes, when in the newspapers I happen upon descriptions of
our modern bruisers and prizefighters, I wonder what chance the
best of them would have had against him.
I am afraid not much of a chance. With one grip of his
iron fingers and a pull, he could have plucked a muscle, say a
biceps, by the roots, clear out of their bodies. A back-handed,
loose blow of his fist could have smashed their skulls like
egg-shells. With a sweep of his wicked feet (or hind-hands) he
could have disembowelled them. A twist could have broken their
necks, and I know that with a single crunch of his jaws he
could have pierced, at the same moment, the great vein of the
throat in front and the spinal marrow at the back.
He could spring twenty feet horizontally from a sitting
position. He was abominably hairy. It was a matter of pride
with us to be not very hairy. But he was covered with hair all
over, on the inside of the arms as well as the outside, and
even the ears themselves. The only places on him where the hair
did not grow were the soles of his hands and feet and beneath
his eyes. He was frightfully ugly, his ferocious grinning mouth
and huge down-hanging under-lip being but in harmony with his
This was Red-Eye. And right gingerly he crept out or his
cave and descended to the ground. Ignoring me, he proceeded to
reconnoitre. He bent forward from the hips as he walked; and so
far forward did he bend, and so long were his arms, that with
every step he touched the knuckles of his hands to the ground
on either side of him. He was awkward in the semi-erect
position of walking that he assumed, and he really touched his
knuckles to the ground in order to balance himself. But oh, I
tell you he could run on all-fours! Now this was something at
which we were particularly awkward. Furthermore, it was a rare
individual among us who balanced himself with his knuckles when
walking. Such an individual was an atavism, and Red-Eye was an
even greater atavism.
That is what he was--an atavism. We were in the process of
changing our tree-life to life on the ground. For many
generations we had been going through this change, and our
bodies and carriage had likewise changed. But Red-Eye had
reverted to the more primitive tree-dwelling type. Perforce,
because he was born in our horde he stayed with us; but in
actuality he was an atavism and his place was elsewhere.
Very circumspect and very alert, he moved here and there
about the open space, peering through the vistas among the
trees and trying to catch a glimpse of the hunting animal that
all suspected had pursued me. And while he did this, taking no
notice of me, the Folk crowded at the cave-mouths and watched.
At last he evidently decided that there was no danger
lurking about. He was returning from the head of the run-way,
from where he had taken a peep down at the drinking-place. His
course brought him near, but still he did not notice me. He
proceeded casually on his way until abreast of me, and then,
without warning and with incredible swiftness, he smote me a
buffet on the head. I was knocked backward fully a dozen feet
before I fetched up against the ground, and I remember,
half-stunned, even as the blow was struck, hearing the wild
uproar of clucking and shrieking laughter that arose from the
caves. It was a great joke--at least in that day; and right
heartily the Folk appreciated it.
Thus was I received into the horde. Red-Eye paid no
further attention to me, and I was at liberty to whimper and
sob to my heart's content. Several of the women gathered
curiously about me, and I recognized them. I had encountered
them the preceding year when my mother had taken me to the
But they quickly left me alone, being replaced by a dozen
curious and teasing youngsters. They formed a circle around me,
pointing their fingers, making faces, and poking and pinching
me. I was frightened, and for a time I endured them, then anger
got the best of me and I sprang tooth and nail upon the most
audacious one of them--none other than Lop-Ear himself. I have
so named him because he could prick up only one of his ears.
The other ear always hung limp and without movement. Some
accident had injured the muscles and deprived him of the use of
He closed with me, and we went at it for all the world
like a couple of small boys fighting. We scratched and bit,
pulled hair, clinched, and threw each other down. I remember I
succeeded in getting on him what in my college days I learned
was called a half-Nelson. This hold gave me the decided
advantage. But I did not enjoy it long. He twisted up one leg,
and with the foot (or hind-hand) made so savage an onslaught
upon my abdomen as to threaten to disembowel me. I had to
release him in order to save myself, and then we went at it
Lop-Ear was a year older than I, but I was several times
angrier than he, and in the end he took to his heels. I chased
him across the open and down a run-way to the river. But he was
better acquainted with the locality and ran along the edge of
the water and up another run-way. He cut diagonally across the
open space and dashed into a wide-mouthed cave.
Before I knew it, I had plunged after him into the
darkness. The next moment I was badly frightened. I had never
been in a cave before. I began to whimper and cry out. Lop-Ear
chattered mockingly at me, and, springing upon me unseen,
tumbled me over. He did not risk a second encounter, however,
and took himself off. I was between him and the entrance, and
he did not pass me; yet he seemed to have gone away. I
listened, but could get no clew as to where he was. This
puzzled me, and when I regained the outside I sat down to
He never came out of the entrance, of that I was certain;
yet at the end of several minutes he chuckled at my elbow.
Again I ran after him, and again he ran into the cave; but this
time I stopped at the mouth. I dropped back a short distance
and watched. He did not come out, yet, as before, he chuckled
at my elbow and was chased by me a third time into the cave.
This performance was repeated several times. Then I
followed him into the cave, where I searched vainly for him. I
was curious. I could not understand how he eluded me. Always he
went into the cave, never did he come out of it, yet always did
he arrive there at my elbow and mock me. Thus did our fight
transform itself into a game of hide and seek.
All afternoon, with occasional intervals, we kept it up,
and a playful, friendly spirit arose between us. In the end, he
did not run away from me, and we sat together with our arms
around each other. A little later he disclosed the mystery of
the wide-mouthed cave. Holding me by the hand he led me inside.
It connected by a narrow crevice with another cave, and it was
through this that we regained the open air.
We were now good friends. When the other young ones
gathered around to tease, he joined with me in attacking them;
and so viciously did we behave that before long I was let
alone. Lop-Ear made me acquainted with the village. There was
little that he could tell me of conditions and customs--he had
not the necessary vocabulary; but by observing his actions I
learned much, and also he showed me places and things.
He took me up the open space, between the caves and the
river, and into the forest beyond, where, in a grassy place
among the trees, we made a meal of stringy-rooted carrots.
After that we had a good drink at the river and started up the
run-way to the caves.
It was in the run-way that we came upon Red-Eye again. The
first I knew, Lop-Ear had shrunk away to one side and was
crouching low against the bank. Naturally and involuntarily, I
imitated him. Then it was that I looked to see the cause of his
fear. It was Red-Eye, swaggering down the centre of
the run-way and scowling fiercely with his inflamed eyes.
I noticed that all the youngsters shrank away from him as we
had done, while the grown-ups regarded him with wary eyes when
he drew near, and stepped aside to give him the centre of the
As twilight came on, the open space was deserted. The Folk
were seeking the safety of the caves. Lop-Ear led the way to
bed. High up the bluff we climbed, higher than all the other
caves, to a tiny crevice that could not be seen from the
ground. Into this Lop-Ear squeezed. I followed with difficulty,
so narrow was the entrance, and found myself in a small
rock-chamber. It was very low--not more than a couple of feet
in height, and possibly three feet by four in width and length.
