him gently, and he had hardly uttered a few words when the elephant listened, calm and peaceable. The crowds understood nothing of the stranger's speech — only Bozo: it was plain that he alone understood. Then

his huge body ceased its trembling, and he stood motionless as a statue while the strange, tender voice hummed in his ear — and suddenly he murmured in a weak, sad voice like a child's complaint, and began tilting his head right and left.

The stranger drew closer and patted with his hand the trunk, which curled around the caressing hand,

and the two walked together about the cage amid the cheers of the crowds.

The stranger left the cage and said to the elephant's owner:

— Nothing frightening has happened to Bozo — he is only complaining of homesickness! I spoke to him in the Hindi tongue he heard from his infancy; that is all, as you see.

And the strange man went away; as for the elephant's owner, he read over again the paper in his hand, and there at the bottom was the signature: Rudyard Kipling!