African Lion, The (1955)

[bunniefuu]

From ancient times,
the great landmass of Africa

has been called the Dark Continent.

The name came
from the early mapmakers.

They knew so little
of this unexplored region,

they left it a blank on their charts.

For centuries
it remained a land of mystery,

for Africa, like an ancient fortress,
was surrounded by natural barriers

that kept civilization out.

Across the north, a vast desert,
the impassable Sahara.

On the west, a dense jungle,

a wall of tangled underbrush
along the Congo.

In the south, an arid bush country.

And on the eastern shore,

fever-ridden swamps
became a barricade

to all who would inv*de this land.

In time, of course,
explorers penetrated nature's blockade.

And in the dark heart of Africa,
they found a primitive paradise.

It was neither desert nor jungle,

but a broad plain, broken by forests,

deep lakes, and towering peaks.

The dominating landmark

is the highest mountain
on the continent.

It stands practically on the equator.

This is Mount Kilimanjaro,
rising 19,000 feet into the African sky.

Its crest, thrusting through the clouds,
wears a permanent mantle of snow.

Here in its shadow, our story begins,
for this is the realm of the African lion.

Enter the king of beasts,

a monarch
come to review his subjects.

Largest member of the cat family,

the lion roams and rules
a vast territory.

On this immense pastureland,

he finds endless herds
of grazing animals.

Here are multitudes beyond counting.

And here in this natural spectacle
is nature's infinite pattern and plan.

At the moment,
it's a picture of peace and plenty.

Yet over this sun-drenched setting

there hovers constantly
the shadow of death.

And the lion is its messenger,

for these grazing species are his food.

And since this is a True-Life Adventure
in nature's Africa,

where we meet tragedy,
we may expect to see it.

And where we find life born anew,
we will pause to view that, too.

The ruler and the ruled.

The eaters of meat and
the eaters of grass, all living together.

Nowhere else in the world
does nature mix her species

in such profusion and variety.

This is the wildebeest,
sometimes called the gnu.

A species of antelope,

he and his kind
are favorite prey of the lion.

This is a distant cousin, the hartebeest,
and he's hunted by the great cats, too.

The zebra is the native horse of Africa.

His stripes would seem
to make him conspicuous,

yet he's rarely taken unaware,

for he's one of the most alert
of animals.

The waterbuck also stays on guard,

counting on dagger-sharp horns
for protection.

To the sable antelope
nature gave a pair of curving cutlasses

and the skill to use them.

But when it comes to
really fancy headgear,

the kudu is in a class by himself.

The tiny gazelles are more or less
ignored by the king of beasts.

He considers them
hardly big enough for a meal.

And here's a species
that's barely tidbit-size.

This is the dik-dik.

Smallest of all the antelope,
he stands 14 inches at the shoulder,

just about the size of a small dog.

This is the gerenuk, sometimes known
as the giraffe antelope.

Long on neck
and short on nourishment,

he's another
the lion chooses to pass up.

The impala, however,
are more to a king's taste.

But like all antelope,
they're extremely agile

and almost impossible
to take by surprise.

These are impala in action.

They can cover 30 feet at a bound.

The eland, largest of all the antelope,

also keeps in practice
for a quick getaway.

By some strange instinct,

the grazing animals can tell
when lions are hunting.

If the big cats are just passing through,

the herds will let them come
surprisingly close.

Of course, there's no point
in taking too many chances,

and often a committee keeps tabs
on the prowler.

The lion is one among many
on these plains,

and all have a part to play
in nature's primitive pageant.

Occasionally, the great cats
find themselves

in the company of some little dogs,
the wild dogs of Africa.

Individually, these small predators

would be outmatched
by almost any adversary.

But when they combine their numbers,
it's a different story.

They run in a pack, like wolves,

and are a constant thr*at
to the grazing herds.

Among the grass eaters, there's
one animal who's rarely molested.

He's the African buffalo.

The full-grown bull often carries horns
spreading four feet across.

These broaden at the base
to form a thick shield over the skull.

And so the buffalo, head-on at least,
is practically invulnerable.

Even the king of beasts treats this
formidable fellow with respect.

The warthog, too,
is well-prepared for defense.