Here, cuddled together in each other's arms, we slept out the
While the more courageous of the youngsters played in and
out of the large-mouthed caves, I early learned that such caves
were unoccupied. No one slept in them at night. Only the
crevice-mouthed caves were used, the narrower the mouth the
better. This was from fear of the preying animals that made
life a burden to us in those days and nights.
The first morning, after my night's sleep with Lop-Ear, I
learned the advantage of the narrow-mouthed caves. It was just
daylight when old Saber-Tooth, the tiger, walked into the open
space. Two of the Folk were already up. They made a rush for
it. Whether they were panic-stricken, or whether he was too
close on their heels for them to attempt to scramble up the
bluff to the crevices, I do not know; but at any rate they
dashed into the wide-mouthed cave wherein Lop-Ear and I had
played the afternoon before.
What happened inside there was no way of telling, but it
is fair to conclude that the two Folk slipped through the
connecting crevice into the other cave. This crevice was too
small to allow for the passage of Saber-Tooth, and he came out
the way he had gone in, unsatisfied and angry. It was evident
that his night's hunting had been unsuccessful and that he had
expected to make a meal off of us. He caught sight of the two
Folk at the other cave-mouth and sprang for them. Of course,
they darted through the passageway into the first cave. He
emerged angrier than ever and snarling.
Pandemonium broke loose amongst the rest of us. All up and
down the great bluff, we crowded the crevices and outside
ledges, and we were all chattering and shrieking in a thousand
keys. And we were all making faces--snarling faces; this was an
instinct with us. We were as angry as Saber-Tooth, though our
anger was allied with fear. I remember that I shrieked and made
faces with the best of them. Not only did they set the example,
but I felt the urge from within me to do the same things they
were doing. My hair was bristling, and I was convulsed with a
fierce, unreasoning rage.
For some time old Saber-Tooth continued dashing in and out
of first the one cave and then the other. But the two Folk
merely slipped back and forth through the connecting crevice
and eluded him. In the meantime the rest of us up the bluff had
proceeded to action. Every time he appeared outside we pelted
him with rocks. At first we merely dropped them on him, but we
soon began to whiz them down with the added force of our
This bombardment drew Saber-Tooth's attention to us and
made him angrier than ever. He abandoned his pursuit of the two
Folk and sprang up the bluff toward the rest of us, clawing at
the crumbling rock and snarling as he clawed his upward way. At
this awful sight, the last one of us sought refuge inside our
caves. I know this, because I peeped out and saw the whole
bluff-side deserted, save for Saber-Tooth, who had lost his
footing and was sliding and falling down.
I called out the cry of encouragement, and again the bluff
was covered by the screaming horde and the stones were falling
faster than ever. Saber-Tooth was frantic with rage. Time and
again he assaulted the bluff. Once he even gained the first
crevice-entrances before he fell back, but was unable to force
his way inside. With each upward rush he made, waves of fear
surged over us. At first, at such times, most of us dashed
inside; but some remained outside to hammer him with stones,
and soon all of us remained outside and kept up the fusillade.
Never was so masterly a creature so completely baffled. It
hurt his pride terribly, thus to be outwitted by the small and
tender Folk. He stood on the ground and looked up at us,
snarling, lashing his tail, snapping at the stones that fell
near to him. Once I whizzed down a stone, and just at the right
moment he looked up. It caught him full on the end of his nose,
and he went straight up in the air, all four feet of him,
roaring and caterwauling, what of the hurt and surprise.
He was beaten and he knew it. Recovering his dignity, he
stalked out solemnly from under the rain of stones. He stopped
in the middle of the open space and looked wistfully and
hungrily back at us. He hated to forego the meal, and we were
just so much meat, cornered but inaccessible. This sight of him
started us to laughing. We laughed derisively and uproariously,
all of us. Now animals do not like mockery. To be laughed at
makes them angry. And in such fashion our laughter affected
Saber-Tooth. He turned with a roar and charged the bluff again.
This was what we wanted. The fight had become a game, and we
took huge delight in pelting him.
But this attack did not last long. He quickly recovered
his common sense, and besides, our missiles were shrewd to
hurt. Vividly do I recollect the vision of one bulging eye of
his, swollen almost shut by one of the stones we had thrown.
And vividly do I retain the picture of him as he stood on the
edge of the forest whither he had finally retreated. He was
looking back at us, his writhing lips lifted clear of the very
roots of his huge fangs, his hair bristling and his tail
lashing. He gave one last snarl and slid from view among the
And then such a chattering as went up. We swarmed out of
our holes, examining the marks his claws had made on the
crumbling rock of the bluff, all of us talking at once. One of
the two Folk who had been caught in the double cave was
part-grown, half child and half youth. They had come out
proudly from their refuge, and we surrounded them in an
admiring crowd. Then the young fellow's mother broke through
and fell upon him in a tremendous rage, boxing his ears,
pulling his hair, and shrieking like a demon. She was a
strapping big woman, very hairy, and the thrashing she gave him
was a delight to the horde. We roared with laughter, holding on
to one another or rolling on the ground in our glee.
In spite of the reign of fear under which we lived, the
Folk were always great laughers. We had the sense of humor. Our
merriment was Gargantuan. It was never restrained. There was
nothing half way about it. When a thing was funny we were
convulsed with appreciation of it, and the simplest, crudest
things were funny to us. Oh, we were great laughers, I can tell
The way we had treated Saber-Tooth was the way we treated
all animals that invaded the village. We kept our run-ways and
drinking-places to ourselves by making life miserable for the
animals that trespassed or strayed upon our immediate
territory. Even the fiercest hunting animals we so bedevilled
that they learned to leave our places alone. We were not
fighters like them; we were cunning and cowardly, and it was
because of our cunning and cowardice, and our inordinate
capacity for fear, that we survived in that frightfully hostile
environment of the Younger World.
Lop-Ear, I figure, was a year older than I. What his past
history was he had no way of telling me, but as I never saw
anything of his mother I believed him to be an orphan. After
all, fathers did not count in our horde. Marriage was as yet in
a rude state, and couples had a way of quarrelling and
separating. Modern man, what of his divorce institution, does
the same thing legally. But we had no laws. Custom was all we
went by, and our custom in this particular matter was rather
Nevertheless, as this narrative will show later on, we
betrayed glimmering adumbrations of the monogamy that was later
to give power to, and make mighty, such tribes as embraced it.
