The Indian native loves elephants, and enjoys training them and working with them. It is these two conditions that have left the African elephant far behind the procession. The African elephant belongs to the great Undeveloped Continent. He has been, and he still is, mercilessly pursued and slaughtered for his tusks. All the existing species of African elephants are going down and out before the ivory hunters. We fear that they will all be dead one hundred years from this time, or even less. A century hence, when the last _africa.n.u.s_ has gone to join the mammoth and the mastodon, his well protected wild congener in India still will be devouring his four hundred pounds of green fodder per day, and the tame ones will be performing to amuse the swarming human millions of this overcrowded world.

In the minds of our elephant keepers, familiarity with elephants has bred just the reverse of contempt. Both Thuman and Richards are quite sure that elephants are the wisest of all wild animals.

Despite the very great amount of trouble made for Keeper Thuman by Gunda, the Indian, and Kartoum, the African, Thuman grows enthusiastic over the shrewdness of their "cussedness." He is particularly impressed by their skill in opening chain shackles, and unfastening the catches and locks of doors and gates. And really, Kartoum's ingenuity in finding out how to open latches and bolts is almost inexhaustible, as well as marvelous.

Keeper Richards declares that our late African pygmy elephant, Congo, was the wisest animal he ever has known. I have elsewhere referred to his ability in shutting his outside door. Richards taught him to accept coins from visitors, deposit them in a box, then pull a cord to ring a bell, one pull for each coin represented. The keeper devised four different systems of intimate signals by which he could tell Congo to stop at the right point, and all these were so slight that no one ever detected them. One was by a voice-given cue, another by a hand motion, and a third was by an inclination of the body.

Keeper Richards relates that Congo would go out in his yard, collect a trunkful of peanuts from visitors, bring them inside and secretly cache them in a corner behind his feed box. Then he would go out for more graft peanuts, bring them in, hide them and proceed to eat the first lot. There are millions of men who do not know what it is to conserve something that can be eaten.

In this discussion of the intellectual powers and moral qualities of the elephant I will confine myself to my own observations on _Elephas indicus_, except where otherwise stated. A point to which we ask special attention is that in endeavoring to estimate the mental capacity of the elephant, we will base no general conclusions upon _any particularly intelligent individual_, as all mankind is tempted to do in discussions of the intelligence of the dog, the cat, the horse, parrot and ape. On the contrary, it is our desire to reveal the mental capacity of _every elephant living_, tame or wild, except the few individuals with abnormal or diseased minds. It is not to be shown how successfully _an_ elephant has been taught by man, but how _all_ elephants in captivity have been taught, and the mental capacity of _every_ elephant.

Under the head of intellectual qualities we have first to consider the elephant's

POWERS OF INDEPENDENT OBSERVATIONS, AND REASONING FROM CAUSE TO EFFECT

While many wonderful stories are related of the elephant's sagacity and independent powers of reasoning, it must be admitted that a greater number of more wonderful anecdotes are told on equally good authority of dogs. But the circ.u.mstances in the case are wholly to the advantage of the universal dog, and against the rarely seen elephant. While the former roams at will through his master's premises, through town and country, mingling freely with all kinds of men and domestic animals, with unlimited time to lay plans and execute them, the elephant in captivity is chained to a stake, with no liberty of action whatever aside from begging with his trunk, eating and drinking. His only amus.e.m.e.nt is in swaying his body, swinging one foot, switching his tail, and (in a zoological park) looking for something that he can open or destroy. Such a ponderous beast cannot be allowed to roam at large among human beings, and the working elephant never leaves his stake and chain except under the guidance of his mahout. There is no means of estimating the wonderful powers of reasoning that captive elephants might develop if they could only enjoy the freedom accorded to all dogs except the blood-hound, bull-dog and a few others.

In the jungles of India the writer frequently has seen wild elephants reconnoitre dangerous ground by means of a scout or spy; communicate intelligence by signs; retreat in orderly silence from a lurking danger, and systematically march, in single file, like the jungle tribes of men.