His tusks are razor-edged
and ready for action.

And yet, given the chance,
he almost always chooses retreat.

But not with his tail between his legs.

This appendage
he carries proudly erect,

a signal to his family that says,
"Follow me."

Sharp eye and sharper beak.

This is the African vulture.

Wherever these birds appear,
it's a sign of disaster.

As nature's scavengers, the vultures
lead a precarious existence

where they're in constant competition
with others of their sort.

And the rivalry includes jackals,

who now try to keep
some carrion they've found.

But since there's no honor
among thieves,

the vultures take possession
by sheer weight of numbers.

In nature's scheme of things,

there's room for robbers
as well as royalty.

And so the scavengers are as much
a part of the African setting

as the lion himself.

Of all the strange creatures
in the lion's domain,

none can top the giraffe,
the tallest animal in the world.

He's three times the height
of a tall man.

In fact, his neck alone
is sometimes seven feet in length.

The giraffe has a reputation for silence,

yet on rare occasions,
he can make a sound.

It's a weak one, to be sure,
a sort of high-pitched grunt.

And for all practical purposes,
he remains a mute animal.

Here's an odd pastime.

It's like dueling with buggy whips.

Right now
it's a simple sparring practice,

but during the mating season,
when they're serious,

the blows can be fatal.

On the sidelines, a group of critics
pass on the finer points of technique.

And here's a case of every spectator
having a perfect vantage point.

The one time the giraffe has trouble
with his long neck

is when he drinks.

This is the moment
when he's vulnerable to his enemies.

But when danger threatens,
he can show surprising speed.

He looks like he's running on stilts,

but his long stride
soon takes him out of harm's way.

To match the giraffe's height,
nature put his dinner table in the attic.

And so he's a browser

who finds a special diet
in the high foliage of the African trees.

For some strange reason,
he favors the thorn acacia.

He avoids its sharp spines, however,
by means of an extra-long tongue

which can reach between them.

The giraffe is a gentle creature,

one who never gives
his neighbors trouble.

But this can hardly be said
of the rhinoceros.

This grumpy species goes around
with a grudge against everybody.

When he hides like this,
he's not playing games.

There are two tons of bad disposition
behind those spears,

and if he charges,
he's as dangerous as an armored t*nk.

The name "rhinoceros"
means "horned nose."

These barbarous weapons, however,
are not true horns,

but masses of hardened fibers.

The African rhino carries two,
for double duty.

Because they're so unpredictable,

the rhinos are avoided
by most other animals.

But this social neglect
doesn't faze them.

They continue on their way,
as ill-mannered as ever,

and they work off their bad tempers
by chasing each other.

The African lion is nothing more
than an overgrown cat,

and like all the tribe,
he likes his comforts.

In fact, he's just about
the laziest animal alive.

And when lions decide to relax,
it's catnapping on a grand scale.

A family of lions is called a pride,

and it includes anywhere from
half a dozen to two dozen members,

all the relatives of several generations.

Unlike most cats,
the lions are family-minded,

and the pride tends to be
more or less permanent.

In rotation, the youngsters grow up,
find themselves mates

and raise their own crop of cubs,

the usual litter being four to six.

In the nursery, the youngsters follow
the lazy example set by their elders

and work as little as possible
for their keep.

They nurse with any lioness
that's handy,

and whose mother belongs to whom
doesn't seem to matter.

The lion cub is naturally playful,

and his kittenish actions reveal a close
kinship with his domestic cousins.

In fact, this playfulness
continues even into adulthood.

At this age, however, even in play,
there's the natural instinct for the k*ll,

and the lunge for the throat
is a*t*matic.

Being true cats, the lions haven't
forgotten how to climb.

But since they almost never
leap on their prey from above,

they have no real need for this ability.

And so when a lion climbs a tree,
it's only for the view.

Around home, the king of beasts
is just another helpless,

good-for-nothing male animal.

The real head of the royal household
is the lioness,

and when she wants
His Majesty's place in the shade,

she says so in no uncertain terms.

And the youngsters know
who's boss, too.

They side with Mother every time.

Aside from occasional squabbles,
the pride is one big happy family.