Furthermore, even at the time I was born, there were several
faithful couples that lived in the trees in the neighborhood of
my mother. Living in the thick of the horde did not conduce to
monogamy. It was for this reason, undoubtedly, that the
faithful couples went away and lived by themselves. Through
many years these couples stayed together, though when the man
or woman died or was eaten the survivor invariably found a new
There was one thing that greatly puzzled me during the
first days of my residence in the horde. There was a nameless
and incommunicable fear that rested upon all. At first it
appeared to be connected wholly with direction. The horde
feared the northeast. It lived in perpetual apprehension of
that quarter of the compass. And every individual gazed more
frequently and with greater alarm in that direction than in any
When Lop-Ear and I went toward the north-east to eat the
stringy-rooted carrots that at that season were at their best,
he became unusually timid. He was content to eat the leavings,
the big tough carrots and the little ropy ones, rather than to
venture a short distance farther on to where the carrots were
as yet untouched. When I so ventured, he scolded me and
quarrelled with me. He gave me to understand that in that
direction was some horrible danger, but just what the horrible
danger was his paucity of language would not permit him to say.
Many a good meal I got in this fashion, while he scolded
and chattered vainly at me. I could not understand. I kept very
alert, but I could see no danger. I calculated always the
distance between myself and the nearest tree, and knew that to
that haven of refuge I could out-foot the Tawny One, or old
Saber-Tooth, did one or the other suddenly appear.
One late afternoon, in the village, a great uproar arose.
The horde was animated with a single emotion, that of fear. The
bluff-side swarmed with the Folk, all gazing and pointing into
the northeast. I did not know what it was, but I scrambled all
the way up to the safety of my own high little cave before ever
I turned around to see.
And then, across the river, away into the northeast, I saw
for the first time the mystery of smoke. It was the biggest
animal I had ever seen. I thought it was a monster snake,
up-ended, rearing its head high above the trees and swaying
back and forth. And yet, somehow, I seemed to gather from the
conduct of the Folk that the smoke itself was not the danger.
They appeared to fear it as the token of something else. What
this something else was I was unable to guess. Nor could they
tell me. Yet I was soon to know, and I was to know it as a
thing more terrible than the Tawny One, than old Saber-Tooth,
than the snakes themselves, than which it seemed there could be
no things more terrible.
Broken-Tooth was another youngster who lived by himself.
His mother lived in the caves, but two more children had come
after him and he had been thrust out to shift for himself. We
had witnessed the performance during the several preceding
days, and it had given us no little glee. Broken-Tooth did not
want to go, and every time his mother left the cave he sneaked
back into it. When she returned and found him there her rages
were delightful. Half the horde made a practice of watching for
these moments. First, from within the cave, would come her
scolding and shrieking. Then we could hear sounds of the
thrashing and the yelling of Broken-Tooth. About this time the
two younger children joined in. And finally, like the eruption
of a miniature volcano, Broken-Tooth would come flying out.
At the end of several days his leaving home was
accomplished. He wailed his grief, unheeded, from the centre of
the open space, for at least half an hour, and then came to
live with Lop-Ear and me. Our cave was small, but with
squeezing there was room for three. I have no recollection of
Broken-Tooth spending more than one night with us, so the
accident must have happened right away.
It came in the middle of the day. In the morning we had
eaten our fill of the carrots, and then, made heedless by play,
we had ventured on to the big trees just beyond. I cannot
understand how Lop-Ear got over his habitual caution, but it
must have been the play. We were having a great time playing
tree tag. And such tag! We leaped ten or fifteen-foot gaps as a
matter of course. And a twenty or twenty-five foot deliberate
drop clear down to the ground was nothing to us. In fact, I am
almost afraid to say the great distances we dropped. As we grew
older and heavier we found we had to be more cautious in
dropping, but at that age our bodies were all strings and
springs and we could do anything.
Broken-Tooth displayed remarkable agility in the game. He
was "It" less frequently than any of us, and in the course of
the game he discovered one difficult "slip" that neither
Lop-Ear nor I was able to accomplish. To be truthful, we were
afraid to attempt it.
When we were "It," Broken-Tooth always ran out to the end
of a lofty branch in a certain tree. From the end of the branch
to the ground it must have been seventy feet, and nothing
intervened to break a fall. But about twenty feet lower down,
and fully fifteen feet out from the perpendicular, was the
thick branch of another tree.
As we ran out the limb, Broken-Tooth, facing us, would
begin teetering. This naturally impeded our progress; but there
was more in the teetering than that. He teetered with his back
to the jump he was to make. Just as we nearly reached him he
would let go. The teetering branch was like a spring-board. It
threw him far out, backward, as he fell. And as he fell he
turned around sidewise in the air so as to face the other
branch into which he was falling. This branch bent far down
under the impact, and sometimes there was an ominous crackling;
but it never broke, and out of the leaves was always to be seen
the face of Broken-Tooth grinning triumphantly up at us.
I was "It" the last time Broken-Tooth tried this. He had
gained the end of the branch and begun his teetering, and I was
creeping out after him, when suddenly there came a low warning
cry from Lop-Ear. I looked down and saw him in the main fork of
the tree crouching close against the trunk. Instinctively I
crouched down upon the thick limb. Broken-Tooth stopped
teetering, but the branch would not stop, and his body
continued bobbing up and down with the rustling leaves.
I heard the crackle of a dry twig, and looking down saw my
first Fire-Man. He was creeping stealthily along on the ground
and peering up into the tree. At first I thought he was a wild
animal, because he wore around his waist and over his shoulders
a ragged piece of bearskin. And then I saw his hands and feet,
and more clearly his features. He was very much like my kind,
except that he was less hairy and that his feet were less like
hands than ours. In fact, he and his people, as I was later to
know, were far less hairy than we, though we, in turn, were
equally less hairy than the Tree People.
It came to me instantly, as I looked at him. This was the
terror of the northeast, of which the mystery of smoke was a
token. Yet I was puzzled. Certainly he was nothing; of which to
be afraid. Red-Eye or any of our strong men would have been
more than a match for him. He was old, too, wizened with age,
and the hair on his face was gray. Also, he limped badly with
one leg. There was no doubt at all that we could out-run him
and out-climb him. He could never catch us, that was certain.
But he carried something in his hand that I had never seen
before. It was a bow and arrow. But at that time a bow and
arrow had no meaning for me. How was I to know that death
lurked in that bent piece of wood? But Lop-Ear knew. He had
evidently seen the Fire People before and knew something of
their ways. The Fire-Man peered up at him and circled around
the tree. And around the main trunk above the fork Lop-Ear
circled too, keeping always the trunk between himself and the
The latter abruptly reversed his circling. Lop-Ear, caught
unawares, also hastily reversed, but did not win the protection
of the trunk until after the Fire-Man had twanged the bow.
