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Title: The Human Side of Animals

Author: Royal Dixon

Release Date: November 17, 2006 [EBook #19850]

Language: English

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[Illustration: RECREATION IS AS COMMON AMONG ANIMALS AS IT IS AMONG
CHILDREN.]




  THE
  HUMAN SIDE
  OF ANIMALS

  BY
  ROYAL DIXON
  AUTHOR OF "THE HUMAN SIDE OF PLANTS," "THE HUMAN SIDE OF TREES,"




  "THE HUMAN SIDE OF BIRDS," ETC.

  _WITH TWO ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLORS AND
  THIRTY-TWO IN BLACK-AND-WHITE_




  NEW YORK
  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS


  _Copyright, 1918, by_
  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

  _All rights reserved, including that of translation
  into foreign languages_

  MADE IN U. S. A.




  TO
  MARCELLUS E. FOSTER
  WHO BELIEVED




NOTE


The author wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to his
fellow-naturalist and friend, Mr. Franklyn Everett Fitch, for carefully
reading the entire manuscript and making many scholarly and valuable
criticisms and corrections.




  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                                  PAGE

  FOREWORD                                                 xiii

  I ANIMALS THAT PRACTISE CAMOUFLAGE                          1

  II ANIMAL MUSICIANS                                        18

  III ANIMALS AT PLAY                                        32

  IV ARMOUR-BEARING AND MAIL-CLAD ANIMALS                    46

  V MINERS AND EXCAVATORS                                    61

  VI ANIMAL MATHEMATICIANS                                   88

  VII THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS                                99

  VIII IN THEIR BOUDOIRS, HOSPITALS AND CHURCHES            120

  IX SELF-DEFENCE AND HOME-GOVERNMENT                       130

  X ARCHITECTS, ENGINEERS, AND HOUSE-BUILDERS               150

  XI FOOD CONSERVERS                                        170

  XII TOURISTS AND SIGHT-SEERS                              181

  XIII ANIMAL SCAVENGERS AND CRIMINALS                      199

  XIV AS THE ALLIES OF MAN                                  210

  XV THE FUTURE LIFE OF ANIMALS                             234




  ILLUSTRATIONS


  Recreation is as common among animals as it is among children
    (_in Colours_)                                         _Frontispiece_

  The Indians claim that the mother bison forced her calf to roll often
    in a puddle of red clay, so that it might be indistinguishable against
    its clay background                                                6

  The zebra is one of the cleverest of camouflagers. The black-and-white
    stripes of his body give the effect of sunlight passing
    through bushes                                                     7

  Monkeys are the most musical of all animals. When they congregate
    for "concerts," as some of the tribes do, the air is filled with weird
    strains of monkey-music                                           20

  Cats, unlike dogs, are very fond of music. And it has been proved that
    their music-sense can be developed to a remarkable degree         21

  A happy family of polar bears. The young cubs wrestle and tumble,
    as playfully as two puppies. This play has much to do with their
    physical and mental development                                   34

  Dryptosaurus. The prehistoric animals, too, undoubtedly had their
    play time, with games and "setting up" exercises                  35

  The mother opossum is never happier than when she has her little ones
    playing hide-and-seek over her back                               38

  This young fox came from his home in the woods daily to play with a
    young fox-terrier. He is now resting after a romp                 39

  Naosaurus and Dimetrodon, two extinct armour-bearers who should
    have been well able to protect themselves                         50

  An armour-bearer of prehistoric times whose shield was an effective
    protection against enemy horns                                    51

  To the polar bear the ice and snow of the Far North means warmth
    and protection. The mother bear digs herself into a snowbank,
    where she lives quite comfortably throughout the winter           84

  The sharp claws of the ground squirrel are efficacious tools in digging
    his cosy underground burrow                                       85

  The coyote can readily distinguish whether a herd of sheep is guarded
    by one or more dogs, and will plan his attack accordingly         94

  The zebu, the sacred bull of India, in spite of its domestication,
    has an agile body and a quick, alert mind                         95

  Roosevelt's Colobus. These horse-tailed monkeys chatter together in
    a language exclusively their own, yet they seem to have no difficulty
    in making themselves understood by other monkey-tribes           112

  A tamed deer of Texas, whose constant companion and playmate was
    a rabbit dog. Between the two, there developed, necessarily, a
    common language                                                  113

  Water-loving animals, like the beavers, seemingly take great pride in
    their toilets. Their fur is always sleek and clean               122

  Great forest pigs of Central Africa. Like the common domesticated
    hogs, they will seek a clay bath to heal their wounds            123

  The Rocky Mountain goat has many means of defence, not the least of
    which is his agility in climbing to inaccessible places          134

  Wild boars are among the most ferocious of animals. By means of
    their great strength alone they are well able to defend
    themselves                                                       135

  Brontosaurus. The animals that seemed best equipped to defend themselves
    are the ones that, thousands of years ago, became extinct        144

  This prehistoric monster was equipped not only with a pair of strong
    horns but with a shield back of them as well                     145

  The beaver is the greatest of all animal architects. His skill is
    equalled only by his patience (in Colours)                       158

  The skunk mother tries to keep on hand a good supply of such delicacies
    as frogs and toads, so that her young may never go hungry        172

  The porcupine and the hedgehog have a unique method of collecting
    food for their young. After shaking down berries or grapes,
    they roll in them, then hurry home with the food attached to
    their quills                                                     173

  The black bear is not one of the great migrating animals. The thickness
    of his coat must therefore change with the seasons               188

  Rabbits seem to have a well-devised system in their road-building,
    running their paths in and out of underbrush in a truly ingenious
    manner                                                           189

  The mongoose, a scavenger of the worst type, feeding on rats and
    mice and snakes, and even poultry                                202

  Diplodocus. The prehistoric animals, also, undoubtedly had their
    scavengers and criminals                                         203

  The Esquimo-dog is man's greatest friend in the Far North          218

  Chipmunks are among the most easily tamed of man's wild friends,
    and they even seem fond of human companionship                   219

  Men cruelly take the lives of these denizens of the wildwood, rejoicing
    in their slaughter, but the animal soul they cannot kill         244

  Two pals. There is between man and dog a kinship of spirit that cannot
    be denied                                                        245




FOREWORD

  _"And in the lion or the frog--
  In all the life of moor or fen--
  In ass and peacock, stork and dog,
  He read similitudes of men."_

More and more science is being taught in a new way. More and more men
are beginning to discard the lumber of the brain's workshop to get at
real facts, real conclusions. Laboratories, experiments, tables,
classifications are all very vital and all very necessary but sometimes
their net result is only to befog and confuse. Occasionally it becomes
important for us to cast aside all dogmatic restraints and approach the
wonders of life from a new angle and with the untrammelled spirit of a
little child.

In this book I have attempted to bring together many old and new
observations which tend to show the human-like qualities of animals. The
treatment is neither formal nor scholastic, in fact I do not always
remain within the logical confines of the title. My sole purpose is to
make the reader self-active, observative, free from hide-bound
prejudice, and reborn as a participant in the wonderful experiences of
life which fill the universe. I hope to lead him into a new wonderland
of truth, beauty and love, a land where his heart as well as his eyes
will be opened.

In attempting to understand the animals I have used a method a great
deal like that of the village boy, who when questioned as to how he
located the stray horse for which a reward of twenty dollars had been
offered, replied, "I just thought what I would do if I were a horse and
where I would go--and there I went and found him." In some such way I
have tried to think why animals do certain things, I have studied them
in many places and under all conditions, and those acts of theirs which,
if performed by children, would come under the head of wisdom and
intelligence, I have classified as such.

Life is one throughout. The love that fills a mother's heart when she
sees her first-born babe, is also felt by the mother bear, only in a
different way, when she sees her baby cubs playing before her humble
cave dwelling. The sorrow that is felt by the human heart when a beloved
one dies is experienced in only a little less degree by an African ape
when his mate is shot dead by a Christian missionary. The grandmother
sheep that watches her numerous little lamb grandchildren on the
hillside, while their mothers are away grazing, is just as mindful of
their care as any human grandparent could be. One drop of water is like
the ocean; and love is love.

The trouble with science is that too often it leaves out love. If you
agree that we cannot treat men like machines, why should we put animals
in that class? Why should we fall into the colossal ignorance and
conceit of cataloging every human-like action of animals under the word
"instinct"? Man delights in thinking of himself as only a little lower
than the angels. Then why should he not consider the animals as only a
little lower than himself? The poet has truly said that "the beast is
the mirror of man as man is the mirror of God." Man had to battle with
animals for untold ages before he domesticated and made servants of
them. He is just beginning to learn that they were not created solely to
furnish material for sermons, nor to serve mankind, but that they also
have an existence, a life of their own.

Man has long preached this doctrine that he is not an animal, but a
kinsman of the gods. For this reason, he has claimed dominion over
animal creation and a right to assert that dominion without restraint.
This anthropocentric conceit is the same thing that causes one nation to
think it should rule the world, that the sun and moon were made only for
the laudable purpose of giving light unto a chosen few, and that young
lambs playing on a grassy hillside, near a cool spring, are just so much
mutton allowed to wander over man's domain until its flavour is
improved.

It is time to remove the barriers, once believed impassable, which man's
egotism has used as a screen to separate him from his lower brothers.
Our physical bodies are very similar to theirs except that ours are
almost always much inferior. Merely because we have a superior intellect
which enables us to rule and enslave the animals, shall we deny them all
intellect and all feeling? In the words of that remarkable naturalist,
William J. Long, "To call a thing intelligence in one creature and
reflex action in another, or to speak of the same thing as love or
kindness in one and blind impulse in the other, is to be blinder
ourselves than the impulse which is supposed to govern animals. Until,
therefore, we have some new chemistry that will ignore atoms and the
atomic law, and some new psychology that ignores animal intelligence
altogether, or regards it as under a radically different law from our
own, we must apply what we know of ourselves and our own motives to the
smaller and weaker lives that are in some distant way akin to our own."

It is possible to explain away all the marvellous things the animals do,
but after you have finished, there will still remain something over and
above, which quite defies all mechanistic interpretation. An old war
horse, for instance, lives over and over his battles in his dreams. He
neighs and paws, just as he did in real battle; and cavalrymen tell us
that they can sometimes understand from their horses when they are
dreaming just what command they are trying to obey. This is only one of
the myriads of animal phenomena which man does not understand. If you
doubt it, try to explain the striking phenomena of luminescence,
hybridization, of eels surviving desiccation for fourteen years,
post-matrimonial cannibalism, Nature's vast chain of unities, the
suicide of lemmings, why water animals cannot get wet, transparency of
animals, why the horned toad shoots a stream of blood from his eye when
angry. If you are able to explain these things to humanity, you will be
classed second only to Solomon. Yet the average scientist explains them
away, with the ignorance and loquaciousness of a fisher hag.