And as long as everybody's well-fed,

they spend their days
in leisurely contentment.

But if an outsider from another territory
moves in, there's a sudden change.

A strange lioness has no place
in the inner circle.

And before she quite knows
what's happened,

she's surrounded by snarling fury.

This is a battle of the females.

For some reason,
the mothers in the pride

seem to feel this visiting lioness
is a menace to their cubs.

Their logic is a bit obscure, perhaps,
but their actions are perfectly clear.

The male lion plays a minor part
in the affair.

He seems to participate
only because it's expected of him.

But up against an enraged lioness,
his heart isn't really in it.

In the end,
the intruder manages to b*at a retreat,

considerably the worse for wear.

And now that peace has been restored,

the pride resumes
its normal lazy routine.

But now, some more outsiders
arrive on the scene,

and the elephants
may not be so easily driven away.

Here comes the herd bull,

with something more on his mind
than a social call.

Elephants are used to having
their own way,

and this one,
with the herd in his charge,

obviously doesn't want lions
in the vicinity.

This time, the lions choose discretion
and a dignified withdrawal.

Indeed, if there's one species
to whom the king of beasts

might concede his royal prerogatives,
it's the African elephant.

In this primitive pageant,
these giants loom largest of all.

In size, the elephants of Africa
far surpass their cousins in Asia.

In fact, these modern mammoths

are the largest mammals
that walk the Earth.

In Africa, as everywhere else, the
daily dilemma of each creature is food.

And the elephant,
with the biggest appetite,

has the biggest problem.

He consumes great quantities of grass,

but he finds it only an appetizer and
takes his main course from the forest.

Strictly a vegetarian,
and by habit a browser,

he eats leaves, branches and all.

These huge animals
weigh from six to eight tons apiece,

and they consume
a good part of their weight every day.

Dinner is a long, drawn-out affair.
It takes time to fill an elephant.

He's a slow eater, but a thorough one.

Methodically, he strips the trees
of whole branches at a time.

The elephant's trunk serves as an arm,
a hand, and a set of fingers all in one.

It's an all-purpose instrument,

amazingly sensitive
and handy for all sorts of jobs,

from the biggest to the most delicate.

Often when he's brought his branch
to the ground,

the elephant anchors it with his foot

and pulls off bite-size twigs
with his trunk.

He understands
the principle of leverage,

and if he finds himself
with a limb that won't break,

he simply applies extra pressure
with his huge tusks.

The tusks of the average bull
weigh about 50 pounds each,

but record pairs weighing 150 pounds
apiece have been known.

Both the male
and the female have them,

and with these handy tools,
there's little that can resist them.

They sometimes
uproot a full-grown tree.

In the struggle for existence,

an elephant with only one tusk
is at a disadvantage,

yet this isn't an unusual plight,
especially among the very old bulls.

Put eight tons of pressure
on even the best of ivory and it breaks.

This wrinkled patriarch
may be 100, 200 years old.

No one can know for sure.

An elephant's age is his own secret,

and in the wild, the years of
an individual can only be estimated.

It's believed, however,
that the lifespan of an elephant

slightly exceeds that of man,

averaging somewhere between
80 and 100 years.

It's definitely known that the elephant
reaches maturity at about 20.

In his teens,
he's still cutting youthful capers.

At birth,
the baby elephant weighs 200 pounds.

In most families
that would be a whopper,

but in this company, he's just a baby.

This little fellow is actually
only 12 hours old,

and he's having trouble
matching his mother's gigantic strides.

The young of most species
are naturally playful,

and a baby elephant is no exception.

He gets a childish pleasure
out of chasing the egrets

that often follow the elephants.

These birds are attracted to the insects

the herd stirs up
as it moves through the grass.

But now the tables are turned,

and they're the ones
being made to scatter.

Young master elephant
may be small fry in his own league,

but in this one,
he can really throw his weight around.

Although the elephant
is called a pachyderm,

which means "thick-skinned,"

his hide isn't nearly as impervious
as it seems.

And so he tries to protect himself
against the bites of bothersome insects

by taking frequent dust baths.

Elephants are herd animals,

and the herds vary in numbers
from only a few to a great many.

This is the elephant version
of a freight train.