I saw the arrow leap up, miss Lop-Ear, glance against a
limb, and fall back to the ground. I danced up and down on my
lofty perch with delight. It was a game! The Fire-Man was
throwing things at Lop-Ear as we sometimes threw things at one
The game continued a little longer, but Lop-Ear did not
expose himself a second time. Then the Fire-Man gave it up. I
leaned far out over my horizontal limb and chattered down at
him. I wanted to play. I wanted to have him try to hit me with
the thing. He saw me, but ignored me, turning his attention to
Broken-Tooth, who was still teetering slightly and
involuntarily on the end of the branch.
The first arrow leaped upward. Broken-Tooth yelled with
fright and pain. It had reached its mark. This put a new
complexion on the matter. I no longer cared to play, but
crouched trembling close to my limb. A second arrow and a third
soared up, missing Broken-Tooth, rustling the leaves as they
passed through, arching in their flight and returning to earth.
The Fire-Man stretched his bow again. He shifted his
position, walking away several steps, then shifted it a second
time. The bow-string twanged, the arrow leaped upward, and
Broken-Tooth, uttering a terrible scream, fell off the branch.
I saw him as he went down, turning over and over, all arms and
legs it seemed, the shaft of the arrow projecting from his
chest and appearing and disappearing with each revolution of
Sheer down, screaming, seventy feet he fell, smashing to
the earth with an audible thud and crunch, his body rebounding
slightly and settling down again. Still he lived, for he moved
and squirmed, clawing with his hands and feet. I remember the
Fire-Man running forward with a stone and hammering him on the
head...and then I remember no more.
Always, during my childhood, at this stage of the dream,
did I wake up screaming with fright--to find, often, my mother
or nurse, anxious and startled, by my bedside, passing soothing
hands through my hair and telling me that they were there and
that there was nothing to fear.
My next dream, in the order of succession, begins always
with the flight of Lop-Ear and myself through the forest. The
Fire-Man and Broken-Tooth and the tree of the tragedy are gone.
Lop-Ear and I, in a cautious panic, are fleeing through the
trees. In my right leg is a burning pain; and from the flesh,
protruding head and shaft from either side, is an arrow of the
Fire-Man. Not only did the pull and strain of it pain me
severely, but it bothered my movements and made it impossible
for me to keep up with Lop-Ear.
At last I gave up, crouching in the secure fork of a tree.
Lop-Ear went right on. I called to him--most plaintively, I
remember; and he stopped and looked back. Then he returned to
me, climbing into the fork and examining the arrow. He tried to
pull it out, but one way the flesh resisted the barbed lead,
and the other way it resisted the feathered shaft. Also, it
hurt grievously, and I stopped him.
For some time we crouched there, Lop-Ear nervous and
anxious to be gone, perpetually and apprehensively peering this
way and that, and myself whimpering softly and sobbing. Lop-Ear
was plainly in a funk, and yet his conduct in remaining by me,
in spite of his fear, I take as a foreshadowing of the altruism
and comradeship that have helped make man the mightiest of the
Once again Lop-Ear tried to drag the arrow through the
flesh, and I angrily stopped him. Then he bent down and began
gnawing the shaft of the arrow with his teeth. As he did so he
held the arrow firmly in both hands so that it would not play
about in the wound, and at the same time I held on to him. I
often meditate upon this scene--the two of us, half-grown cubs,
in the childhood of the race, and the one mastering his fear,
beating down his selfish impulse of flight, in order to stand
by and succor the other. And there rises up before me all that
was there foreshadowed, and I see visions of Damon and Pythias,
of life-saving crews and Red Cross nurses, of martyrs and
leaders of forlorn hopes, of Father Damien, and of the Christ
himself, and of all the men of earth, mighty of stature, whose
strength may trace back to the elemental loins of Lop-Ear and
Big-Tooth and other dim denizens of the Younger World.
When Lop-Ear had chewed off the head of the arrow, the
shaft was withdrawn easily enough. I started to go on, but this
time it was he that stopped me. My leg was bleeding profusely.
Some of the smaller veins had doubtless been ruptured. Running
out to the end of a branch, Lop-Ear gathered a handful of green
leaves. These he stuffed into the wound. They accomplished the
purpose, for the bleeding soon stopped. Then we went on
together, back to the safety of the caves.
Well do I remember that first winter after I left home. I
have long dreams of sitting shivering in the cold. Lop-Ear and
I sit close together, with our arms and legs about each other,
blue-faced and with chattering teeth. It got particularly crisp
along toward morning. In those chill early hours we slept
little, huddling together in numb misery and waiting for the
sunrise in order to get warm.
When we went outside there was a crackle of frost under
foot. One morning we discovered ice on the surface of the quiet
water in the eddy where was the drinking-place, and there was a
great How-do-you-do about it. Old Marrow-Bone was the oldest
member of the horde, and he had never seen anything like it
before. I remember the worried, plaintive look that came into
his eyes as he examined the ice. (This plaintive look always
came into our eyes when we did not understand a thing, or when
we felt the prod of some vague and inexpressible desire.)
Red-Eye, too, when he investigated the ice, looked bleak and
plaintive, and stared across the river into the northeast, as
though in some way he connected the Fire People with this
But we found ice only on that one morning, and that was
the coldest winter we experienced. I have no memory of other
winters when it was so cold. I have often thought that that
cold winter was a fore-runner of the countless cold winters to
come, as the ice-sheet from farther north crept down over the
face of the land. But we never saw that ice-sheet. Many
generations must have passed away before the descendants of the
horde migrated south, or remained and adapted themselves to the
Life was hit or miss and happy-go-lucky with us. Little
was ever planned, and less was executed. We ate when we were
hungry, drank when we were thirsty, avoided our carnivorous
enemies, took shelter in the caves at night, and for the rest
just sort of played along through life.
We were very curious, easily amused, and full of tricks
and pranks. There was no seriousness about us, except when we
were in danger or were angry, in which cases the one was
quickly forgotten and the other as quickly got over.
We were inconsecutive, illogical, and inconsequential. We
had no steadfastness of purpose, and it was here that the Fire
People were ahead of us. They possessed all these things of
which we possessed so little. Occasionally, however, especially
in the realm of the emotions, we were capable of long-cherished
purpose. The faithfulness of the monogamic couples I have
referred to may be explained as a matter of habit; but my long
desire for the Swift One cannot be so explained, any more than
can be explained the undying enmity between me and Red-Eye.
But it was our inconsequentiality and stupidity that
especially distresses me when I look back upon that life in the
long ago. Once I found a broken gourd which happened to lie
right side up and which had been filled with the rain. The
water was sweet, and I drank it. I even took the gourd down to
the stream and filled it with more water, some of which I drank
and some of which I poured over Lop-Ear. And then I threw the
gourd away. It never entered my head to fill the gourd with
water and carry it into my cave. Yet often I was thirsty at
night, especially after eating wild onions and watercress, and
no one ever dared leave the caves at night for a drink.