By a thorough application of psychological principles, it is possible
to show that man himself is merely a machine to be explained in terms of
neurones and nervous impulses, heredity and environment and reactions to
outside stimuli. But who is there who does not believe that there is
more to a man than that?

Animals have demonstrated long ago that they not only have as many
talents as human beings, but that under the influence of the same
environment, they form the same kinds of combinations to defend
themselves against enemies; to shelter themselves against heat and cold;
to build homes; to lay up a supply of food for the hard seasons. In
fact, all through the ages man has been imitating the animals in
burrowing through the earth, penetrating the waters, and now, at last,
flying through the air.

When a skunk bites through the brains of frogs, paralysing but not
killing them, in order that he may store them away in his nursery-pantry
so that his babes may have fresh food; when a mole decapitates
earth-worms for the same reason and stores them near the cold surface of
the ground so that the heads will not regrow, as they would under normal
conditions, only a deeply prejudiced man can claim that no elements of
intelligence have been employed.

There are also numerous signs, sounds and motions by which animals
communicate with each other, though to man these symbols of language may
not always be understandable. Dogs give barks indicating surprise,
pleasure and all other emotions. Cows will bellow for days when mourning
for their dead. The mother bear will bury her dead cub and silently
guard its grave for weeks to prevent its being desecrated. The mother
sheep will bleat most pitifully when her lamb strays away. Foxes utter
expressive cries which their children know full well. The chamois, when
frightened, whistle; they might be termed the policemen of the animal
world. The sentinel will continue a long, drawn-out whistle, as long as
he can without taking a breath. He then stops for a brief moment, looks
in all directions, and begins blowing again. If the danger comes too
near, he scampers away.

In their ability to take care of their wounded bodies, in their reading
of the weather and in all forms of woodcraft, animals undoubtedly
possess superhuman powers. Even squirrels can prophesy an unusually long
and severe winter and thus make adequate preparations. Some animals act
as both barometers and thermometers. It is claimed that while frogs
remain yellow, only fair weather may be expected, but if their colour
changes to brown, ill weather is coming.

There is no limit to the marvellous things animals do. Elephants, for
example, carry leafy palms in their trunks to shade themselves from the
hot sun. The ape or baboon who puts a stone in the open oyster to
prevent it from closing, or lifts stones to crack nuts, or beats his
fellows with sticks, or throws heavy cocoanuts from trees upon his
enemies, or builds a fire in the forest, shows more than a glimmer of
intelligence. In the sly fox that puts out fish heads to bait hawks, or
suddenly plunges in the water and immerses himself to escape hunters, or
holds a branch of a bush over his head and actually runs with it to hide
himself; in the wolverine who catches deer by dropping moss, and
suddenly springing upon them and clawing their eyes out; in the bear,
who, as told in the account of Cook's third voyage, "rolls down pieces
of rock to crush stags; in the rat when he leads his blind brother with
a stick" is actual reasoning. Indeed, there is nothing which man makes
with all his ingenious use of tools and instruments, of which some
suggestion may not be seen in animal creation.

Great thinkers of all ages are not wanting who believe that animals have
a portion of that same reason which is the pride of man. Montaigne
admitted that they had both thought and reason, and Pope believed that
even a cat may consider a man made for his service. Humboldt, Helvitius,
Darwin and Smellie claimed that animals act as a definite result of
actual reasoning. Lord Brougham pertinently observes, "I know not why so
much unwillingness should be shown by some excellent philosophers to
allow intelligent faculties and a share of reason to the lower animals,
as if our own superiority was not quite sufficiently established to
leave all jealousy out of view by the immeasurably higher place which we
occupy in the scale of being."

From the facts enumerated in this book I find that animals are possessed
of love, hate, joy, grief, courage, revenge, pain, pleasure, want and
satisfaction--that all things that go to make up man's life are also
found in them. In the attempt to establish this thesis I have been led
mentally and physically into some of Nature's most fascinating highways
and hedges, where I have had many occasions to wonder and adore. I will
be happy if I have at least added something to the depth of love and
appreciation with which most men look upon the animal world.

                                                    ROYAL DIXON.

  New York, April, 1918.




THE HUMAN SIDE OF ANIMALS




I

ANIMALS THAT PRACTISE CAMOUFLAGE

  _"She was a gordian shape of dazzling line,
  Vermilion-spotted, golden, green and blue;
  Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
  Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd,
  And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
  Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
  Their lustres with the glorious tapestries...."_

  --KEATS (_on Lamia, the snake_).


The art of concealment or camouflage is one of the newest and most
highly developed techniques of modern warfare. But the animals have been
masters of it for ages. The lives of most of them are passed in constant
conflict. Those which have enemies from which they cannot escape by
rapidity of motion must be able to hide or disguise themselves. Those
which hunt for a living must be able to approach their prey without
unnecessary noise or attention to themselves. It is very remarkable how
Nature helps the wild creatures to disguise themselves by colouring them
with various shades and tints best calculated to enable them to escape
enemies or to entrap prey.

The animals of each locality are usually coloured according to their
habitat, but good reasons make some exceptions advisable. Many of the
most striking examples of this protective resemblance among animals are
the result of their very intimate association with the surrounding flora
and natural scenery. There is no part of a tree, including flowers,
fruits, bark and roots, that is not in some way copied and imitated by
these clever creatures. Often this imitation is astonishing in its
faithfulness of detail. Bunches of cocoanuts are portrayed by sleeping
monkeys, while even the leaves are copied by certain tree-toads, and
many flowers are represented by monkeys and lizards. The winding roots
of huge trees are copied by snakes that twist themselves together at the
foot of the tree.

In the art of camouflage--an art which affects the form, colour, and
attitude of animals--Nature has worked along two different roads. One is
easy and direct, the other circuitous and difficult. The easy way is
that of protective resemblance pure and simple, where the animal's
colour, form, or attitude becomes like that of its habitat. In which
case the animal becomes one with its environment and thus is enabled to
go about unnoticed by its enemies or by its prey. The other way is that
of bluff, and it includes all inoffensive animals which are capable of
assuming attitudes and colours that terrify and frighten. The colours in
some cases are really of warning pattern, yet they cannot be considered
mimetic unless they are thought to resemble the patterns of some extinct
model of which we know nothing; and since they are not found in
present-day animals with unpleasant qualities, they are not, strictly
speaking, warning colours.

Desert animals are in most cases desert-coloured. The lion, for example,
is almost invisible when crouched among the rocks and streams of the
African wastes. Antelopes are tinted like the landscape over which they
roam, while the camel seems actually to blend with the desert sands. The
kangaroos of Australia at a little distance seem to disappear into the
soil of their respective localities, while the cat of the Pampas
accurately reflects his surroundings in his fur.

The tiger is made so invisible by his wonderful colour that, when he
crouches in the bright sunlight amid the tall brown grass, it is almost
impossible to see him. But the zebra and the giraffe are the kings of
all camouflagers! So deceptive are the large blotch-spots of the giraffe
and his weird head and horns, like scrubby limbs, that his concealment
is perfect. Even the cleverest natives often mistake a herd of giraffes
for a clump of trees. The camouflage of zebras is equally deceptive.
Drummond says that he once found himself in a forest, looking at what he
thought to be a lone zebra, when to his astonishment he suddenly
realised that he was facing an entire herd which were invisible until
they became frightened and moved. Evidently the zebra is well aware that
the black-and-white stripes of his coat take away the sense of solid
body, and that the two colours blend into a light gray, and thus at
close range the effect is that of rays of sunlight passing through
bushes.

The arctic animals, with few exceptions, are remarkable for imitating
their surroundings; their colour of white blends perfectly with the snow
around them. The polar bear is the only white bear, and his home is
always among the snow and ice. The arctic fox, alpine hare, and ermine
change to white in winter only, because during the other seasons white
would be too conspicuous. The American arctic hare is always white
because he always lives among the white expanses of the Far North. Both
foxes and stoats are carnivorous and feed upon ptarmigan and hares, and
they must be protectively coloured that they may catch their prey. On
the other hand, Nature aids the prey by providing them with colours that
enable them to escape the attention of their enemies.

The young of many of the arctic animals are covered with fluffy white
hair, so that while they are too young to swim they may lie with safety
upon the ground and escape the attention of polar bears; but in the
antarctic regions, where there are few enemies to fear, the young seals,
for instance, are exactly the colour of their parents.

The most remarkable exception of mimetic colouring among the animals of
the polar regions is the sable. Throughout the long Siberian winter he
retains his coat of rich brown fur. His habits, however, are such that
he does not need the protection of colour, for he is so active that he
can easily catch wild birds, and he can also subsist upon wild berries.
The woodchuck of North America retains his coat of dark-brown fur
throughout the long, cold winters. The matter of his obtaining food,
however, is easy, for he lives in burrows, near streams where he can
catch fish and small animals that live in or near the water.

A number of the old-school naturalists believed that when an animal's
colouring assumed the snowy-white coat of its arctic surroundings, this
was due to the natural tendency on the part of its hair and fur to
assume the colourings and tints of their habitat. This, however, is
absolutely false; and no better proof of it can be offered than the case
of the arctic musk-ox, who is far more polar in his haunts than even the
polar bear, and is therefore exposed to the whitening influence of the
wintry regions more than the bear. Yet he never turns white, but is
always brown. The only enemy of this northern-dweller is the arctic
wolf, and against this enemy he is protected by powerful hoofs, thick
hair, and immense horns. He does not need to conceal himself, and
therefore does not simulate the colour of his surroundings.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE INDIANS CLAIM THAT THE MOTHER BISON FORCED HER CALF TO ROLL OFTEN IN
A PUDDLE OF RED CLAY, SO THAT IT MIGHT BE INDISTINGUISHABLE AGAINST ITS
RED CLAY BACKGROUND.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE ZEBRA IS ONE OF THE CLEVEREST OF CAMOUFLAGERS. THE BLACK-AND-WHITE
STRIPES OF HIS BODY GIVE THE EFFECT OF SUNLIGHT PASSING THROUGH BUSHES.]

Mimetic resemblances are worked out with great difficulty, except in
such cases as the nocturnal animals, which simply become one with their
surroundings. Mice, rats, moles, and bats wear overcoats that are very
inconspicuous, and when suddenly approached they appear almost
invisible. Some of the North American Indians claimed that buffaloes
made their calves wallow in the red clay to prevent them from being seen
when they were lying down in the red soil.

