Matthew Scott - Autobiography of Matthew Scott, Jumbo's Keeper; also Jumbo's Biography (Matthew Scott) - illustrated - (Literary Thoughts Edition)

Sometimes, as the steamer pitched forward, the screw propeller would come to the surface of the waters, and I tell you, my dear readers, that it required some real nerve to sit on the side of the ship with legs dangling over the side, holding on by my left arm to the rigging, and feeding the birds with the right hand, in a rather rough sea. Yet that was, I found, about as good a place to sit as any other, and somewhat better to view the graceful actions of these birds of the briny deep, as the pretty creatures battled with the wind over the mighty waters, which man has not been fully able to master.

There is only one Master of these elements.

When I was a boy in a Sunday-school, we used to sing the following simple hymn, which a thousand times recurs to my mind. I think it apropos to introduce it here, it tells how the waters were mastered only once, and then by the “Great Master.”

“A little ship was on the sea,

It was a pretty sight,

It sailed along so pleasantly,

And all was calm and bright.

When lo! a storm began to rise;

The wind blew loud and strong,

It blew the waves across the sky,

It blew the waves along,

And all but One were sore afraid

Of sinking in the deep.

His head was on a pillow laid,

And he was fast asleep.

‘Master, we perish; master, save!’

He rose; rebuked the wind and wave,

And stilled them with a word.

And well we know it was the Lord,

Our Saviour and our Friend,

Whose care of those who love his word

Will never, never end.”

But to continue the story of my experiences on the voyage. As I sat in the position heretofore described, I fed these seagulls, and the pleasure and delight that filled my soul as the hundreds of birds swooped down from their heights to the surface of the troubled waters was very great. They picked up every crumb, and that without confusion. There was no scrambling for the food, such as was indulged in by the poor two-legged creatures down in the steerage, when the steward pitched his tin of fish or flesh on the floor of the cabin. The bird that first reached a crumb of bread took it up, and the others soared away to take another chance, which I soon gave them. I learned much from these birds in their native element, to be added to my stock of knowledge gathered from them in their imprisoned state in the Gardens at Knowsley, and at the Zoölogical Gardens, London.

Now, if I had not sacrificed a little comfort, and taken the trouble to feed them, they would not have had the confidence in me which to my mind they plainly exhibited. Nor would I have learned their ways. I could tell the reader a great deal more of the habits of these birds, but lack of space prevents me doing so.

The real lover of the feathered tribes always feeds and nurses them. It is a fact that you cannot love, or have the affection of any bird or other animal, without attending to its wants, to some extent.

I was about five years in charge of the parrots at Knowsley, and was very fond of them. In fact, to be candid, I was loth to leave them; but as I had grown into a sharp, active stripling of a lad, as nimble and as athletic as a young panther, I was told to go up higher, and was appointed keeper to those most beautiful and graceful of all animals, the deers and antelopes, as well as some other larger natives of the forest.

I passed several years in this position, growing up into manhood, at times contending actively with the wilder and more unmanageable animals. I have read in the good old Bible of young David having killed the lion, when he was keeping his father’s sheep on the plains of Palestine.

My experience teaches me that the statement of David is true, and I can understand how, without any use of miraculous power, the stripling could and did slay the lion. I know how it is done, and can do it if necessary, and could have done it when I was a stripling of seventeen years of age. But I would rather heal a sore, take a thorn out of a foot, nurse an animal through inflammation of the bowels, with its disagreeable attending consequences, than I would slay any brute.

But, perhaps, my readers may think this a weakness. However, I respectfully but firmly disagree with you, and take the negative side.

Why, I have nursed “Jumbo,” the largest, most intelligent, and certainly the most powerful living animal in creation. He weighs nearly eight tons; he stands to-day nearly twelve feet high in his “bare feet.” He can swing by his step, at “walking gait,” the largest suspension bridge that man has ever built. He is now at his majority, and ready for all the duties of manhood. He was given to me a baby, and I have been more than a father to him, for I have performed the duties and bestowed the affections of a mother as far as my humble ability would permit. I am proud of my boy, “Jumbo.” All the experience shared with him is a pleasure to me, and is a great reward, which I am thankful for in these my older days. I feel them creeping on, but so long as I am permitted the company of dear old Jumbo, I shall be quite contented.

If Jumbo goes on growing to the average age of man, when he arrives at that figure he will be a prodigious monster. I don’t know what he will grow into either in mind or instinct (call it what you like). I know this, that I am happy in his company, and do not wish to leave it. We are close companions, and if he lives until my death I verily believe it will break his heart. If he survives me, I don’t know who can possibly associate with him, for ever since I brought him away from his wife Alice, whom we left in England, he has been extremely fractious in his temper even with me, and no one else can venture near him if they value their lives.

But to return to my story.

After I had spent some years in the wild beast department at Knowsley, the old earl died, and we buried him with his fathers.

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