Another time I found a dry; gourd, inside of which the
seeds rattled. I had fun with it for a while. But it was a play
thing, nothing more. And yet, it was not long after this that
the using of gourds for storing water became the general
practice of the horde. But I was not the inventor. The honor
was due to old Marrow-Bone, and it is fair to assume that it
was the necessity of his great age that brought about the
At any rate, the first member of the horde to use gourds
was Marrow-Bone. He kept a supply of drinking-water in his
cave, which cave belonged to his son, the Hairless One, who
permitted him to occupy a corner of it. We used to see
Marrow-Bone filling his gourd at the drinking-place and
carrying it carefully up to his cave. Imitation was strong in
the Folk, and first one, and then another and another, procured
a gourd and used it in similar fashion, until it was a general
practice with all of us so to store water.
Sometimes old Marrow-Bone had sick spells and was unable
to leave the cave. Then it was that the Hairless One filled the
gourd for him. A little later, the Hairless One deputed the
task to Long-Lip, his son. And after that, even when
Marrow-Bone was well again, Long-Lip continued carrying water
for him. By and by, except on unusual occasions, the men never
carried any water at all, leaving the task to the women and
larger children. Lop-Ear and I were independent. We carried
water only for ourselves, and we often mocked the young
water-carriers when they were called away from play to fill the
Progress was slow with us. We played through life, even
the adults, much in the same way that children play, and we
played as none of the other animals played. What little we
learned, was usually in the course of play, and was due to our
curiosity and keenness of appreciation. For that matter, the
one big invention of the horde, during the time I lived with
it, was the use of gourds. At first we stored only water in the
gourds--in imitation of old Marrow-Bone.
But one day some one of the women--I do not know which
one--filled a gourd with black-berries and carried it to her
cave. In no time all the women were carrying berries and nuts
and roots in the gourds. The idea, once started, had to go on.
Another evolution of the carrying-receptacle was due to the
women. Without doubt, some woman's gourd was too small, or else
she had forgotten her gourd; but be that as it may, she bent
two great leaves together, pinning the seams with twigs, and
carried home a bigger quantity of berries than could have been
contained in the largest gourd.
So far we got, and no farther, in the transportation of
supplies during the years I lived with the Folk. It never
entered anybody's head to weave a basket out of willow-withes.
Sometimes the men and women tied tough vines about the bundles
of ferns and branches that they carried to the caves to sleep
upon. Possibly in ten or twenty generations we might have
worked up to the weaving of baskets. And of this, one thing is
sure: if once we wove withes into baskets, the next and
inevitable step would have been the weaving of cloth. Clothes
would have followed, and with covering our nakedness would have
Thus was momentum gained in the Younger World. But we were
without this momentum. We were just getting started, and we
could not go far in a single generation. We were without
weapons, without fire, and in the raw beginnings of speech. The
device of writing lay so far in the future that I am appalled
when I think of it.
Even I was once on the verge of a great discovery. To show
you how fortuitous was development in those days let me state
that had it not been for the gluttony of Lop-Ear I might have
brought about the domestication of the dog. And this was
something that the Fire People who lived to the northeast had
not yet achieved. They were without dogs; this I knew from
observation. But let me tell you how Lop-Ear's gluttony
possibly set back our social development many generations.
Well to the west of our caves was a great swamp, but to
the south lay a stretch of low, rocky hills. These were little
frequented for two reasons. First of all, there was no food
there of the kind we ate; and next, those rocky hills were
filled with the lairs of carnivorous beasts.
But Lop-Ear and I strayed over to the hills one day. We
would not have strayed had we not been teasing a tiger. Please
do not laugh. It was old Saber-Tooth himself. We were perfectly
safe. We chanced upon him in the forest, early in the morning,
and from the safety of the branches overhead we chattered down
at him our dislike and hatred. And from branch to branch, and
from tree to tree, we followed overhead, making an infernal row
and warning all the forest-dwellers that old Saber-Tooth was
We spoiled his hunting for him, anyway. And we made him
good and angry. He snarled at us and lashed his tail, and
sometimes he paused and stared up at us quietly for a long
time, as if debating in his mind some way by which he could get
hold of us. But we only laughed and pelted him with twigs and
the ends of branches.
This tiger-baiting was common sport among the folk.
Sometimes half the horde would follow from overhead a tiger or
lion that had ventured out in the daytime. It was our revenge;
for more than one member of the horde, caught unexpectedly, had
gone the way of the tiger's belly or the lion's. Also, by such
ordeals of helplessness and shame, we taught the hunting
animals to some extent to keep out of our territory. And then
it was funny. It was a great game.
And so Lop-Ear and I had chased Saber-Tooth across three
miles of forest. Toward the last he put his tail between his
legs and fled from our gibing like a beaten cur. We did our
best to keep up with him; but when we reached the edge of the
forest he was no more than a streak in the distance.
I don't know what prompted us, unless it was curiosity;
but after playing around awhile, Lop-Ear and I ventured across
the open ground to the edge of the rocky hills. We did not go
far. Possibly at no time were we more than a hundred yards from
the trees. Coming around a sharp corner of rock (we went very
carefully, because we did not know what we might encounter), we
came upon three puppies playing in the sun.
They did not see us, and we watched them for some time.
They were wild dogs. In the rock-wall was a horizontal
fissure--evidently the lair where their mother had left them,
and where they should have remained had they been obedient. But
the growing life, that in Lop-Ear and me had impelled us to
venture away from the forest, had driven the puppies out of the
cave to frolic. I know how their mother would have punished
them had she caught them.
But it was Lop-Ear and I who caught them. He looked at me,
and then we made a dash for it. The puppies knew no place to
run except into the lair, and we headed them off. One rushed
between my legs. I squatted and grabbed him. He sank his sharp
little teeth into my arm, and I dropped him in the suddenness
of the hurt and surprise. The next moment he had scurried
Lop-Ear, struggling with the second puppy, scowled at me
and intimated by a variety of sounds the different kinds of a
fool and a bungler that I was. This made me ashamed and spurred
me to valor. I grabbed the remaining puppy by the tail. He got
his teeth into me once, and then I got him by the nape of the
neck. Lop-Ear and I sat down, and held the puppies up, and
looked at them, and laughed.
They were snarling and yelping and crying. Lop-Ear started
suddenly. He thought he had heard something. We looked at each
other in fear, realizing the danger of our position. The one
thing that made animals raging demons was tampering with their
young. And these puppies that made such a racket belonged to
the wild dogs. Well we knew them, running in packs, the terror
of the grass-eating animals. We had watched them following the
herds of cattle and bison and dragging down the calves, the
aged, and the sick. We had been chased by them ourselves, more
than once. I had seen one of the Folk, a woman, run down by
them and caught just as she reached the shelter of the woods.
Had she not been tired out by the run, she might have made it
into a tree. She tried, and slipped, and fell back. They made
short work of her.
We did not stare at each other longer than a moment.