The kinds of protection from these mimetic resemblances are many and
varied: the lion, because of his sandy-colouring, is able to conceal
himself by merely crouching down upon the desert sands; the striped
tiger hides among the tufts of grass and bamboos of the tropics, the
stripes of his body so blending with the vertical stems as to prevent
even the natives from seeing him in this position. The kudu, one of the
handsomest of the antelopes, is a remarkable animal in several ways. His
camouflage is so perfect that it gives him magnificent courage. With his
spiral horns, white face, and striped coat tinted in pale blue, he is
almost invisible when hiding in a thicket. The perfect harmony of his
horns with the twisted vines and branches, and the white colourings with
blue tints in the reflected sunlight conceal him entirely.

The snow-leopard, which inhabits Central Asia, is stony-grey, with large
annular spots to match the rocks among which he lives. This colouration
conceals him from the sheep, upon which he preys; while the spotted and
blotchy pattern of the so-called clouded tiger, and the
peculiarly-barred skin of the ocelot, imitate the rugged bark of trees,
upon which these animals live.

One of the most unusual and skilled mimics is the Indian sloth, whose
colour pattern and unique eclipsing effects seem almost incredible to
those unfamiliar with the real facts. His home is in the trees, and he
has a deep, orange-coloured spot on his back, which would make him very
conspicuous if seen out of his home surroundings. But he is very clever,
and clings to the moss-draped trees, where the effect of the
orange-coloured spot is exactly like the scar on the tree, while his
hair resembles the withered moss so strikingly that even naturalists are
deceived.

Henry Drummond must have known the animal world rather well when he
remarked that "Carlisle in his blackest visions of 'shams and humbugs'
among humanity never saw anything so finished in hypocrisy as the
naturalist now finds in every tropical forest. There are to be seen
creatures, not singly, but in tens of thousands, whose every appearance,
down to the minutest spot and wrinkle, is an affront to truth, whose
every attitude is a pose for a purpose, and whose whole life is a
sustained lie. Before these masterpieces of deception the most ingenious
of human impositions are vulgar and transparent. Fraud is not only the
great rule of life in a tropical forest, but the one condition of it."

Many of the larger cats live in trees, and most of them have spotted or
oscillated skins, which aid them in hiding among foliage plants. The
puma who wears a brown coat is an exception, but it must be remembered
that he does not need the kind of coat his fellow friends wear. He
clings so closely to the body of a tree while waiting for his prey as to
be almost invisible.

This phenomenon is true throughout the animal world. Everywhere does
Nature aid in escape and capture. Only those skilled in the ways of the
wild fully realise how conspicuous amidst foliage, for instance, would
be a uniform colouration. A parti-coloured pattern is extremely
deceptive and thus protective, and for this reason one seldom sees in
Nature a background of one colour; and since the large majority of
animals need concealment, it is necessary for them to be clothed in
patterns that vary.

These variations are especially noticeable in young animals, and furnish
them with a mantle that is practically invisible to predatory enemies
during the time they are left unprotected by their parents. These
protective mantles often differ strikingly in pattern and colouration
from those of their parents, and indicate that the young animals
present the colouration and pattern of their remote forbears. It might
even be said that "the skins of the fathers are thrust upon the
children, even unto the third and fourth generation!" In fact, it is
quite probable that they give through this varying colouration the
"life-history" of their family.

In all hoofed animals--antelope, deer, horses--the protective
colouration is also adapted to habitat and environment. Most deer belong
to the forest, carefully avoiding the open deserts and staying near
water. They live chiefly in the jungle or scrub, and are usually spotted
with red and white in such a way as to be almost invisible to a casual
observer; some, however, that live in the very shady places are
uniformly dark so as to harmonise with their surroundings. The wild
horses and asses of Central Asia are dun-coloured--corresponding exactly
to their sandy habitat.

The Shakesperian conception of the human world as a stage may be
paralleled in the animal world. Animals, like human beings, have all a
definite rôle to play in the drama of life. Each is given certain
equipment in form, colour, voice, demeanour, ambitions, desires, and
natural habitat. Some are given much, others but little. Many have
succeeded well in the art of camouflage while endeavouring to make a
success in life. This success has brought the desired opportunity of
mating, rearing young, bequeathing to them their special gifts and
living in ease and comfort.

One of the most successful and striking cases of protective colouration
in young animals is found in wild swine. Here there is longitudinal
striping which marks them from head to tail in broad white bands, over a
background of reddish dark brown. The tapirs have a most unique form of
marking. It is similar in the young of the South American and Malayan
species. Their bodies are exquisitely marked in snow-white bars. At
their extremities these bars are broken up into small dots which tend to
overlap each other. During the daytime these young animals seek the
shade of the bushes and as the spots of sunlight fall upon the ground
they appear so nearly one with their environment as to pass unnoticed by
their enemies. The adults, however, vary greatly one from another in
colouration. The American species is self-coloured, while the Malayan
has the most unique pattern known to the animal world. The
fore-quarters, the head, and the hind-legs are black, while the rest of
the body from the shoulders backwards is of a dirt-white colour.

It has been observed by all students of Nature that bold and gaudy
animals usually have means of defending themselves that make them very
disagreeable to their enemies. They either have poisonous fangs, sharp
spines, ferocious claws, or disagreeable odours. There are still others
that escape destruction because of the bad company with which they are
associated by their enemies.

The reptiles offer us many good examples of mimicry. Most arboreal
lizards wear the colour of the leaves upon which they feed; the same is
true of the whip-snakes and the tiny green tree-frogs. A striking
example of successful camouflage is found in the case of a North
American frog whose home is on lichen-covered rocks and walls, which he
so closely imitates in colour and pattern as to pass unnoticed so long
as he remains quiet. I have seen an immense frog, whose home was in a
damp cave, with large green and black spots over his body precisely like
the spots on the sides of his home.

     _Author Note:_ The word "mimicry" as used here implies a particular
     kind of resemblance only, a resemblance in external appearance,
     never internal, a resemblance that deceives. It does not imply
     voluntary imitation. Both the words "mimicry" and "imitation" are
     used to imply outward likeness. The object of the outward likeness
     or resemblance is to cause a harmless or unprotected animal to be
     mistaken for the dangerous one which he oftentimes imitates; or to
     aid the unprotected animal in escaping unnoticed among the
     surroundings he may simulate.

A splendid example of pure bluff is shown in the case of the harmless
Australian lizard, known scientifically under the name of
_chlamydosaurus kingii_. When he is undisturbed he seems perfectly
inoffensive, but when he becomes angry, he becomes a veritable
fiend-like reptile. In this condition he stands up on his hind legs,
opens his gaping mouth, showing the most terrible teeth, which, by the
way, have never been known to bite anything. Besides this forbidding
display he further adds to his terrible appearance by raising the most
extraordinary frill which is exquisitely decorated in grey, yellow,
scarlet, and blue. This he uses like an umbrella, and if in this way he
does not succeed in frightening away his enemy, he rushes at him, and
lashes him with his saw-like tail. Even dogs are terrified at such
camouflage and leave the successful bluffer alone.

In all parts of the tropics are tree-snakes that lie concealed among the
boughs and shrubs. Most of them are green, and some have richly coloured
bands around their bodies which look not unlike gaily coloured flowers,
and which, no doubt, attract flower-seeking insects and birds. Among
these may be mentioned the deadly-poisonous snakes of the genus _elaps_
of South America. They are so brilliantly provided with bright red and
black bands trimmed with yellow rings that it is not uncommon for a
plant collector to attempt to pick them up for rare orchids!

Wherever these snakes are found, are also found a number of perfectly
harmless snakes, absolutely unlike the dangerous ones in habit and life,
yet coloured precisely the same. The _elaps fulvius_, for example, a
deadly venomous snake of Guatemala, has a body trimmed in simple black
bands on a coral-red ground, and in the same country and always with him
is found a quite harmless snake, which is coloured and banded in the
same identical manner. The terrible and much-feared _elaps lemnicatus_
has the peculiar black bands divided into divisions of three by narrow
yellow rings, thus exactly mimicking a harmless snake, the _pliocerus
elapoides_, both of which live in Mexico. Presumably, the deadly variety
assumes the colouring of the harmless kind in order to deceive intended
victims as to his ferocity.

Surely this is sufficient evidence that colouration and pattern-design
is a useful camouflage device of the great struggle for existence. And
it is safe to assert that any animal that has enemies and still does not
resort to protective colouration or mimicry in some form is entirely
able to protect itself either by its size, strength, ferocity, or by
resorting to safety in numbers. Elephants and rhinoceroses, for example,
are too powerful to be molested when grown, except in the rarest cases,
and are furthermore thoroughly capable of protecting their young.
Hippopotamuses are protected by their immense heads, and are capable of
defending their young from crocodiles even when in the water.

The bison and buffalo, which were once so powerful on the plains of
North America, were protected by their gregarious habits, which
terrorised their enemies--the wolves. Their nurseries were a feature of
their wisdom. These were circular pens where the tall grass was tramped
down by expectant mothers for the protection of their young. This
natural nursery was protected from the inside by sentinels who went
round and round the pen constantly guarding the young not only from the
attack of wolves but also from venturing forth alone too early into the
open unprotected plains. In a similar way the snow-pens of the moose of
the Far North serve to protect them from the hungry hordes of wolves of
which they live in constant danger. This indicates that the annihilation
of the bison and buffalo was due, not to lack of wisdom, but to man's
inhumanity; for, taking advantage of their nurseries, the men crouched
near and concealing themselves in the grass killed not only the mothers
for food but even the young in their savage sport.

The large majority of monkeys are protectively coloured with some shade
of brown or grey, with specially marked faces. Entire packs of
Ceylonese species will, at the slightest alarm, become invisible by
crouching on a palm-tree. One of the most strikingly coloured African
monkeys is jet black with a white bushy tail, and a face surrounded by a
white ring, or mantle of long silky hair. He thus simulates so
strikingly the hanging white lichens upon the trees that he is rarely
seen by his enemies.

A book might be written upon the various ways that animals, when closely
associated with other animals or human beings, imitate them. Darwin says
that "two species of wolves, which had been reared by dogs, learned to
bark, as does sometimes the jackall," and it is well known that certain
dogs, when reared by cats, imitate their habits, even to the licking of
their feet and the washing of their faces. If a mongrel dog associates
with a trained dog for any period of time it is remarkable the progress
he will make. For this same reason young dogs are carried on hunting
trips with trained dogs that they may learn by imitation the art of
hunting.