Count the cars and you'll find 110.

While the herd system
provides protection for the young,

it's hardly necessary for the adults.

With their
tremendous size and strength,

elephants, full-grown,
have no natural enemies.

The one thing elephants must have
is water,

and they make long marches to find it.

It takes a good-sized water hole just
to meet their drinking requirements.

Now the versatile trunk
serves as a flexible water hose.

We humans do well to drink our eight
glasses, about two quarts, in a day.

But an elephant siphons up that much
in every trunk-full.

A thirsty elephant can take on
14 gallons of liquid refreshment,

and even Mr. Half-Pint
drinks it by the bucket.

Here's a pair of tusks
that almost got out of control,

and they make drinking
something of a problem.

And then there's the fellow
who makes a game out of it.

Finally, the hose is hung
on a built-in drying rack.

But the ritual at the water hole
has barely begun.

Now, with his thirst satisfied,

the elephant turns his attention
to a shower.

There's no hot and cold, of course,
and it's the muddiest kind of water.

But the elephant enjoys it in spite of all.

To him it's cool and it's wet,
and that's all that matters.

And then comes the big rinse,
and this is the most fun of all.

Ordinarily,
elephants stick to shallow water.

But if they do get beyond their depth,
they are excellent swimmers.

And if one submerges,

he keeps his trunk above the surface
as a breathing tube.

For all its handiness, however,

there's one place an elephant's trunk
just won't reach.

Well, it's been simply grand,
this monumental mud bath,

but all this splashing about
has posed a sticky problem.

How to hoist six tons of elephant
up the slippery banks?

But finally, with a dry footing,
everybody makes the grade,

including the six-tonners.

Here at the water hole,
many species come and go.

But to the hippopotamus, this is home.

A true water animal, the hippo is
thoroughly adapted to his element.

He favors the marshy backwaters,

where he can wallow
to his heart's content.

And he finds
a good mud hole irresistible,

for after all,
the hippo is related to the pig.

Second only to the elephant in size,

the hippopotamus measures 13 feet
around the waistline

and often achieves a bulk of four tons,

yet he's surprisingly agile,
both on land and in the water.

He's usually peaceable,

yet he's well able to take care of himself

in a mock battle, or in the real thing.

The power in these ponderous jaws
is tremendous.

This, except for the whale's,

is the biggest mouth
in all the animal kingdom.

It was the ancient Greeks
who gave the hippopotamus his name.

It means "river horse."

And when his horsy face
is seen like this, the name certainly fits.

Occasionally, company comes to call,
and of course it's for dinner.

This bird is interested
in the tiny parasites that live on hippos.

He's called the lily-trotter,
from his habit of walking on lily pads.

But he's also a hippo hopper,

and his exaggerated feet
are perfect for the footwork required.

The bird makes himself
a sort of personal valet

and goes about tidying up
here and there.

He checks eyebrows
to see if they need plucking.

A bird beautician, as it were.

There's really not much you can do
to help this face, but he keeps trying.

Sometimes he gets carried away
by his enthusiasm.

Then his client gives him the brush-off
by going below.

The hippo's balloon-like build
gives him buoyancy,

and he moves through this underwater
dream world practically without effort.

He's able to close
both his nose and his ears,

and his great lung capacity permits
submersion for minutes at a time.

To renew his air supply, he need only
poke his nostrils above the surface.

The hippo associates with some
strange companions. Now it's the fish.

He's not especially interested
in his finny friends,

but they're more than a little
interested in him.

Here's one of nature's
unexplained puzzles,

why the fish are attracted to the hippo.

It's a good guess, however, that they
feed on his brand of parasites.

These are a carp-like species
called the barbel.

They give him a thorough going-over.

And here's the odd spectacle
of a fish fishing, of all places,

inside a hippo's mouth.

Attracted by all the commotion,
a passerby crashes the party.

This is the crocodile.

And he, too,
has a place in this submarine setting.

Crocodile, barbel, hippopotamus.
Reptile, fish, mammal.

A strange affinity in a strange world.

In nature, the intellect of her creatures

ranges from the not-so-bright
to the near-brilliant.

And for native intelligence,
few can match the African baboon.