Keeping tight hold of our prizes, we ran for the woods. Once in
the security of a tall tree, we held up the puppies and laughed
again. You see, we had to have our laugh out, no matter what
And then began one of the hardest tasks I ever attempted.
We started to carry the puppies to our cave. Instead of using
our hands for climbing, most of the time they were occupied
with holding our squirming captives. Once we tried to walk on
the ground, but were treed by a miserable hyena, who followed
along underneath. He was a wise hyena.
Lop-Ear got an idea. He remembered how we tied up bundles
of leaves to carry home for beds. Breaking off some tough
vines, he tied his puppy's legs together, and then, with
another piece of vine passed around his neck, slung the puppy
on his back. This left him with hands and feet free to climb.
He was jubilant, and did not wait for me to finish tying my
puppy's legs, but started on. There was one difficulty,
however. The puppy wouldn't stay slung on Lop-Ear's back. It
swung around to the side and then on in front. Its teeth were
not tied, and the next thing it did was to sink its teeth into
and unprotected stomach. He let out a scream, nearly
fell, and clutched a branch violently with both hands to save
himself. The vine around his neck broke, and the puppy, its
four legs still tied, dropped to the ground. The hyena
proceeded to dine.
Lop-Ear was disgusted and angry. He abused the hyena, and
then went off alone through the trees. I had no reason that I
knew for wanting to carry the puppy to the cave, except that I
WANTED to; and I stayed by my task. I made the work a great
deal easier by elaborating on Lop-Ear's idea. Not only did I
tie the puppy's legs, but I thrust a stick through his jaws and
tied them together securely.
At last I got the puppy home. I imagine I had more
pertinacity than the average Folk, or else I should not have
succeeded. They laughed at me when they saw me lugging the
puppy up to my high little cave, but I did not mind. Success
crowned my efforts, and there was the puppy. He was a plaything
such as none of the Folk possessed. He learned rapidly. When I
played with him and he bit me, I boxed his ears, and then he
did not try again to bite for a long time.
I was quite taken up with him. He was something new, and
it was a characteristic of the Folk to like new things. When I
saw that he refused fruits and vegetables, I caught birds for
him and squirrels and young rabbits. (We Folk were meat-eaters,
as well as vegetarians, and we were adept at catching small
game.) The puppy ate the meat and thrived. As well as I can
estimate, I must have had him over a week. And then, coming
back to the cave one day with a nestful of young-hatched
pheasants, I found Lop-Ear had killed the puppy and was just
beginning to eat him. I sprang for Lop-Ear,--the cave was
small,--and we went at it tooth and nail.
And thus, in a fight, ended one of the earliest attempts
to domesticate the dog. We pulled hair out in handfuls, and
scratched and bit and gouged. Then we sulked and made up. After
that we ate the puppy. Raw? Yes. We had not yet discovered
fire. Our evolution into cooking animals lay in the
tight-rolled scroll of the future.
Red-Eye was an atavism. He was the great discordant
element in our horde. He was more primitive than any of us. He
did not belong with us, yet we were still so primitive
ourselves that we were incapable of a cooperative effort strong
enough to kill him or cast him out. Rude as was our social
organization, he was, nevertheless, too rude to live in it. He
tended always to destroy the horde by his unsocial acts. He was
really a reversion to an earlier type, and his place was with
the Tree People rather than with us who were in the process of
He was a monster of cruelty, which is saying a great deal
in that day. He beat his wives--not that he ever had more than
one wife at a time, but that he was married many times. It was
impossible for any woman to live with him, and yet they did
live with him, out of compulsion. There was no gainsaying him.
No man was strong enough to stand against him.
Often do I have visions of the quiet hour before the
twilight. From drinking-place and carrot patch and berry swamp
the Folk are trooping into the open space before the caves.
They dare linger no later than this, for the dreadful darkness
is approaching, in which the world is given over to the carnage
of the hunting animals, while the fore-runners of man hide
tremblingly in their holes.
There yet remain to us a few minutes before we climb to
our caves. We are tired from the play of the day, and the
sounds we make are subdued. Even the cubs, still greedy for fun
and antics, play with restraint. The wind from the sea has died
down, and the shadows are lengthening with the last of the
sun's descent. And then, suddenly, from Red-Eye's cave, breaks
a wild screaming and the sound of blows. He is beating his
At first an awed silence comes upon us. But as the blows
and screams continue we break out into an insane gibbering of
helpless rage. It is plain that the men resent Red-Eye's
actions, but they are too afraid of him. The blows cease, and a
low groaning dies away, while we chatter among ourselves and
the sad twilight creeps upon us.
We, to whom most happenings were jokes, never laughed
during Red-Eye's wife-beatings. We knew too well the tragedy of
them. On more than one morning, at the base of the cliff, did
we find the body of his latest wife. He had tossed her there,
after she had died, from his cave-mouth. He never buried his
dead. The task of carrying away the bodies, that else would
have polluted our abiding-place, he left to the horde. We
usually flung them into the river below the last
Not alone did Red-Eye murder his wives, but he also
murdered for his wives, in order to get them. When he wanted a
new wife and selected the wife of another man, he promptly
killed that man. Two of these murders I saw myself. The whole
horde knew, but could do nothing. We had not yet developed any
government, to speak of, inside the horde. We had certain
customs and visited our wrath upon the unlucky ones who
violated those customs. Thus, for example, the individual who
defiled a drinking-place would be attacked by every onlooker,
while one who deliberately gave a false alarm was the recipient
of much rough usage at our hands. But Red-Eye walked rough-shod
over all our customs, and we so feared him that we were
incapable of the collective action necessary to punish him.
It was during the sixth winter in our cave that Lop-Ear
and I discovered that we were really growing up. From the first
it had been a squeeze to get in through the entrance-crevice.
This had had its advantages, however. It had prevented the
larger Folk from taking our cave away from us. And it was a
most desirable cave, the highest on the bluff, the safest, and
in winter the smallest and warmest.
To show the stage of the mental development of the Folk, I
may state that it would have been a simple thing for some of
them to have driven us out and enlarged the crevice-opening.
But they never thought of it. Lop-Ear and I did not think of it
either until our increasing size compelled us to make an
enlargement. This occurred when summer was well along and we
were fat with better forage. We worked at the crevice in
spells, when the fancy struck us.
At first we dug the crumbling rocks away with our fingers,
until our nails got sore, when I accidentally stumbled upon the
idea of using a piece of wood on the rock. This worked well.
Also it worked woe. One morning early, we had scratched out of
the wall quite a heap of fragments. I gave the heap a shove
over the lip of the entrance. The next moment there came up
from below a howl of rage. There was no need to look. We knew
the voice only too well. The rubbish had descended upon
We crouched down in the cave in consternation. A minute
later he was at the entrance, peering in at us with his
inflamed eyes and raging like a demon. But he was too large. He
could not get in to us. Suddenly he went away. This was
suspicious. By all we knew of Folk nature he should have
remained and had out his rage. I crept to the entrance and
peeped down. I could see him just beginning to mount the bluff
again. In one hand he carried a long stick. Before I could
divine his plan, he was back at the entrance and savagely
jabbing the stick in at us.
