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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。







CHAPTER　IV





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　goingwhether　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…nestingwell；

I　only　wish　the　twentieth…century　boy　could　see　us。

But　we　made　no　collections　of　eggs。　　We　ate　them。



I　rememberbut　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　the　ground。



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　manof　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　meand　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　treeI　remember　it　was　an　oak

treeand　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　mor