Witness his choice of a home.
A rock castle, perfect for defense.

Here's a fortress he can hold
against all comers, even lions.

At times, the baboon appears
to be almost foolhardy,

but he knows every cavern
in these rocks,

and he's counting on a speedy
disappearing act if he needs it.

But lions have more important things
to do than chase baboons.

They know of easier game where
the chase has more chance of success,

and so they move on.

The baboons must leave
their rocky ramparts to feed,

for they are fanciers of
tender grasses, seeds, and insects.

And so for protection, they travel
in troops, numbering from 50 to 100.

The baboon possesses
both manual dexterity

and a discriminating eye,

and only the choicest pickings
satisfy his finicky palate.

Favorite on his list of delicacies
are the st*lks of water lilies.

The baby baboon is something
only a baboon could love.

And he certainly gives little hint
that he's a child prodigy.

The moment he finds himself a tree,
however, his talents bloom.

He's a natural-born trapeze artist.

Baboons are playful, mischievous
and full of pranks,

and the youngsters carry on a game

that is one long practical joke
on each other.

All this seems to develop a sort
of good-natured tolerance,

and family discipline
is seldom very strict.

Both parents participate
in bringing up the young,

and Father's just as willing
to baby-sit as Mother.

But sometimes
Junior isn't as willing as Father.

There's never a dull moment
in a colony of baboons.

Besides intelligence,
they possess a sense of humor, too,

and it shows up
at the most unexpected moments.

The worst enemy of the baboons
is the leopard,

often called the tiger of Africa.

He's not a true tiger, of course.
Their home is in Asia.

But for ferocity and cunning,
he more than takes their place.

Because of the leopards,

young baboons are never allowed
to stray off alone.

Mother's watchful eye
is always on them.

And wherever she goes, baby goes,
too, tucked away in a lower berth.

When he's a bit older,
the youngster rides in the rumble seat.

This keeps him from being underfoot

when the baboons drink with the herds
at the water hole.

In the kingdom of the African lion,
there are birds of many kinds.

And here's one who demonstrates
nature's flair for the freakish,

the ostrich.

Seven feet tall,
he towers above the grazing animals.

He's the largest of
all her feathered species.

Technically, this is a bird,

but he can't fly, can't sing,
can't even perch in a tree.

In fact, ostriches can't do any of
the things birds are supposed to do,

except lay the world's largest eggs
and raise extra-large families.

Twenty or more is the usual number
in the brood,

and it takes both parents to ride herd
on this many youngsters.

Here, the drab-colored hens
have charge,

but just as often,
it's the dapper male who's on duty.

Lacking the power of flight,

they've developed their own technique
for survival.

In this land
where so many predators roam,

they depend on long, strong legs
to carry them away from enemies.

With their enormous stride,

they can do upwards
of 40 miles an hour.

Long-legged birds are common
in the lion's domain.

He plays host to storks and cranes
of every sort.

The crowned crane
is a frequent visitor.

He comes bent on courtship,

and he goes about it
in a flamboyant fashion.

And here's a strutter called
the greater bustard.

He goes a-wooing
fluffed-out fore and aft.

It's hard to tell
whether he's coming or going.

And in this state, even he's not sure.

But when it comes to
really high-class strutting,

you can't just out-step
the secretary bird.

He's not showing off, though.
This is serious business.

He's b*ating the bush for his dinner.

This is how he kicks up a meal
of insects and small reptiles.

The feathers sticking out of his head
gave him his name.

They resemble the old-fashioned quill
pens stuck behind a secretary's ear.

The courser is a wading bird
who practically never wades.

He gets his living on the dry plains,

and in the process,
performs a peculiar dance.

And when he trips the light fantastic,
it's a triple trip with a double dip.

In the kingdom of the African lion,
there are only two seasons:

wet and dry.

For the grazing animals,

this simply means a time
when water holes are numerous

and a time when they're not.

For these nomads, life depends
on good water and good grass.

It's when the grass is new
that the young are born.

At birth, the wildebeest calf is weak,

yet is expected to accomplish
the near-impossible.

In a matter of seconds,
he must learn to walk and to run,

for on these wide plains,
fleetness of foot is the only protection.