His thrusts were prodigious. They could have disembowelled
us. We shrank back against the side-walls, where we were almost
out of range. But by industrious poking he got us now and
again--cruel, scraping jabs with the end of the stick that
raked off the hide and hair. When we screamed with the hurt, he
roared his satisfaction and jabbed the harder.
I began to grow angry. I had a temper of my own in those
days, and pretty considerable courage, too, albeit it was
largely the courage of the cornered rat. I caught hold of the
stick with my hands, but such was his strength that he jerked
me into the crevice. He reached for me with his long arm, and
his nails tore my flesh as I leaped back from the clutch and
gained the comparative safety of the side-wall.
He began poking again, and caught me a painful blow on the
shoulder. Beyond shivering with fright and yelling when he was
hit, Lop-Ear did nothing. I looked for a stick with which to
jab back, but found only the end of a branch, an inch through
and a foot long. I threw this at Red-Eye. It did no damage,
though he howled with a sudden increase of rage at my daring to
strike back. He began jabbing furiously. I found a fragment of
rock and threw it at him, striking him on the chest.
This emboldened me, and, besides, I was now as angry as
he, and had lost all fear. I ripped fragment of rock from the
wall. The piece must have weighed two or threepounds. With my
strength I slammed it full into Red-Eye's face. It nearly
finished him. He staggered backward, dropping his stick, and
almost fell off the cliff.
He was a ferocious sight. His face was covered with blood,
and he was snarling and gnashing his fangs like a wild boar. He
wiped the blood from his eyes, caught sight of me, and roared
with fury. His stick was gone, so he began ripping out chunks
of crumbling rock and throwing them in at me. This supplied me
with ammunition. I gave him as good as he sent, and better; for
he presented a good target, while he caught only glimpses of me
as I snuggled against the side-wall.
Suddenly he disappeared again. From the lip of the cave I
saw him descending. All the horde had gathered outside and in
awed silence was looking on. As he descended, the more timid
ones scurried for their caves. I could see old Marrow-Bone
tottering along as fast as he could. Red-Eye sprang out from
the wall and finished the last twenty feet through the air. He
landed alongside a mother who was just beginning the ascent.
She screamed with fear, and the two-year-old child that was
clinging to her released its grip and rolled at Red-Eye's feet.
Both he and the mother reached for it, and he got it. The next
moment the frail little body had whirled through the air and
shattered against the wall. The mother ran to it, caught it up
in her arms, and crouched over it crying.
Red-Eye started over to pick up the stick. Old Marrow-Bone
had tottered into his way. Red-Eye's great hand shot out and
clutched the old man by the back of the neck. I looked to see
his neck broken. His body went limp as he surrendered himself
to his fate.
Red-Eye hesitated a moment, and Marrow-Bone, shivering
terribly, bowed his head and covered his face with his crossed
arms. Then Red-Eye slammed him face-downward to the ground. Old
Marrow-Bone did not struggle. He lay there crying with the fear
of death. I saw the Hairless One, out in the open space,
beating his chest and bristling, but afraid to come forward.
And then, in obedience to some whim of his erratic spirit,
Red-Eye let the old man alone and passed on and recovered the
He returned to the wall and began to climb up. Lop-Ear,
who was shivering and peeping alongside of me, scrambled back
into the cave. It was plain that Red-Eye was bent upon murder.
I was desperate and angry and fairly cool. Running back and
forth along the neighboring ledges, I gathered a heap of rocks
at the cave-entrance. Red-Eye was now several yards beneath me,
concealed for the moment by an out-jut of the cliff. As he
climbed, his head came into view, and I banged a rock down. It
missed, striking the wall and shattering; but the flying dust
and grit filled his eyes and he drew back out of view.
A chuckling and chattering arose from the horde, that
played the part of audience. At last there was one of the Folk
who dared to face Red-Eye. As their approval and acclamation
arose on the air, Red-Eye snarled down at them, and on the
instant they were subdued to silence. Encouraged by this
evidence of his power, he thrust his head into view, and by
scowling and snarling and gnashing his fangs tried to
intimidate me. He scowled horribly, contracting the scalp
strongly over the brows and bringing the hair down from the top
of the head until each hair stood apart and pointed straight
The sight chilled me, but I mastered my fear, and, with a
stone poised in my hand, threatened him back. He still tried to
advance. I drove the stone down at him and made a sheer miss.
The next shot was a success. The stone struck him on the neck.
He slipped back out of sight, but as he disappeared I could see
him clutching for a grip on the wall with one hand, and with
the other clutching at his throat. The stick fell clattering to
I could not see him any more, though I could hear him
choking and strangling and coughing. The audience kept a
death-like silence. I crouched on the lip of the entrance and
waited. The strangling and coughing died down, and I could hear
him now and again clearing his throat. A little later he began
to climb down. He went very quietly, pausing every moment or so
to stretch his neck or to feel it with his hand.
At the sight of him descending, the whole horde, with wild
screams and yells, stampeded for the woods. Old Marrow-Bone,
hobbling and tottering, followed behind. Red-Eye took no notice
of the flight. When he reached the ground he skirted the base
of the bluff and climbed up and into his own cave. He did not
look around once.
I stared at Lop-Ear, and he stared back. We understood
each other. Immediately, and with great caution and quietness,
we began climbing up the cliff. When we reached the top we
looked back. The abiding-place was deserted, Red-Eye remained
in his cave, and the horde had disappeared in the depths of the
We turned and ran. We dashed across the open spaces and
down the slopes unmindful of possible snakes in the grass,
until we reached the woods. Up into the trees we went, and on
and on, swinging our arboreal flight until we had put miles
between us and the caves. And then, and not till then, in the
security of a great fork, we paused, looked at each other, and
began to laugh. We held on to each other, arms and legs, our
eyes streaming tears, our ,sides aching, and laughed and
laughed and laughed.
After we had had out our laugh, Lop-Ear and I curved back
in our flight and got breakfast in the blueberry swamp. It was
the same swamp to which I had made my first journeys in the
world, years before, accompanied by my mother. I had seen
little of her in the intervening time. Usually, when she
visited the horde at the caves, I was away in the forest. I had
once or twice caught glimpses of the Chatterer in the open
space, and had had the pleasure of making faces at him and
angering him from the mouth of my cave. Beyond such amenities I
had left my family severely alone. I was not much interested in
it, and anyway I was doing very well by myself.
After eating our fill of berries, with two nestfuls of
partly hatched quail-eggs for dessert, Lop-Ear and I wandered
circumspectly into the woods toward the river. Here was where
stood my old home-tree, out of which I had been thrown by the
Chatterer. It was still occupied. There had been increase in
the family. Clinging tight to my mother was a little baby.
