Indeed; one would with great hesitation venture a guess at his age; for, his appearance invited a deceptive set of adjectives—gaunt, rugged, wrinkled, rough-skinned, and so forth. His skin bore none of the auspicious signs of youth indeed. A dryness had him cursed—cursed to be a walking desert, bereft of any prospect of finding an oasis, and thereby lasting peace. His little limbs, brittler than a summer-dry stalk, were always tense—always flexed, in a hug-like manner, away from his body, as though they would break at the slightest touch of anything, even his own flanks. His small fingers were unlike other terrestrial animals'—rather, akin to birds'; always clenching at something, as though, in the lapse of a blink, if he dared try his luck at relaxing, his body would just float away and dissolve in the air—and become as insubstantial as a fleecy cloud. The other animals were keen on making of him the laughing-stock. The Lion, the Giraffe, and the Monkey—each of who was strikingly remarkable in one aspect, and oriented his life to fit that one aspect—were especially fond of bullying our poor fellow. The Lion loved "Exercising dominion, and foisting order upon my kingdom—that is what I do best. With my ever dazzling beauty—harboured in my mane—I am the fierce flower of fire; and my sharp talons burn the skin of whosoever shall compromise order. Do be careful—you caprice of nature; you, whose soul is lost in capricious vagaries. Do you not grow restless at never settling? One day white, another black, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—but why tell them in order, when you never wear them in order. They are all fine colours nonetheless, if you ask me—all of them fine colours. So much the finer if you'd wear them all at once, or stick to one. How can any one trust you—nomadic soul. On the move all the time; take caution so as to not move onto where you shall not return from; I may take you there, sometime." The Giraffe, who never missed those short-necked quarrels, as he'd say, loved "Watching everything from above—that is what I do best. My neck stretches far beyond the canopy of trees—to heaven itself, where a brisk, invigorating gale keeps me a cool-headed sentinel. And allow me to stress that—no-thing escapes my scrutiny. I watch and see; see where order is being defiled, and apprise our king of any such transgression, only to wait for the austerest punishment to be meted out to those who defile—order." The Monkey, never quite away from the Lion-king, never hesitated to wedge in a sanctimonious squeak or two; he loved "Searching in every inaccessible corner—for anyone who is tempted to defile the order of things. In the trunk of trees, I wedge myself, and rifle for small suspects of all kinds; under the trees also; sometimes above them, to help, in the deftest cooperation, the Giraffe—look for suspects low and high, big and small, that run or fly; and I grasp them with my opposable thumbs; and I escort them to our king—punishment is meted out outright. I also count the number of trees, on which I swing every day; and if one should go missing, I would indubitably know. The order of things must be kept immaculate." The Chameleon turned blood-red at their sanctimonious babble. A thick, dark mist bellowed about, suddenly—a fire had kindled. The sun, cross that day—inasmuch as he held a grudge against the lion, who brazenly set out to copy his imperial portrait—spat on the lion's kingdom. The forest took fire. The lion was first to go—his mane had taken fire,and in a paroxysm of fright, he had lunged from a cliff. The sun guffawed and thought "Copy my portrait, you do—but now that I give you the full mantle of the Sun-king to take, and bestow upon you the true crown, you are not so keen on it any more!". The monkey, in an equal paroxysm, started swinging from tree to tree; until not a single tree remained unlit. "There is one; quickly, quickly!" He thought, and jumped on what seemed at first a trunk, and held on to it with the full-prowess of his acrobatically-strengthened arms. The hapless trunk was in reality the neck of the Giraffe. The neck was indeed embraced so hard, that it strangled the Giraffe. The mastodon swooned, toppled, and crushed the poor Monkey beneath his bulk. The forest was now a smouldering clod of dead-wood—and ashes; the ashes of our friends. The Chameleon had already turned dark at the first telltale signs—at the first wafting of fumes; therefore, the fire mistook him for a charcoaled animal, and did not so much as bother burning him. Seeing no one wandering about, the Chameleon sighed a reposeful sigh; and relaxed the tension of his body. He unclenched his little hands—and behold—he did float away. His grasp onto the world weakened—and he did become a fleecy cloud; from which water fell; and the forest was reborn in succulent bloom; and he with it.