The predators of the plain are many,
and it's the young they pursue most.

Quick to size up an opportunity,
the leopard plans his strategy.

He knows that the wildebeest,
though fleet of foot, are slow-witted.

He will turn their stupidity
to his advantage.

The leopard hunts by stealth, and now
he moves toward a likely-looking tree,

for his specialty is ambush
from overhead.

A leopard that guesses wrong
goes hungry,

but some strange instinct has told him
the herd will pass this way.

And so, for the moment,
he's content to watch and wait.

Sure enough,
his guess was a good one.

And now, the leopard goes about
his deadly business

with a grim deliberation.

He knows he'll have only one chance.

The instant he reveals himself,
the herd will stampede.

He moves lower, closer.

The nearer he gets,
the less chance of a miss.

And all the while, the milling herd
has no hint of his presence.

Now he drops.

When the leopard strikes,
it's like a lightning bolt from the sky,

and for hours afterwards,

the wildebeest will mill about
in wild confusion.

Sometimes, the African drama is harsh,

yet this is the reality of Africa.

Life and death,
a cycle in endless repetition.

And this is nature's way.

Some shall live for tomorrow,
and some shall die today.

And so, what is tragedy for one
means survival for another.

Before he dines, however,

the leopard carries his prize
into the tree.

This is a practice typical of leopards,

their way of refusing to share
with the scavengers of the plain.

Among the great cats of Africa,

the cheetah is a matchless hunter,
surpassing even the leopard.

Records of her prowess exist
from ancient times,

for Egyptian hieroglyphics
portray the cheetah in action.

The kings of Egypt recognized
the animals' amazing abilities,

and they trained these graceful
creatures as royal hunting cats.

Slim at the waist,
long through the shoulder,

the cheetah looks more
like a greyhound than a cat.

She walks high like a hound,

and this added height
gives her an abnormal stride.

An extra-large chest,
great lung capacity, rangy muscles

all mean tremendous endurance.

Strangely, one part of her
seems undersized,

the small head jutting out
like some sort of gargoyle.

It almost appears to have been placed
on the wrong body.

And yet it suits nature's purpose,

for everything about the cheetah
is streamlined for super-speed.

Here is the swiftest runner
in all the animal kingdom.

Full out, she can do
an incredible 80 miles an hour.

And so, she simply runs her prey
into the ground.

The sight of a cheetah on the prowl
alerts the gazelles.

They grow tense,
ready for instant flight.

When the cat-greyhound slips
into her ground-consuming stride,

the herd knows it's time to scatter.

In their panic,
some run directly alongside.

But the cat ignores them.

She's picked her victim
somewhere up ahead.

One among all these is doomed,

unless some miraculous escape
takes place.

And in a race with a cheetah,
few escape.

Living as they do,
in the midst of teeming herds,

it would seem the lions
would never go hungry.

And yet, the task of making a k*ll
isn't as easy as it looks.

It involves strategy and skill,
and sometimes, downright luck.

Day in, day out, the male lion seems
to do little of the actual hunting.

Lazy as ever, His Majesty sits on
the sidelines and strikes a kingly pose,

while the role of provider
is left to the ladies.

And so, it's the lioness
who must take the field.

Her problem is to get close to her prey.

Unlike the cheetah,
she's only good for a short sprint.

After that, the hoofed animals
can easily outdistance her.

She must reach these wildebeest

before they have a chance
to get underway.

It seems a simple matter
to come within striking distance,

yet it requires all the stealth
at her command.

After this first failure,
the lioness saves her energy.

At this rate, the hunt may be long
and discouraging.

If only friend-husband would do
his part here, things might be easier.

A vain hope, however,

for the royal spouse
still rests on his laurels

and wonders what's holding up lunch.

But this is no time to worry
about lazy males.

There's a meal yet to be won,
and a whole pride to be fed.

And now the ladies join forces to work
a strategy commonly used by lions.

The leader circles on a roundabout
course to get behind the herd.

Meanwhile, her colleagues approach
from the front.

They walk in plain sight,

their purpose,
to distract the herd's attention.

The trap is about to be sprung.

But now the wildebeest detects
her presence.

But with lions behind and lions in front,
which way shall he run?