Also, there was a girl, partly grown, who cautiously regarded
us from one of the lower branches. She was evidently my sister,
or half-sister, rather.
My mother recognized me, but she warned me away when I
started to climb into the tree. Lop-Ear, who was more cautious
by far than I, beat a retreat, nor could I persuade him to
return. Later in the day, however, my sister came down to the
ground, and there and in neighboring trees we romped and played
all afternoon. And then came trouble. She was my sister, but
that did not prevent her from treating me abominably, for she
had inherited all the viciousness of the Chatterer. She turned
upon me suddenly, in a petty rage, and scratched me, tore my
hair, and sank her sharp little teeth deep into my forearm. I
lost my temper. I did not injure her, but it was undoubtedly
the soundest spanking she had received up to that time.
How she yelled and squalled. The Chatterer, who had been
away all day and who was only then returning, heard the noise
and rushed for the spot. My mother also rushed, but he got
there first. Lop-Ear and I did not wait his coming. We were off
and away, and the Chatterer gave us the chase of our lives
through the trees.
After the chase was over, and Lop-Ear and I had had out
our laugh, we discovered that twilight was falling. Here was
night with all its terrors upon us, and to return to the caves
was out of the question. Red-Eye made that impossible. We took
refuge in a tree that stood apart from other trees, and high up
in a fork we passed the night. It was a miserable night. For
the first few hours it rained heavily, then it turned cold and
a chill wind blew upon us. Soaked through, with shivering
bodies and chattering teeth, we huddled in each other's arms.
We missed the snug, dry cave that so quickly warmed with the
heat of our bodies.
Morning found us wretched and resolved. We would not spend
another such night. Remembering the tree-shelters of our
elders, we set to work to make one for ourselves. We built the
framework of a rough nest, and on higher forks overhead even
got in several ridge-poles for the roof. Then the sun came out,
and under its benign influence we forgot the hardships of the
night and went off in search of breakfast. After that, to show
the inconsequentiality of life in those days, we fell to
playing. It must have taken us all of a month, working
intermittently, to make our tree-house; and then, when it was
completed, we never used it again.
But I run ahead of my story. When we fell to playing,
after breakfast, on the second day away from the caves, Lop-Ear
led me a chase through the trees and down to the river. We came
out upon it where a large slough entered from the blueberry
swamp. The mouth of this slough was wide, while the slough
itself was practically without a current. In the dead water,
just inside its mouth, lay a tangled mass of tree trunks. Some
of these, what of the wear and tear of freshets and of being
stranded long summers on sand-bars, were seasoned and dry and
without branches. They floated high in the water, and bobbed up
and down or rolled over when we put our weight upon them.
Here and there between the trunks were water-cracks, and
through them we could see schools of small fish, like minnows,
darting back and forth. Lop-Ear and I became fishermen at once.
Lying flat on the logs, keeping perfectly quiet, waiting till
the minnows came close, we would make swift passes with our
hands. Our prizes we ate on the spot, wriggling and moist. We
did not notice the lack of salt.
The mouth of the slough became our favorite playground.
Here we spent many hours each day, catching fish and playing on
the logs, and here, one day, we learned our first lessons in
navigation. The log on which Lop-Ear was lying got adrift. He
was curled up on his side, asleep. A light fan of air slowly
drifted the log away from the shore, and when I noticed his
predicament the distance was already too great for him to leap.
At first the episode seemed merely funny to me. But when
one of the vagrant impulses of fear, common in that age of
perpetual insecurity, moved within me, I was struck with my own
loneliness. I was made suddenly aware of Lop-Ear's remoteness
out there on that alien element a few feet away. I called
loudly to him a warning cry. He awoke frightened, and shifted
his weight rashly on the log. It turned over, sousing him
under. Three times again it soused him under as he tried to
climb out upon it. Then he succeeded, crouching upon it and
chattering with fear.
I could do nothing. Nor could he. Swimming was something
of which we knew nothing. We were already too far removed from
the lower life-forms to have the instinct for swimming, and we
had not yet become sufficiently man-like to undertake it as the
working out of a problem. I roamed disconsolately up and down
the bank, keeping as close to him in his involuntary travels as
I could, while he wailed and cried till it was a wonder that he
did not bring down upon us every hunting animal within a mile.
The hours passed. The sun climbed overhead and began its
descent to the west. The light wind died down and left Lop-Ear
on his log floating around a hundred feet away. And then,
somehow, I know not how, Lop-Ear made the great discovery. He
began paddling with his hands. At first his progress was slow
and erratic. Then he straightened out and began laboriously to
paddle nearer and nearer. I could not understand. I sat down
and watched and waited until he gained the shore.
But he had learned something, which was more than I had
done. Later in the afternoon, he deliberately launched out from
shore on the log. Still later he persuaded me to join him, and
I, too, learned the trick of paddling. For the next several
days we could not tear ourselves away from the slough. So
absorbed were we in our new game that we almost neglected to
eat. We even roosted in a nearby tree at night. And we forgot
that Red-Eye existed.
We were always trying new logs, and we learned that the
smaller the log the faster we could make it go. Also, we
learned that the smaller the log the more liable it was to roll
over and give us a ducking. Still another thing about small
logs we learned. One day we paddled our individual logs
alongside each other. And then, quite by accident, in the
course of play, we discovered that when each, with one hand and
foot, held on to the other's log, the logs were steadied and
did not turn over. Lying side by side in this position, our
outside hands and feet were left free for paddling. Our final
discovery was that this arrangement enabled us to use still
smaller logs and thereby gain greater speed. And there our
discoveries ended. We had invented the most primitive
catamaran, and we did not have sense enough to know it. It
never entered our heads to lash the logs together with tough
vines or stringy roots. We were content to hold the logs
together with our hands and feet.
It was not until we got over our first enthusiasm for
navigation and had begun to return to our tree-shelter to sleep
at night, that we found the Swift One. I saw her first,
gathering young acorns from the branches of a large oak near
our tree. She was very timid. At first, she kept very still;
but when she saw that she was discovered she dropped to the
ground and dashed wildly away. We caught occasional glimpses of
her from day to day, and came to look for her when we travelled
back and forth between our tree and the mouth of the slough.
And then, one day, she did not run away. She waited our
coming, and made soft peace-sounds. We could not get very near,
however. When we seemed to approach too close, she darted
suddenly away and from a safe distance uttered the soft sounds
again. This continued for some days. It took a long while to
get acquainted with her, but finally it was accomplished and
she joined us sometimes in our play.
I liked her from the first. She was of most pleasing
appearance. She was very mild. Her eyes were the mildest I had
ever seen. In this she was quite unlike the rest of the girls
and women of the Folk, who were born viragos. She never made
harsh, angry cries, and it seemed to be her nature to flee away