Once having approached to within fifty yards of the stragglers of a herd of about thirty wild elephants, which was scattered over about four acres of very open forest and quietly feeding, two individuals of the herd on the side nearest us suddenly suspected danger. One of them elevated his trunk, with the tip bent forward, and smelled the air from various points of the compa.s.s. A moment later an old elephant left the herd and started straight for our ambush, scenting the air with upraised trunk as he slowly and noiselessly advanced. We instantly retreated, un.o.bserved and unheard. The elephant advanced until he reached the identical spot where we had a moment before been concealed. He paused, and stood motionless as a statue for about two minutes, then wheeled about and quickly but noiselessly rejoined the herd. In less than half a minute the whole herd was in motion, heading directly away from us, and moving very rapidly, but _without the slightest noise_. The huge animals simply vanished like shadows into the leafy depths of the forest. Before proceeding a quarter of a mile, the entire herd formed in single file and continued strictly in that order for several miles. Like the human dwellers in the jungle, the elephants know that the easiest and most expeditious way for a large body of animals to traverse a tangled forest is for the leader to pick the way, while all the others follow in his footsteps.

In strong contrast with the stealthy and noiseless manner in which elephants steal away from a lurking danger, or an ambush discovered, from an open attack accompanied with the noise of fire-arms they rush away at headlong speed, quite regardless of the noise they make. On one occasion a herd which I was designing to attack, and had approached to within forty yards, as its members were feeding in some thick bushes, discovered my presence and retreated so silently that they had been gone five minutes before I discovered what their sudden quietude really meant. In this instance, as in several others, the still alarm was communicated by silent signals, or sign-language.

At the Zoological Park we reared an African pygmy elephant (_Elephas pumilio_). When his slender little tusks grew to eighteen inches in length he made some interesting uses of them.

Once when the keepers wished to lead him upon our large platform scales, the trembling of the platform frightened him. He conceived the idea that it was unsafe, and therefore that he must keep off.

He backed away, halted, and refused to leave solid ground. The men pushed him. He backed, and trumpeted a shrill protest. The men pushed harder, and forced him forward. Trumpeting his wild alarm and his protest against what he regarded as murder, he fell upon his knees and drove his tusks into the earth, quite up to his mouth, to anchor himself firmly to the solid ground. It was pathetic, but also amusing. When Congo finally was pushed upon the scales and weighed, he left the trembling instrument of torture with an air of disgust and disapproval that was quite as eloquent as words. On several occasions when taken out for exercise in the park, he endeavored to hinder the return to quarters by anchoring himself to Mother Earth.

Congo once startled us by his knowledge of the usefulness of doors. For a time he was kept in a compartment that had an outside door running sidewise on a trolley track, and controlled by two hanging chains, one to close it and one to open it. Each chain had on its end a stout iron ring for a handle. One chilly morning when I went to see Congo, I asked his keeper to open his door, so that he could go out.

The keeper did so, by pulling the right hand chain. The moment the draft of chilly outer air struck Congo, who stood in the centre of his stall facing me, he impatiently wheeled about, walked up to the left hand chain, grabbed it with his trunk, slipped the ring over one of his tusks, then inclined his head downward and with an irritated tug pulled the door shut with a spiteful slam. "Open it again," I said to the keeper.

He did so, and in the same way, but with a visible increase in irritation, Congo closed it in the same manner as before. Again the keeper opened the door, and this time, with a real exhibition of temper Congo again thrust the ring over his tusk, and brought the door shut with a resounding bang. It was his regular habit to close that door, or to open it, when he felt like more air or less air; and who is there who will say that the act was due to "instinct" in a jungle-bred animal, or anything else than original thought. The ring on his tusk was his own invention, as a means to a desired end.

Every elephant that we ever have had has become, through his own initiative and experimenting, an expert in unfastening the latches of doors and gates, and in untying chains and ropes. Gunda always knew enough to attack the padlocks on his leg chains, and break them if possible. No ordinary clevis would hold him. When the pin was threaded at one end and screwed into its place, Gunda would work at it, hour by hour, until he would start it to uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, and then his trunk-tip would do the rest. The only clevis that he could not open was one in which a stout cotter pin was pa.s.sed through the end of the clevis-pin and strongly bent.

Through reasons emanating in his own savage brain, Gunda took strong dislikes to several of our park people. He hated d.i.c.k Richards,--the keeper of Alice. He hated a certain messenger boy, a certain laborer, a painter and Mr. Ditmars. Toward me he was tolerant, and never rushed at me to kill me, as he always did to his pet aversions. He stood in open fear of his own keeper, Walter Thuman, until he had studied out a plan to catch him off his guard and "get him." Then he launched his long-contemplated attack, and Thuman was almost killed.

Our present (1921) male African elephant, Kartoum, is not so hostile toward people, but his insatiable desire is to break and to smash all of his environment that can be bent or broken. His ingenuity in finding ways to damage doors and gates, and to bend or to break steel beams, is amazing. His greatest feat consisted in breaking squarely in two, by pushing with his head, a 90-pound steel railroad iron used as the top bar of his fence. He knows the mechanism of the latch of the ponderous steel door between his two box stalls, and nothing but a small pin that only human fingers can manipulate suffices to thwart his efforts to control the latch.