Instinctively, the lioness seizes
the jugular vein.

The end is quick and sure.

Once a k*ll is made, it must be shared
with the rest of the pride.

And now as the clan begins to gather,
His Majesty, at last, bestirs himself.

Hungry lions seem to materialize
from everywhere.

Uncles, aunts, cousins,
nieces, nephews,

all come on the double
to claim a portion of the feast.

Given the chance to dine,
lions gorge themselves,

fighting each other
for the choicest bits.

Against all these mighty appetites,
a single k*ll doesn't last long.

And all across the African plain,

this ancient pattern
is repeated again and again.

One day, it's a zebra
who falls prey to the pride.

The victims vary,
but the outcome is the same,

food for the lions and their cubs.

On rare occasions,
a young giraffe is the casualty,

for even among the most wary,
luck may eventually run out.

There are times
when the king of beasts

tries to keep the dinner all to himself,
and then bitter squabbles develop.

It's quite a trick, keeping a carcass
from the rest of the pride.

But here's a lioness who's managed
to reserve a remnant for her cubs.

And now she drags it
toward their hiding place.

If she's lucky, she and her youngsters
will have a banquet all to themselves.

But she's forgotten the scavengers.

Now the jackals join the parade,
ready to dart in at the first opportunity.

They're experts at petty theft,

for they spend their lives following
the lions and living on their leavings.

These fearless little thieves
will face a lioness anytime,

when her back is turned.

Now the hyenas pop up from nowhere,
anxious to join the party.

And overhead,
the vultures materialize out of thin air

and drop in for a free meal.

Vulture, jackal, hyena, scavengers all.

Yet even these, nature counts useful

for they serve her purpose in keeping
the plain free of carrion.

By the time these hangers-on have
taken their toll, there's not much left.

Finally, it's a battle for the bare bones.

This contest between the lioness
and her camp followers never ends,

except in a momentary stand-off,

yet this is nature's way
of providing for all.

The lions k*ll that many may survive.

And, of course, this includes
the families of the scavengers.

This is nature's plan,

that every scrap of food on the plain
find its way to some hungry mouth.

On the ground below, meanwhile,
the lion cubs arrive.

And it's a meager meal
they find waiting.

Other members of the pride
come forward, too,

to mighty slim pickings,

for after doing all the work,
this is the lion's share.

And poor Mother, as usual, ends up
with the part that went over the hill last.

Since the little meal had to go
such a long way,

the hunt continues.

And now the pride tries a different tack.

They move into heavy brush

in the hope of taking their prey
by surprise.

And here's their chance.

A herd of impala
at their watering place.

Now the pride has a problem in tactics.

This species of antelope is, perhaps,
the most difficult of all to catch.

They decide on a direct att*ck,

and the shock of a sudden appearance
has its effect.

Now every lioness is on her own.

The trick is to panic the impala,

and then try to cut them down
as they run by.

Here's a game of speed and wits,
with a good portion of luck thrown in.

Of all the hardships nature imposes
upon her African creatures,

there's none so severe
as the annual drought.

The dry season affects all,
from the largest to the smallest.

Even the native catfish
are hard-pressed for water

as their diminishing pools
dry up one by one.

The few drinking places that remain
are in constant use.

And the trails to water
become deep-grooved

across the parched plain.

The elephants meet the emergency
with an amazing display of memory.

They return to the place
where the river once ran,

and they dig their own wells
in the dry riverbeds.

They seem able to scent moisture,
even when it's underground.

Suddenly, like great fans,

the elephant's ears stand out
to catch a distant sound.

In spite of his natural caution,
he moves toward it,

trunk raised to test the air.

It's a strange sound,
one he doesn't recognize,

for it's unlike anything he's ever heard.

He follows it to its source.

And here at the one
remaining mud hole,

he comes upon a desperate drama.

A rhinoceros is trapped
in the churned-up mud.

Completely frustrated,
he beats his head on the ground

and cries out for help.

Another rhino drinks,

and he takes but a passing interest
in this strange dilemma,

even as it must have been
in the time of dinosaurs,

for here is a fossil in the making.

This is exactly how the great beasts
of the past were caught

and their remains preserved.