In the whole realm of Nature there is nothing more wonderful than this
matter of protective colouration. Animals do not monopolise the art. It
extends through the whole world of living creatures. The fact that
individual animals have no voluntary control over their own colour is
eloquent testimony as to the existence of mysterious life forces and
racial evolutions which are still far beyond the grasp of man's
understanding. To see a tiny chameleon adapt his colouring to his
environment, be it red, green, or yellow, in the twinkling of an eye, is
to have seen an argument for God Himself.




II

ANIMAL MUSICIANS

  _"Nay, what is Nature's self,
  But an endless strife towards
  Music, euphony, rhyme?"_

  --WATSON.


The great thinkers of the age believe that the world is one marvellous
blending of innumerable and varied voices. This unison of sound forms
the great music of the spheres, which the poets and philosophers have
written so much about. Even from a purely scientific point of view,
there is no denying that this music exists. Aviators tell us that when
they listen from a distance to the myriads of noises and sounds that
arise over a great city, these are all apparently lost in a modulated
hum precisely like the vibrations of an immense tuning-fork, and
appearing as but a single tone. Thus the immense noise going from our
world is musically digested into one tone, and the aviator soaring above
the earth hears only the one sound--the music of the spheres.

The deep appreciation that animals have for music is becoming a
generally known fact among those who have studied them closely. Every
one must admit that there is much truth in the old saying that "music
hath charms to soothe the savage breast." Music is composed of
vibrations, which act with great power upon the nervous system of men
and animals alike. Each is affected according to his particular physical
and mental development.

Professor Tarchanoff has made a careful study of the influence of music
upon men and animals. He has demonstrated, by means of a machine which
carefully registers the various activities of the hands and fingers,
that when the hands are so tired and fatigued that they cannot make any
marks except a straight line on the cylinder which registers the
movements, music will so stimulate the nerves as to cause all fatigue to
disappear. And as soon as the fingers again touch the cylinder, they
begin to draw lines of various kinds and heights, thus proving that the
music had rested the fingers and placed them under control. Various
kinds of music were used: that of a melancholy nature had precisely the
opposite effect to that of a lively, cheerful character; the nerves of
the hands could either be contracted or expanded according to the nature
of the music.

Like all real scientists, Professor Tarchanoff does not claim to give
any positive explanation of these facts. He believes, however, that the
voluntary muscles act in the same relation to the music as the
heart--that is, that cheerful, happy music affects the excito-motor
nerves, sets up a vibration in those nerves which produces cheer and
good feeling; while sad, morbid music plays along the depressant nerves
and produces sadness and depression.

In view of these facts, it is easy to see how animals, with their
nervous temperaments and ready response to outside stimuli, are greatly
influenced by various kinds of music. It is scientifically recognised
that music tends to increase the elimination of carbonic acid and
increases not only the consumption of oxygen, but even the activities of
the skin. There is no doubt that good music at meal time aids the
digestion.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

MONKEYS ARE THE MOST MUSICAL OF ALL ANIMALS. WHEN THEY CONGREGATE FOR
"CONCERTS," AS SOME OF THE TRIBES DO, THE AIR IS FILLED WITH WEIRD
STRAINS OF MONKEY-MUSIC.]

[Illustration: CATS, UNLIKE DOGS, ARE VERY FOND OF MUSIC. AND IT HAS
BEEN PROVED THAT THEIR MUSIC-SENSE CAN BE DEVELOPED TO A REMARKABLE
DEGREE.]

Cats have a species of unbeautiful music all their own, generally
produced at late hours of the night on the house tops, garden walls, and
in the alleys of our dwellings. Miss Cat's songs are far too chromatic
to be appreciated by human ears; as a result her concertos and solos are
rarely spoken of by human critics. However, Nature does sometimes
produce a Tetrazzini, Alice Neilson, or Caruso, in the form of a cat,
which really delights in harmonious combinations of sound. I know, for
instance, of a cat called "Nordica" owned by Presson Miller, who
apparently takes the greatest delight in hearing good vocal and
instrumental music. Another well-educated musical cat belongs to a
friend who plays a guitar. This cat delights in touching the strings
with his dainty, soft paws, and springs with delight as the notes are
produced.

The _Animal World_ speaks of five musical cats, which were carried to
various parts of the world and exhibited as "bell-ringers," and their
owner made a fortune out of their concerts. Five bells were suspended
from a hoop, which hung above the stage, and to each bell was attached a
small rope. At a given signal, each cat would seize a bell and give it a
pull. This was done with such perfect time and spirit that one might
well believe it was the work of human musicians and not of cats.

Cows are responsive to certain kinds of music. A funeral march makes
them sad, and ragtime so disturbs them that they give but little milk.
The newspapers claim that Charles W. Ward, who owns a ranch near Eureka,
California, says that the right kind of music will increase the
production of milk, and that he uses a phonograph in the dairy barn.

A friend, who has travelled much, tells the story of a musical cow. He,
in company with two other friends, was coming up a river in a small boat
singing. Just as they turned a bend, they saw a small brown cow,
suckling her calf, along with several other cows in a nearby pasture.
The cow seemed so fascinated with the music that she plunged into the
water and waded up to her head trying to reach the boat. As they rowed
along, she ran up and down the bank, cutting capers in a most
astonishing manner and lowing and bellowing in testimony of her delight
in the music. She would leap, skip, roll on the grass, paw up the earth,
like an angry bull, and chase off like a playful kitten, always with a
low plaintive bellow as a final farewell. These friends often rowed up
the river just to see if the musical cow was there, and she always
greeted them in the usual appreciative manner.

Lions and tigers are proverbially fond of music. Professional trainers
tell us that these animals, when tamed, will not do their stunts without
the accompaniment of music. The story is told of a group of tigers which
recently refused to perform, because the musicians, while the
performance was going on, went on a strike. At once when the music
ceased, the animals returned to their respective seats and no amount of
encouragement would induce them to continue their performance. No
amount of threats would induce them to work without music. The trainer
dared not punish them too severely, yet he feared that if they were not
forced to perform, they might continue to strike. But such was not the
case, for on the morrow when the musicians returned they acted as never
before.

Sheep, both tame and wild, are exceedingly fond of music, and the
shepherds of Scotland have used it with their sheep for ages. When the
shepherd plays upon his flute or bagpipe, they gather around him and
listen apparently with great satisfaction; when the music ceases, they
wander out to feed, and in the evening he leads them home by the single
strains of his flute.

Circus horses are not only fond of music, but are partial to certain
tunes, and demand that these be played while they are doing their turn.
If for any reason the band changes the tune during a performance, they
immediately refuse to go on with their stunts.

The original fountain of all music was based on the various voices and
sounds of animals--and each musical instrument was originally devised to
imitate these sounds. For all instruments--the bass drum, flute,
clarinet, trombone, trumpet, violin, and even pipe organ--an animal may
be mentioned that owns the fundamental tones in its voice, and which
man has imitated. Castanets, for example, were imitations of the
rattlesnakes; the first musical instruments of any savage tribe of men
are made so as to represent the voices of the chief animals of that
particular locality.

Every animal of the higher order, with the exception of a few mute dogs
that belong to very hot or cold climates, is possessed of some sort of
musical tone, expressive of pain or joy, and by means of which he can
express certain emotions. Darwin claimed that the voice of the gibbon,
while extremely loud, was very musical; and Waterhouse said that this
musician sang the scale with considerable accuracy, at least
sufficiently well for a trained violinist to accompany him.

Often when dogs hear music they howl, or attempt to sing. Some show a
decided preference for certain kinds of music, and actually try to
imitate it. Gross tells of a friend of his who had a dog with which he
often gave performances. The dog would accompany his master, when he
sang in falsetto, with howls that were unmistakably attempts at singing,
and which readily adapted themselves to the pitch of the tone. This was
a musical accomplishment of which he was very proud.

On a subject of which so little is known, there are, of course, diverse
opinions. Scheitlin believed that music is actually disagreeable to a
dog, but he says that it may be questioned whether or not the dog does
not in some way accompany it. And Romanes, the great animal authority,
thought the same thing. He had a terrier, which accompanied him when he
sang, and actually succeeded in following the prolonged notes of the
human voice with a certain approximation to unison. Dr. Higgins, a
musician, claimed that his large mastiff could sing to the accompaniment
of the organ.

Alix gives such positive examples that they are really marvellous: "Pere
Pardies cites the case of two dogs that had been taught to sing, one of
them taking a part with his master. Pierquin de Gembloux also speaks of
a poodle that could run the scale in tune and sing very agreeably a fine
composition of Mozart's _My Heart It Sings at Eve_." All the scientists
in Paris, according to the same authority, went to see the dog belonging
to Dr. Bennati, and hear it sing the scale, which it could do perfectly.

Monkeys and apes most nearly approximate human musicians. In central
Africa these animal tribes have musical centres where they congregate
regularly for "concerts." Prof. Richard S. Garner, the noted authority
on apes and monkeys, believes that the time has already come for the
establishment of a school for their education. He would have the courses
beginning with a kindergarten and advancing through as many grades as
the students required. Prof. Garner furthermore believes that we have
little understanding of the gorilla, and points out that these animals
have a very happy and harmonious home life, the father being highly
domestic and delighting in the company of his wife and children. It is
not uncommon to find five or six generations in a certain district of
the jungle.

Their near kin, the chimpanzees, are equally clannish, but more musical.
They come down from the branches of the trees, seating themselves on the
dry leaves and assembling like an orchestra. After all are ready, they
begin beating the leaves with their hands, at first very slowly, like
the quiet prelude to a symphony, and gradually increasing in tempo until
the grand crescendo is reached. Then, as if by the direction of an
invisible leader, the music suddenly ceases. To deny that this is to
them a real concert would lead us into extreme absurdities. In this
connection it is interesting to note that when a baby is expected in the
village, all music ceases until after its birth, when they again resume
their periodic musical festivals. Hensel verifies this observation, and
tells us of having seen apes come from their shelter in the early
morning and congregate for a musical concert. "They repair," he says,
"to the shelter of some gigantic monarch of the forest whose limbs offer
facilities for walking exercises. The head of the family appropriates
one of these branches and advances along it seriously, with elevated
tail, while the others group themselves about him. Soon he gives forth
soft single notes, as the lion likes to do when he tests the capacity of
his lungs. This sound, which seems to be made by drawing the breath in
and out, becomes deeper and in more rapid succession as the excitement
of the singer increases. At last, when the highest pitch is reached, the
intervals cease and the sound becomes a continuous roar, and at this
point all the others, male and female, join in, and for fully ten
seconds at a time the awful chorus sounds through the quiet forest. At
the close the leader begins again with the detached sounds."