Kartoum has gone over every inch of surface of his two apartments, his doors, gates and fences, to find something that he can break or damage. The steel linings of his apartment walls, originally five feet high, we have been compelled to extend upward to a height of nine feet, to save the brick walls from being battered and disfigured. He has searched his steel fences throughout, in order to find their weakest points, and concentrate his attacks upon them. If the sharp-pointed iron spikes three inches long that are set all over his doors are perfectly solid, he respects them, but if one is the least bit loose in its socket, he works at it until he finally breaks it off.

I invite any Doubting Thomas who thinks that Kartoum does not "think" and "reason" to try his own thinking and reasoning at inventing for Kartoum's door a latch that a keeper can easily and surely open and close at a distance of ten feet, and that will be Kartoum-proof. As for ourselves, three or four seemingly intelligent officers and keepers, and a capable foreman of construction, have all they can do to keep ahead of that one elephant, so great is his ingenuity in thwarting our ways and means to restrain him.

In about two days of effort our elephant keepers taught Gunda to receive a coin from the hand of a visitor, or pick it off the floor, lift the lid of a high-placed cash-box, drop the coin into it and ring a bell. This very amusing industry was kept up for several years, but finally it became so popular that it had to be discontinued.

Keeper d.i.c.k Richards easily taught Alice to blow a mouth organ, and to ring a telephone, to take the receiver off its hook and hold it to her ear and listen. For years Alice has rendered, every summer, valuable services of a serious nature in carrying children and other visitors around her yard, and only once or twice has she shown a contrary or obstinate spirit.

Tame elephants never tread on the feet of their attendants or knock them down by accident; or, at least, no instances of the kind have come to my knowledge. The elephant's feet are large, his range of vision is circ.u.mscribed, and his extreme and wholly voluntary solicitude for the safety of his human attendants can not be due to anything else than independent reasoning. The most intelligent dog is apt to greet his master by planting a pair of dirty paws against his coat or trousers. The most sensible carriage-horse is liable to step on his master's foot or crowd him against a wall in a moment of excitement; but even inside the keddah, with wild elephants all about, and a captive elephant hemmed in by three or four tame animals, the noosers safely work under the bodies and between the feet of the tame elephant until the feet of the captive are tied.

All who have witnessed the tying of captives in a keddah wherein a whole wild herd has been entrapped, testify to the uncanny human- like quality of the intelligence displayed by the tame elephants who a.s.sist in tying, leading out and subjugating the wild captives. They enter into the business with both spirit and understanding, and as occasion requires will deceitfully cajole or vigorously punish a troublesome captive. Sir Emerson Tennent a.s.serts that the tame elephants display the most perfect conception of every movement, both of the object to be attained and the means to accomplish it.

Memory in the Elephant. So far as memory may be regarded as an index of an animal's mental capacity, the weight of evidence is most convincingly creditable to the elephant. As a test of memory in an animal, we hold that a trained performance surpa.s.ses all others. During the past forty years millions of people have witnessed in either Barnum's or Ringling Brothers' shows, or in the two combined, an imitation military drill performed by from twelve to twenty elephants which in animals of any other species would be considered a remarkable performance. The following were the commands given by one trainer, understood and remembered by each elephant, and executed without any visible hesitation or mistake. These we will call the

Accomplishments of Performing Elephants.

1. Fall in line.

2. Roll-call. (As each elephant's name is called, he takes his place in the ranks).

3. Present arms. (The trunk is uplifted, with its tip curved forward and held in that position for a short time.)

4. Forward, march.

5. File left, march.

6. Right about face, march.

7. Left about face, march.

8. Right by twos, march.

9. Double quick, march.

10. Single file, march.

11. File right.

12. Halt.

13. Ground arms. (All lie down, and lie motionless.)

14. Attention (All arise.)

15. Shoulder arms. (All stand up on their hind-legs.)

In all, fifteen commands were obeyed by the whole company of elephants.

It being impossible, or at least impracticable, to supply so large a number of animals with furniture and stage properties for a further universal performance, certain individuals were supplied with the proper articles when necessary for a continuation of the performance, as follows:

16. Ringing bells.

17. Climbing up a step-ladder.

18. Going lame in a fore leg.

19. Going lame in a hind leg.

20. Stepping up on a tub turned bottom up.