Here at the water hole,
the same trap awaits all comers.

But some are lucky.
They tempt fate, yet walk away.

In growing panic,

the trapped rhino
renews his frantic exertions.

But two tons is a lot to move
when it's bogged down like this.

His wild groans attract some baboons.

These intelligent creatures, at least,

are willing to study his problem
for a moment.

One, in fact,
tries to think of something helpful.

But in the end,
the baboons can do nothing.

The elephant, too,
has come only to drink.

And finally, he finds the rhino's agony
so upsetting, he panics.

And like all the lesser creatures,
the mighty elephant runs away.

And so the rhino must face
his strange destiny

deserted by nature herself.

Beneath the tropical sun, the heated air
of the plain rises in spiral columns.

And now,
the whirlwinds called dust devils

dance across the scorched earth.

But this is only the prelude.
Soon, the dust storms begin.

And now, a mass migration begins.

Now the herds must leave
this parched country

to look for a new water hole

somewhere beyond the reach
of this blistering heat.

Beset by thirst and heat and hunger,

they must, somehow,
out-walk and outlast the drought.

The lions make the trek, too,

and hunter and hunted march together,
driven by the common enemy, thirst.

Before long, this ordeal takes
on the quality of a nightmare,

and the silent giraffes
stalk this land of desolation

like ghost figures in a dream.

The fierce African sun casts a fiery pall
over the scene.

Desperately, the elephants search
the winds for moisture and find none.

Day after day,
this burning disk circles the sky,

and still there's no relief.

Nature, it would seem,
is without mercy.

Yet, this is Africa,
the real and the ruthless Africa,

where survival is only for those
able to endure hardship.

For weeks on end, the trek continues,

and eventually,
the herds reach new pasture.

And yet,
grass without water isn't enough,

and so they must keep plodding on,

looking for a drinking place
that doesn't seem to exist.

In their aimless travels,

the animals seem to lose
their instinctive sense of direction.

The migration swings in a great circle.

And without being aware
of their mistake,

the marching regiments turn back

in the direction
from which they've come.

They seem to head
toward the dust storm again,

but what looks like a dust cloud
is a swarm of locusts,

a buzzing mass of ravenous insects
come to scourge the plain.

Like storm-driven cattle,

the wildebeest move without plan
or purpose in this blinding blizzard.

This unchecked tide
numbs the very senses.

Interrupted at her meal,

the lioness watches,
stupefied and uncomprehending.

The locust is a species of grasshopper.
He eats natural pasture.

Individually, he consumes
only single blades of grass,

yet when he descends
in a living carpet,

he and his millions devastate the land.

Here's a thr*at to all the grazing herds,

for if the grass is destroyed,
their future is dark.

Yet, what is famine for one
is often feast for another.

Now the storks descend on the scene.

Still, neither a thousand storks
nor a thousand thousand storks

could begin to control this plague.

These millions of shimmering wings
actually filter the light of day.

Soon, an ominous glow
settles over the land.

In nature's plan, however,

uncontrolled calamity
cannot go unchallenged.

Although the locusts devour
every living blade of grass,

though they denude the earth
to the bare rocks,

nature will restore her world
and bring again new life.

This she does with the tropical rains.

These seasonal showers
are the fountain of life,

renewing and rebuilding
and refreshing

creature and countryside alike.

Now the grazing herds will have
good water and good grass again.

But what affects some must affect all.

Yet, like all the other animals,

the lions must accept
what nature brings.

And the rains must fall
on this ancient land

as surely as the sun
must follow the storm.

And so the seasons turn in their cycle.

And once again,
the lion surveys the great plain

where his subjects roam far and wide
across its endless reaches.

Zebra, wildebeest,
hartebeest and kudu.

Sable antelope, warthog,
ostrich and rhino.

Hippo, elephant, giraffe and baboon.

Impala, hyena, wild dog and jackal.

All these and many more pay homage
to the African lion.

With his story told,

our True-Life Adventure
ends as it began,

in the shadow of Kilimanjaro.

And for as long as this silent sentinel
stands guard over the lion's realm,

so long shall the king of beasts
play out his role unchallenged

in the primitive pageant
of nature's Africa.