Perhaps the most remarkable evidence of animals showing a comprehensive
intelligence of musical pitch is demonstrated by cavalry horses. That
they thoroughly understand it is clearly demonstrated by the fact that
they will obey the calls of the bugle for cavalry evolutions without a
moment's hesitation and with no suggestion from outside sources. These
bugle calls are produced by a combination of four notes, each of a
different pitch, and it is rarer to find a horse making a mistake in the
musical orders given than it is for their masters.

Rats and mice have a decided liking for music, as is attested by the
fact that they appear as uninvited guests and also come as near the
performer as possible. Mice, one would believe, love church music, for
they often build their nests in pipe organs, thus being able to rear
their children in both a musical and religious atmosphere! There is more
truth than imagination in the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, which
illustrates how they respond to the simple charms of music.

Even donkeys betray tendencies toward musical efforts, and seem to be
aroused by music at least temporarily to a higher mental plane than
Balaam was inclined to ascribe to his wise ass. Not all of them sing
equally well, but in Arizona the donkey is known as the "desert canary."
If you were to spend a few glorious days in the Hopi village of Araibi,
you would hear through the still, silent night their long nasal bray or
song, and you would be convinced that the term is quite appropriate. You
may not exactly like the tune, but you will concede that they sing!

Society is just awakening to the joy and the significance of community
art. This is everywhere indicated by the great growing group of people
who come together for a common music, either as a chorus or an orchestra
or both. But in this field man has not yet attained such unity of
communal effort as have the frogs. In the great swamps of the world
myriads of them gather from miles around, conscious of one purpose, and
by a marvellous understanding and co-operation create for themselves a
symphony with beauties and harmonies of its own, and such as to stand
unrivalled in man's musical world. In the great chorus are voices from
the lowest bass of the croaking bullfrog, squatting in the marshes, to
the myriads of tiny green tree tenors, between which are millions of
altos, contraltos, sopranos, coloraturas and other voices not yet in our
musical vocabulary. These are accompanied by all the sounds of our
orchestra and innumerable others of such delicate shades and gradations
as to defy the ear of man. If we listen to one of these concerts, we
will quickly recognise the tones of every familiar instrument, such as
the drum, pipe, horn, trombone, oboe, piccolo, 'cello, and violin. The
greatest of these musical festivals directly precedes the mating season,
and is a dramatic instance of a manifestation of an inner rhythm which
corresponds to an external periodicity.

Among the oldest traditions of the Eastern world are those of
snake-charming by means of music. I have long been interested in this
strange phenomenon of Nature, and in company with a brilliant young
violinist visited a zoological park recently, and after securing
permission from the head keeper, entered the snake-house. The violinist
began by playing a few most sympathetic chords, first delicate and soft,
then sad, then gay, slow or tremulous. Near us, coiled in his immense
cage, was a large cobra--the snake which all legend claims is most
easily influenced by music. Almost immediately after the music began,
the cobra raised himself in a listening attitude, steadily gazed at us
as though he were viewing the future, spread his immense hood, and
slowly began to shake his head from side to side, as if he were trying
to keep time to the music. As soon as the music would change, his
attitude changed accordingly. Only after the music had ceased did he
resume his normal position.

The Indians agree that under the influence of various musical
instruments, especially bagpipes, snake-charmers are able to get the
snakes to come out from their homes among the old rocks and walls, and
when they appear they seem perfectly dazed so that they can be easily
captured.

It is not well to have any kind of musical instrument played, when in a
forest at night where there are dangerous snakes, lest they come to hear
it. Snake-hunters always carry with them some kind of musical
instrument, depending upon the kind of snakes they wish to capture. It
seems that all are not equally fascinated by it. I have experimented
with little effect upon a large rattler; it may have been that he was
deaf. But he gave little evidence of being interested.

We need not feel humiliated, then, for our animal kinspeople with their
primitive music: we were monkeys, and before them we were reptiles,
birds, fishes, even worms. But that was ages ago, and we have grown up
and become better musicians. Evolution has chosen us as its favourites
and given us every advantage in the struggle up the ladder of life. Our
musical rivals of yesterday are as chorus people compared to
Metropolitan Opera stars, with us. On this earth we reign supreme, we
have conquered the earth, air, and water, annihilating time and
distance. What more is there for us to learn of Nature's secrets? Only
an understanding of our lower brothers, the animals.




III

ANIMALS AT PLAY

  _"... _About them frisking, played
  All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
  In wood or wilderness, forest or den;
  Sporting the lion romped, and in his paw
  Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
  Gambled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
  To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
  His light proboscis."_

  _--Paradise Lost._


That "one touch of Nature makes the whole world kin" is shown in no
clearer way than by the games and play of animals. Recreation is as
common among them as it is among our own children; and they seem always
to be artistic and even skilled in their play. Young goats and lambs
skip, jump, run races, throw flips in the air, and gambol; calves have
interesting frolics; young colts and mules have biting and kicking
games; bears wrestle and tumble; puppies delight in biting and tussling;
while kittens chase everything from spools of thread to their own
tails.

But animal children grow up, and stop playing to a certain extent as age
advances, precisely as human children do. Each settles down into a more
practical condition of life. They dislike to have their games and play
disturbed, and if the mother dog growls because her playful son has
continuously tumbled over her while she was sleeping, or the cat-mother
slaps her kitten because he plays with her tail--it is a display of the
same kind of emotion that prompts a human mother to rebuke her child in
the nursery for making too much noise, or for throwing toys out of the
window. Animals, like ourselves, feel every sensation of joy, happiness,
surprise, disappointment, love, hope, ambition, and through their
youthful games an entire index of their future lives may be obtained.

This play has much to do with the physical and mental development of the
animals; and it is strange indeed that so few writers have considered
the subject of play in the animal world. Most of those who have noticed
the subject at all, drop it with a few remarks, to the effect that it is
"highly amusing," or "very funny," or "unbelievable," or "so like the
play of children," without even a word of explanation of the whys and
wherefores of it.

All animals have some kinds of play. Plutarch speaks of a trained
elephant that often practised her steps when she thought no one was
looking. No one who has ever visited a zoological park and seen the
crowded monkey and baboon cages can have failed to note the wonderful
play of these animals. Seals seem never to tire of chasing one another
through the water; while even the clumsy hippopotamuses have diving
games.

Kittens begin to tumble and play before they are two weeks old. They
will roll and toss a ball, hunting it from the dark corners, lay in
silent wait for each other, and suddenly spring upon an unsuspecting
fellow-cat-baby's back, just as they will do later in life, when seeking
their prey. I have seen them play with a catnip mouse for hours at a
time, just as the mother cat plays with a real mouse.

Brehm says that this is noticed in their earliest kittenhood, and that
the mother cat encourages it in all ways possible, even to becoming a
child with her children from love of them, as a human mother does in the
nursery with her child. The mother cat begins the play by slowly moving
her tail. Gesner considered her tail as the indicator of her moods. The
kittens, while they may not understand what this means, are greatly
excited by the movement, their eyes sparkle, their ears stand erect, and
slowly one after another clutches after the moving tail. Suddenly,
one springs over the mother's back, another grabs at her feet, while a
third playfully slaps her in the face with his tiny, soft, cushioned
paw. She, patiently and mother-like, lovingly submits to all this
treatment, as it is only play.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

DRYPTOSAURUS. THE PREHISTORIC ANIMALS, TOO, UNDOUBTEDLY HAD THEIR PLAY
TIME, WITH GAMES AND "SETTING UP" EXERCISES.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

A HAPPY FAMILY OF POLAR BEARS. THE YOUNG CUBS WRESTLE AND TUMBLE, AS
PLAYFULLY AS TWO PUPPIES. THIS PLAY HAS MUCH TO DO WITH THEIR PHYSICAL
AND MENTAL DEVELOPMENT.]

Many scientists have claimed that this so-called instinct should not be
classed as real play. However, such an authority as Darwin thought it
was play, and Scheitlin said that the cat let the mouse loose many times
in order that she might have the experience of catching it each time. No
mercy is shown the helpless mouse, which is the same to her as the toy
ball--in the same way as a real beetle and a toy beetle are the same to
a small child. Evidently the cat does not play with the mouse for the
delight in torturing it, but purely for practice that she may become
skilled in the art of catching it. The cat also exercises in springing
movements, and by studying the mouse's probable movements, learns to
acquire a knowledge and skill in mouse-ways otherwise impossible.

The same cruel practice is found among leopards, panthers, and wild
cats. Brehm verifies the observation that many members of the cat family
practise torturing their victims in a horrible manner, pretending to
liberate them, until the poor creatures at last die from their wounds.
Lenz tells of a marten that would play with its prey for hours when not
hungry. Especially was this true when marmots chanced to be his victims,
and around these he would leap and spring, dealing them terrific blows
first with one paw and then with the other. When hungry, however, he
proceeded differently, devouring them at once from teeth to tail.

All the cat family, it seems, are fond of human companionship, and take
almost as much delight in playing with human beings as with their own
kind. This is especially true of the puma. Brehm tells of a tame one
that delighted in hiding at the approach of his master and springing out
unexpectedly, just as the lion does. Hudson claimed that the puma, with
the exception of the monkey, was possibly the most playful of all
animals. Travellers tell many interesting tales of the play of these
animals, especially on the Pampas of South America.

Gross relates the experience of an Englishman who was compelled to spend
the night outdoors on the Pampas of the La Plata. At about nine o'clock,
on a bright moonlight night, he saw four pumas coming toward him, two
adult animals and two young ones. He well knew that these animals would
not attack him, so he quietly waited. In a short time they approached
him, chasing one another and playing hide-and-seek like little kittens;
and finally leaped directly over the man several times. The mother cat
would run ahead, calling to the little ones to follow her. But she never
disturbed him.

At times an animal at play with another uses the same tactics and
methods employed on its prey. Of course, the value of such practice for
the tasks of later-life is evident. Dogs play hide-and-seek, tag, and
various chasing games for hours without resting. Among the negroes of
the South it is not uncommon to see a hound playing hide-and-seek with
the little pickaninnies. I have seen a hound peeping in and out among a
pile of brush to discover where the little ones were hiding, and at the
first sight of a little black face, he would lay low in anticipation of
a playful spring, or a sudden dash-away, with the expectation of being
chased by his friends. At times he would suddenly disappear toward his
home, and slyly slip around and approach the playground from an opposite
direction.

