From the first Rataplan pretended that he did not care, and tossed his
trunk disdainfully when driven from the herd. He had felt it,
nevertheless, and it had made him more morose, more irritable, more
mad than ever.

He cared for nothing now: the only thing in which he took a delight
was, destroying as much as possible in mere wantonness, and in working
as much mischief as he could find time to plan and accomplish.

There had been times in the past when, in his better moments, he had
longed to go back to the herd; had longed to be taken into some grand
troop of elephants such as those he watched march through the forests.
He longed to be one of them, and to feel that he was a respectable,
well-conducted elephant.

But his overtures had always been received with disfavor and firm
refusals, and the time had now come when nothing would have induced
him to live with any elephants whatever; he preferred to be alone; and
his evil nature and irritable temper thrived on his solitary life and
mischief-making propensities, and to know that he was feared and
dreaded was a very delight to him.

Out of pure mischief he would, at times, tear madly through the
forest, trumpeting at the very top of his shrill voice, merely to give
the elephants, or any other animals that might be about, a thorough
fright.

Many and many a time had some horrid, insignificant little creatures
who walked about on two legs, and carried things of fire in their