Every one who has owned fox terriers knows how they will crouch in the
open grass and remain motionless, with quivering expectation for the
other playfellow to arrive, and when the one in ambush sees the other
coming he springs toward him, as though he were going to destroy him!
And when the two come together, they attempt to seize each other by the
necks, as they would do in a real conflict. A wrestle and tussle ensues
and when utterly exhausted from this play, the tired dogs, like two
fatigued children, run to their homes.

Dogs are fond of playing ball, and will readily bring a ball or stick to
their master when he has thrown it. They will also go into the water to
bring out sticks that may have been tossed in for amusement. Eugene
Zimmerman had a young fox terrier that would set a ball in motion, when
there was no one to pitch it for him, by seizing it in his mouth and
tossing it up in the air. Monkeys and jaguars will also play ball, and
tame bears take great delight in wrestling, playing ball, and fighting
mock battles.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE MOTHER OPOSSUM IS NEVER HAPPIER THAN WHEN SHE HAS HER LITTLE ONES
PLAYING HIDE-AND-SEEK OVER HER BACK.]

[Illustration: THIS YOUNG FOX CAME FROM HIS HOME IN THE WOODS DAILY TO
PLAY WITH A YOUNG FOX-TERRIER. HE IS NOW RESTING AFTER A ROMP.]

Beckmann wonderfully describes the play of a badger, whose only playmate
was an exceptionally clever dog, who from his earliest youth had been
taught to live with different kinds of animals. "Together they went
through a series of gymnastic exercises on pleasant afternoons, and
their four-footed friends came from far and near to witness the
performance. The essentials of the game were that the badger, roaring
and shaking his head like a wild boar, should charge upon the dog, as
it stood about fifteen paces off, and strike him in the side with its
head; the dog, leaping dexterously entirely over the badger, awaited a
second and third attack, and then made his antagonist chase him all
round the garden. If the badger managed to snap the dog's hindquarters,
an angry tussle ensued, but never resulted in a real fight. If Caspar,
the badger, lost his temper, he drew off without turning round, and got
up snorting and shaking and with bristling hair, and strutted about like
an inflated turkey-cock. After a few moments his hair would smooth down,
and with some head-shaking and good-natured grunts the mad play would
begin again."

Young animals are strikingly like children in their craving for
amusement. A young bear will lie on his back and play with his feet and
toes by the hour, while a young pup can have a great game with only a
dry bone, or by chasing his shadow on the wall. Rabbits come out in
evenings on the sand-hills to play hide-and-seek with their young, and
squirrels never weary of this universally popular game. I know of a
young fox that used to come from a nearby woods every evening to play
with a young fox-terrier. They became great friends and were often seen
in the woods together.

A friend who owns a ranch in Texas once raised two young wolves that
romped and played with the neighbour's dogs just as if they were dogs
themselves. There are other animals, like the weasels, that will also
play with strange friends. But they prefer their own kind as playmates.
They take the greatest delight in playing with their parents, and
nothing is more beautiful or strange than to see several of them playing
in a valley on a sunny day. Out pops one little head, with twinkling
eyes glancing from side to side, and then as if from nowhere, the little
brothers and sisters begin to appear, chasing each other as though they
were playing tag. These exercises give them much agility which they will
need in later life.

I once owned a tame raccoon, and often kept him chained in the back
yard. When he could not find a young chicken or duck to torment, he
devised all kinds of schemes to relieve the monotonous hours. He would
pile up a number of small stones, and carefully await his chance to
fling one into a group of young chickens. He seemed to understand that
he was more apt to make a hit when he threw into a crowd than when
aiming at a single chick. At other times he would lie on his back, madly
waving his tail as though he were signalling for some one to come near.
If we chanced to pass by without speaking, he would growl or whine in
some way to attract attention. After hours of self-amusement he would
lie down as if life were useless, and wait until something or somebody
came along to amuse him. His greatest delight was in fishing things out
of a pan of water, and he would wash every pebble or plaything that he
owned and carefully lay it out to dry. One day he pounced upon a rooster
who insulted him by drinking from his water vessel, and plucked a long
feather from his tail so quickly that we could hardly realise what had
taken place. He then had great fun in attempting to stick the feather in
his head or by planting it upright in the ground. Another day, in
winter, he broke his chain and made straight for the kitchen, where he
found a snug warm place in old Aunt Moriah's kitchen oven. The old
negress came to cook dinner and when the raccoon suddenly sprang out of
her oven, she vowed, "I'se nevah gwine to cook in dis heah kitchen
again; dis place is hoodooed fo' life!"

Once we gave him a pail of hot milk, and it was evidently hotter than we
realised; he started to drink it, and suddenly stopped, and in anger
grabbed at a very young puppy that was following us, and before we could
stop him, dipped the puppy's head into the hot milk. Fortunately,
however, the milk was not hot enough to injure the puppy. But the
raccoon had taken his revenge out on the little animal, and was
evidently satisfied.

It is interesting to note that all animals seem to play games and take
exercises that will be especially helpful to them in later life.
Badgers, for example, delight in turning somersaults; deer like to jump
and leap; foxes and raccoons practise stealing upon one unnoticed;
tapirs and crocodiles play in the water as night approaches; mountain
goats, sheep, horses and mules run, leap, jump, and play follow-leader.
Animals that live in the high mountains practise all kinds of
high-jumps, which would be unnecessary if they lived on level ground,
but are highly essential in mountainous countries.

Brehm claims that in summer the chamois climb up to the everlasting snow
and take much delight in playing in it. They will drop into a crouching
position on the top of a very steep mountain, work their four legs with
a swimming motion, and slide down on the surface of the snow for a
hundred and fifty metres. As they slide down the snow flies over them
like a fine powder. As soon as they reach the bottom, they jump to their
feet, and slowly climb up the mountain-side again, while many of their
comrades silently stand by and watch their coasting approvingly, first
one and then another joining in the sport, like human coasters would do.
It is not uncommon for a number of them to tumble together at the
bottom, like romping children. This coasting is very remarkable, and
through skill in it, no doubt, the lives of many chamois are saved from
frightful accidents later in life. Alix tells us that dogs of
mountainous countries are also often skilled in the art of coasting.

Our tame fawn used to delight in playing with our old rabbit-dog,
Nimrod. They were the best of friends, and the fawn would begin the
chase by approaching Nimrod as though he were going to stamp him into
the earth, and then suddenly leaping quickly and safely over the dog, he
would run away. At this signal for a game, if Nimrod was in the mood, he
chased the fawn, who would delight in jumping over fences and hedges and
waiting for poor Nimrod to get over or under just in time to see his
playmate leap to the other side.

Wolves, if taken when quite young, have a most unique way of showing
their affection at the appearance of their master. They will spring into
the air, tumbling over, with whinnying cries of delight, falling to the
ground they pretend to bite and snap at everything, until their friend
finally comes very near them.

Prairie dogs are fond of all kinds of races and jumping games; they will
each appear at the entrance to their underground homes, and will play a
simple form of prisoners'-base for long periods of time. With defiant
calls at each other, one finally approaches the home of the other, which
is a signal for the third to attempt to slip into the entrance to the
second one's home before he can return. Many join in the game and it
usually ends in a regular roll-and-tumble for their respective homes.

Perhaps the strangest of all forms of play is that in which young
duckbills indulge. They are slightly like puppies in their methods of
roll-and-tumble, but the way in which they grab one another with their
strange bills, as they strike with their fore-paws is quite original.
They seem to have an unusually good disposition, and if one little
playfellow falls in the game, and desires to scratch himself before
arising, the other patiently waits until he arises, when the mock battle
begins anew.

Antelopes have chase and marching games which are beautiful. They seem
rapidly to follow an invisible leader over the plains, suddenly forming
themselves into pairs, fours, eights, sixteens, until the entire herd
thus form one line, like an army of soldiers marching. While this game
is progressing, certain of their number stand as sentinels and
spectators, and the slightest approach of an enemy is the signal for all
play to cease, and for them to disappear over the plains.

When we witness these abundant evidences of the need and prevalence of
recreation in the animal world, we are confronted with one more argument
for the existence of real mental and moral faculties among our
four-footed friends.




IV

ARMOUR-BEARING AND MAIL-CLAD ANIMALS

  _"The spectacle of Nature is always new, for she is always
  renewing the spectators. Life is her most exquisite invention;
  and death is her expert contrivance to get plenty of life."_

  --GOETHE'S _Aphorisms_ (trans. by HUXLEY).


Civilised nations throughout the world at different times in their
country's history have protected their soldiers and warriors with coats
of armour or mail. This practice prevailed extensively during the Middle
Ages; but it has almost entirely disappeared. The German breastplates of
to-day are an attempted revival. The coats of mail of the ancient
warriors underwent an evolutionary process, until they were indeed
brought to a high pitch of perfection and beauty. It was at this period
that they were abandoned as too burdensome to be of practical value.

This protective form of armour has been used by animals since time
immemorial, and was copied by man from them; and among the various forms
of it are found examples of every kind of armour used in the human
world, from the rough leather shields of hide which the savages use, to
the ornamental suits of mail, like those used by the knights of the
fifteenth century. Indeed, some animals have carried the art of
protection to such an extent that they are veritable movable forts, or
"tanks!"

In the early part of the earth's history, animals needed greater
protection from powerful enemies than they do at present, and they
developed a coat of mail, exquisite in appearance and even more
efficient than that used by man. Yet, like mankind, they have found
newer and more efficient methods of protection, and as a result of
changed conditions and enemies, have discarded, at least most of them,
their coats of mail and armour. Most of those who have held to the
old-fashioned ways of fighting and facing the world, have, like
unprogressive peoples, perished; and to-day only a few armour-bearing
animals exist. These classes, however, have never been very large, and
consist of two small families; the pangolins and the armadillos. The
former live in southern Asia and Africa, while the latter are
inhabitants of South America.

These animals have a great advantage over man, for their armour grows
upon their bodies and is a part of them, while man must put his on and
take it off and continually replace the worn-out parts. Again, while
there are only three distinct kinds of human armour--the chain, scale
and plate armour--there are many kinds of animal armour. What wonderful
opportunities exist to-day in the great museums for studying the
different kinds of animal armour, for those who are interested!

The scaly ant-eater, who is at home in Africa and Asia, is one of the
most unusual and original types of mail-clad animals. He might be
compared to a wolf in outline, covered from head to tail in huge, horny
plates, which look like immense finger-nails overlapping each other. His
head sharpens out into a long, narrow snout, which contains a sticky,
worm-like tongue, and this he can use with great rapidity and effect in
raiding an ant-hill. He drops his tongue over the entrance, and the ants
attempt to crawl over it and are glued to it. He walks in a very unique
way by going upon the backs of his feet. This preserves his wonderful
claws for bursting open ants' nests, as his chief food consists of these
tiny insects and their eggs.

A cousin of the scaly ant-eater, the great ant-eater of South America,
has the same general habits of his near-kinsman. He has an immense bushy
tail with which some naturalists claim he sweeps up ants. This is not
true, however; he uses his tail, when he lies down, to cover himself.
The hairs of the tail part in such a manner as to fall over the body
like a thatched roof, protecting it from rain and storm alike.

A part of the head and under portion of this ant-eater's body are
unprotected, and this is why he rolls himself up like a ball when danger
is near. In this position, his scales stand out in such a way as to make
a complete row of sharp points, as uninviting as the wires on a barbed
wire fence. Yet, it is claimed that certain of his enemies, like the
leopard, know his one great weakness--a terror of being wet--and often
make him uncoil by rolling him into the water. His coat of hard covering
is really compact masses of hardened hair drawn out to sharp dagger
points, and might be likened to pine cones endued with power. Through
ages of experience, the scaly ant-eater has learned that even his
powerful coat of protection is not altogether a success in life's
battles, and from time to time his armour has been made lighter and
lighter, and because he has been so slow in making the necessary
changes, he is to-day very scarce, and able only by the greatest caution
to drag out a dull existence as a nocturnal and burrowing animal. It
would seem that with such powerful protection as he originally had, he
would have outlived the puny armadillos, but his fast disappearance
proves that the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the
strong.

Among the animals which have discarded their old-fashioned coats of
mail, and have successfully protected themselves against all enemies,
may be mentioned the frogs, newts, and their kinspeople, the reptiles.
These latter, the learned, with their delight in multiplying terms, have
classed as amphibians. During the period when the coal forests were
growing over what we now know as England, there were innumerable
amphibians, and even to-day their petrified footmarks are found in
sandstone. The underside of their chests were covered with large bony
plates, and in some cases the rest of the body was covered with
scale-like bones. Yet, all the newts and frogs of to-day have wisely
discarded the old coats of armour used by their forefathers.

The armadillo has an armour of quite another kind, notwithstanding the
fact that pangolins and armadillos belong to the same great family, and
each eats ants. Their plates of armour, or shields, have nothing at all
to do with the hair, nor do they have anything to do with the
exo-skeleton; they are formed of bone material, which appears in the
true skin in the form of tiny shields, and each shield is itself
covered with a hard plate which grows in the outer skin. The actual
formation of these shields differs largely in the various species of
armadillo.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

NAOSAURUS AND DIMETRODON, TWO EXTINCT ARMOUR-BEARERS WHO SHOULD HAVE
BEEN WELL ABLE TO PROTECT THEMSELVES.]

[Illustration: AN ARMOUR-BEARER OF PREHISTORIC TIMES WHOSE SHIELD WAS AN
EFFECTIVE PROTECTION AGAINST ENEMY HORNS.]

It is well to remember that the pangolins and armadillos are the last
survivors of a great and ancient family of armour-bearers. Many of their
remote ancestors have been found in the rocks and hills of South
America, and all of their representatives of to-day are small
animals--the last of a doomed race--creatures of yesterday. The
glyptodon is known to have been more than eleven feet in length, and his
near-kinsman, the chlamydothere, was even larger. He was nearly the size
of our present-day rhinoceros. These extinct giants carried on their
backs huge domes of bony plates, that must have rivalled our much-feared
tanks, of trench war fame. One would think they were invulnerable, yet
the glyptodon and the chlamydothere, with many other equally well
protected creatures, have long ago disappeared from the earth, but how
and why nobody knows. This total disappearance of these marvellously
protected giants, which seemed capable of defending themselves against
any and all kinds of enemies that might have arisen, is one of the
strangest and most unsolvable problems of science.

Another mail-clad animal of importance is the armadillo of the tropical
and temperate regions of South America. He is nocturnal in habits,
sleeping in his underground home during the day, and coming out at night
to seek for food. This underground home is rather large, and the nursery
is well protected from enemies by its location. In it the mother
armadillo rears her young until they are large enough to care for
themselves.

All species of the armadillos are powerful burrowers, and they are well
equipped for their tunnelling in the earth with strong fore limbs. They
feed upon all kinds of insects and animal substances. It is claimed that
the giant armadillo is a veritable grave-robber and sometimes digs up
dead bodies for the purpose of eating them.

These animals are plentiful upon the savannas of South America, and they
feast upon the bodies of dead cattle. So hard are their coats of armour
that the Gauchos sharpen their Spanish knives, which they always carry,
upon them. Should the armadillo be attacked by a man on horseback, he
will burrow so rapidly that only by the quickest movements of the man
can he be caught; and if he is, watch out for his terrible claws!

No animal is better protected by nature from its enemies than the
pichiciago, whose scientific name is _chlamyphorus truncatus_. This
strange little mantle-bearer wears a coat of mail which is as flexible
as the human-made coats of armour of olden times, and he is as safe
under its cover, which allows him perfect freedom, as if he were under
the ground. He is about the size of the ordinary mole, and his general
habits are not unlike those of the mole. He is an underground-dweller,
with enormous fore-paws, palm-shaped, upon which are five powerful
claws. These he uses to great advantage in digging in the earth for
insects and for building his home. He has a small snout, reminding one
of that of a pig; while his piercing little eyes are deeply hidden in
his fur. He is a native of Chile, and because of his shy nature and
subterranean habits is rarely seen.

The most interesting feature about this little creature is the cuirass
which so perfectly protects his body. Its formation and arrangement is
quite unusual; it appears like a number of squared plates of horn,
tightly united to short strips of tape, which are sewed together. The
cuirass is not connected with the entire body of the animal, but only on
the top of the head and along the spine. It covers the entire back, and
when it reaches the tail, turns downward, forming a perfect flap, which
protects the hindquarters.

The various species of manis are famed for their powerful coats of
armour. They, also, belong to the great group of burrowers, and their
coats of mail assume both offensive and defensive characters. These
mail-bearers are covered with numerous sharp-edged scales, like
miniature horns, which entirely overlap one another, like shingles on a
house. They are of great hardness, and form a belt which no animal of
their regions can penetrate. A revolver shot will produce not the
slightest effect upon the body of this iron-protected animal.

These animals are plentiful in India, and when they are molested, they
deliberately wind themselves up, coil their tails over their bodies, and
remain in conscious security against the fruitless blows of their
enemies, who soon weary of the wounds caused from the prickly scales of
impenetrable armour.

Instead of wearing heavy coats of mail, certain animals, such as the
hedgehog and porcupine, prefer to wear coats covered with needles and
pins. Of course, a coat of spines is used purely for protection. And
against the attacks of such enemies as dogs, it proves all-sufficient,
but it is a well-known fact that pumas and leopards will kill and eat
porcupines at all times, paying small attention to their spines, as is
shown by the number which are sometimes found sticking in the body of a
porcupine-eating animal.

There are several species of this great spine-bearing family; and many
of them, especially the true porcupines and the echidnas, have burrows
in the ground and thus have a double means of protecting themselves. But
others, such as the hedgehog, depend for their protection upon their
ability to roll up into a ball, thus presenting a barbed wire
protection. Still others live largely in the trees and seek by other
means to protect themselves.

One of the most interesting coats of armour is that worn by the
porcupine ant-eater--oft-times erroneously called porcupine or hedgehog.
He is a native of Australia, and is a powerful burrower. He is
marvellously protected by means of a coat of needles or spines which
inflict painful wounds on the dog or other enemy that ventures to attack
him. In case of danger, he curls himself up into a ball, and defies any
one to come near. Not only does he possess the coat of prickles with
which he defends himself, but he also has a large perforated claw or
spur on each hind foot through which pours an ill-smelling liquid, and
these also aid in protecting him. There are several varieties of
porcupines which inhabit Asia, Africa, Southern Europe and America.

When a porcupine wishes to attack an enemy, he rushes at it backwards,
and usually leaves the enemy literally covered, like a living
pin-cushion, with his spines. These animals have convex skulls, short
tails, and live chiefly in the warmer regions of the Old World. Those of
America are different in one particular--the soles of their feet are
covered with hard, bone-like tubercles, instead of being soft and
smooth; there are also a number of hairs that are intermingled with the
spines. The Canada porcupine has more hairs than the American, and a
shorter and stumpier tail.

Another animal whose methods of defence are by means of his spines, is
the hedgehog. His spines do not terminate in sharp points, like those of
the porcupine, but end in tiny knobs. These are placed beneath the skin,
and are like pins stuck through a cushion. The hedgehog, like the
porcupine, rolls himself into a ball when attacked by enemies, and he
has the additional ability of throwing himself down a hillside, like a
rolling ball, and thus escaping his enemies without injury to himself.
It would seem that the hedgehog, rolled into a ball and covered with
prickles, would be protected from all enemies. But this is not true, for
the clever fox knows just how to make him unroll. This one secret of the
hedgehog's weakness very often causes his loss of life. His weakness is
a terror of being wet or dropped into water; and when the fox finds him
all rolled up, he carefully rolls him into a pond of water and, when he
unrolls, quickly drowns him. Notwithstanding the shortness of the
hedgehog's spines, he is the most highly specialised of all
spine-bearing animals. In the lower order of animals there are spiny
mice and spiny rats, and even the horned toad uses his horns as a means
of protection against his enemies.

One of the most peculiarly armoured animals is the horned lizard,
commonly known as the "horned toad" of America. His body is covered with
small spiny scales, while the chisel-shaped head has a circlet of
miniature horns. These he uses when attacked by enemies to shield
himself against bites and knocks. The Indians claim that if a snake
swallows the horned lizard whole, the lizard will immediately work his
way through the snake. This would not be without a parallel, however,
for it is generally known that box-fishes, when swallowed by sharks,
bite their way out!

Nature has been especially kind to horned lizards, and that is the
reason there are so many of them. They well know the secret of the Gyges
ring, and can put on the garment of invisibility in a very short time.
They especially frequent the desert regions of the South and West; and
those that dwell in black sandy regions are black; those of red clay
regions are red; those of grey regions, grey; those from the variously
coloured regions of blue and red are precisely the colour of the earth.
But not satisfied with all their protections of armour and camouflage,
they actually, when hard-pressed by an enemy, feign death, like an
opossum! And if the enemy persists in his attack, and Mr. Lizard cannot
escape, as a final effort he spurts tears of blood from his eyes. The
Mexicans call him the "sacred toad." The phenomenon of blood-shooting
has been explained in various ways, all of which seem equally
unsatisfactory. So far it is one of Nature's secrets. Perhaps some day
we may understand it.

The tortoises are among the best examples of creatures which to-day
protect themselves with armour. They are, of course, reptiles, yet in
the general formation of their armour, they are strikingly like
armadillos. The tortoise has his armour so arranged over his body that
it forms one big box. He draws his head and limbs into this whenever
danger is near. In Texas recently I found a small land terrapin, and as
soon as I came near, he closed his house. I picked him up, and then
carefully laid him upside down on the ground, and stepped behind some
nearby bushes to see what he would do. Immediately he poked his head
out, and then his feet, and then he began to wave his feet wildly in
air, and finally threw himself in the right position and hastened away
through the grass.

The turtle protects himself in the same way, and draws his head, feet,
and tail under his own house-roof where nothing can get him.

Lobsters and crabs are excellent types of armour-bearing animals.
Lobsters wear marvellous coats of mail, very similar to those worn by
human warriors during the age of chivalry. Their jointed structure
assures them perfect ease and security. Crabs, however, believe, as the
tortoise, in the strong-box protection. When resting, crabs tuck their
legs beneath them, so as to shelter themselves under the hard covering.
Upon crabs Nature has bestowed twin protective characteristics: namely,
they are armoured, and also mimic their surroundings. The latter
protection is especially needful, because certain big fishes, like the
cod, are in the habit of swallowing crabs whole. In this case the armour
is of no use, while the protective resemblance saves the crab.

To discuss in detail all the various kinds of armour and mail that the
different groups of animals have used and developed for offensive and
defensive purposes since the days of the prehistoric gigantic
armadillos to the present, would require a book of itself. It is
sufficient to know that armour and mail and spines are among Nature's
most common forms of protection, and that each age develops new and ever
more efficient methods of defence. This simply means that the age-long
drama of evolution is always changing. Everything that is came out of
that which was, and throughout the ages the ever-evolving organisms have
been developing out of the past, that they might ever be new.




V

MINERS AND EXCAVATORS

  _"When the cold winter comes and the water plants die,
  And the little brooks yield no further supply,
  Down in his burrow he cosily creeps,
  And quietly through the long winter sleeps."_

  --(_The Water Rat._)


There are many ground-dwellers in the animal world, and foremost among
them is the mole. This remarkable little creature is not only gifted as
a digger of canals and tunnels, but plans and makes the most
extraordinary subterranean homes. Sometimes he unites with his fellow
creatures and establishes whole cities with winding passages, chambers,
exits and entrances. In fact, he has not only an exquisitely arranged
home, but highways and roads that lead to his kingly hunting-grounds
which are as elaborate as that of a modern man of wealth and culture.
Indeed his subterranean network of tunnels excels in complexity our
modern city subways. His engineering calculations never fail, and a
cave-in of his hallways is unknown. This little gentleman with the
velvet coat is a genius of varied accomplishments!

But this is only true when the mole is in his proper sphere or home.
There he can fight like a tiger, catch his prey both below and above
ground, build wells to collect and retain water, swim like a fish, and
do many things which would seem impossible, judging from his awkward and
clumsy manner above ground.

His apparent awkwardness while out of his natural habitat is largely due
to the peculiar formation of his limbs, and the stupid appearance of his
small half-hidden eyes. These features seem to mark him to the casual
observer as a dull animal, yet in reality he is very active and bright,
and when at home displays his marvellous genius in many ways! His
upturned hands become powerful shovels, and by the aid of an extra bone,
the sickle, which belongs to the inside of the thumb, he is enabled to
work like an athlete. His velvet-like hair stands straight up, like the
pile on velvet, and his tiny eyes are so hidden by hair that they do not
get injured. The eyes are not well finished from an optician's point of
view--but they serve admirably all the needs of the mole's life. As dull
and stupid as he appears, he is, considering his size, the fiercest and
most active animal in existence. Imagine him the size of a wild cat! He
would be a beast of exceeding ferocity. Even a lion would find him a
formidable antagonist. With such an animal tunnelling in his fields and
cellars, man would have a terror hard to exterminate.

The mole is an engineer and miner who seems to have a strange sense of
direction practically unknown to many other animals. How he manages to
form tunnels and burrows in lines of such unusual straightness is
unknown; he always works in darkness, unless it is that he can see in
the dark. His little hills are not deliberate structures; they are only
shaft ends through which this miner throws out the earth that he has
scooped from subterranean depths, and in most cases smoothed out so that
if an observer examines the burrow he will find only solid earth, and a
road into his tunnel which leads to his real habitation.

The home of the mole is usually beneath a tree or hillock, and reminds
one of a miniature city of tunnels and engineering feats. The main, or
central, room is shaped like a great dome, the upper part of which is
level with the earth around the hill, and therefore nowhere near its
apex. Mr. Wood has verified the observation that around the keep are two
circular passages, one of which is level with the ceiling, while the
other is above. The upper circle is decidedly smaller than the lower;
and there are five ascending passages which connect the galleries with
each other. There is only one entrance, however, and from it three roads
lead into the upper part of the keep. When a mole enters the house from
one of the tunnels, he must go through the basement in order to get to
the upper part of the house and so descend into the keep. There is still
another entrance into the keep from below. One passage leads downward
directly from the middle of the chamber, then curving upward, leads into
a larger tunnel or subway.

Throughout the vast network of tunnels every inch of wall space seems
quite smooth and polished. This is due to the continuous pressure of the
mole's fur against the walls. Thus there is little danger of the walls
collapsing even after a rain-storm. No human being knows just why the
mole has such a complex system of underground streets and tunnels;
perhaps it is because he finds that a greater feeling of safety
surrounds his home when he knows that in case of danger he can escape in
a dozen directions. Surely he is the original builder of labyrinths!

How marvellous that so tiny a creature can build such a fortress! The
complex chambers and circular galleries do justice to an artist. The
space of ground covered by a single mole's roads and galleries is
almost unbelievable; in every direction from the fortress they run, and
are sunk at various depths, according to the condition of the mole's
hunting-grounds, which are really the spaces of ground through which he
tunnels. Worms and underground insects are his chief food. Sometimes he
ploughs along the surface of the ground, and exposes his back as he
works; but if the weather is dry, he ploughs deeply into the earth for
worms. He fills his storehouse with earth-worms for winter use, and he
finds it necessary to bite their heads off, which leaves them inert but
not dead. This cannot be done in the summer months without the heads
re-growing and the worms crawling away. The mole knows the exact
temperature best suited for keeping his meat fresh!

A most interesting and beautiful family of miner-cousins of the moles
are the shrews. They are excavators of great ability, and because of
their nocturnal habits are rarely seen alive. They are very similar to
the mole, though much more handsome. Their domicile is built of dry
grass at the end of a tunnel.

The shrew mole of North America is a ground-digger of great ingenuity.
He is second only to the mole in the extent and pretensions of his
engineering and tunnelling. His eyes are very small and deeply hidden
in his fur. During the day he constantly comes to the surface of the
earth, and one may catch him by driving a hoe or spade underneath him.

Another underground-dweller is the elephant shrew of South America. He
has a long nose, thick fur, short ears, and, unlike his cousins, he
loves to bask in the warm sunshine. At the least signal of alarm he
darts away to his subterranean home. As a mining engineer he is
unexcelled; he sinks his tunnels by first boring an almost perpendicular
shaft, and then making his burrows at an angle. It is a sad day for
earth-worms when he decides to locate in their vicinity!

It is not an easy task to classify the homes of animals. Many of them
have characteristics that entitle them to be placed under several
groupings. The otter, for example, might be classed as a cave-dweller,
as he seeks refuge in caves; yet he also rears his young in underground
nests as a burrowing animal. But few naturalists believe that he does
his own digging. This is not surprising when we remember that there are
many other animals that live in caves and grottoes, and like the otter,
seek ready-made homes for their convenience. Among these may be
mentioned three American salamanders, bats, and a few strange mice, who
seek darkness and constant temperature, and therefore find caves best
suited to their needs.

The same is true of the weasel, who is thought to be a great burrower,
but in fact, like our remote cave-dwelling ancestors, makes his home
only in caves, in rocky crevices, and under the gnarled roots of old
trees. He is a bright-eyed little creature, with a slender snake-like
neck and red body. He is a great friend of mankind, as he does more
toward eradicating mice and other nocturnal depredators than all the
rat-catchers in the land. His home is quite ordinary compared to that of
the more ambitious underground-dwellers.

A near cousin of the weasel, and a most ingenious engineer and miner, is
the badger. He is a tenement-dweller and builds his home in the deep,
shady woods. His home is rather pretentious with several chambers, and a
most delightfully furnished nursery which is warmly padded with dry
grass and moss.

The badger, once so plentiful in England and America, is fast passing
away because of the increase of towns and cities. As soon as the forest
in which he dwells is drained and converted into farm land, the badger
disappears. He is driven from the soil where he once held sway, and is
one of those unfortunate animals which are eliminated by man-made
civilisation.

The fox of the Far North is a famous excavator, and his underground home
which shelters and protects him from the extreme cold is most spacious.
It is a strange fact that these cunning little animals rarely make their
homes away from others of their kind. Sometimes twenty to thirty are
found in close proximity. And their owners are unquestionably the
smartest, keenest, and quickest creatures that roam the wilds. While
some of their deeds are questionable, their quick wits and nimble bodies
excite our admiration.

These arctic foxes really build small cities, and their semi-social life
may be accounted for by the peculiar suitability of the place which they
select for a habitation. Their homes are usually in a sandy hill, where
it is very easy for them to burrow; and the strangest part of the whole
city is that each burrow is complete and entirely independent in itself.
There are many winding paths and tunnels in each house, but each belongs
exclusively to its owner and never winds into a neighbour's house. In
case of danger the fox has many directions in which he may escape.

The nursery is the most carefully arranged of all the rooms. It is
rather small and is directly connected with the main outer chamber
somewhat like the nursery of the mole. So skilfully is it situated that
it sometimes happens a hunter will dig into a fox's burrow and never
discover the nest of young, and later the clever mother will return to
carry away her babes, which are usually five to six in number. Adjoining
the nursery are two or three storage rooms filled with food for the
winter. The number of bones usually found in the basement indicates that
a great variety of ducks, fish, hares, lemming, and stoats are regularly
eaten, and that the average fox family does not want for food.

The arctic fox is not only a beauty in his coat of pure white, but is
unusually brainy. Persecuted animals, like persecuted human beings,
become very wise. Nature is kind to the fox in his arctic home, and in
the winter turns his coat snow white so that he may easily escape his
enemies--especially men, who seek his beautiful fur and edible body. He
is skilled in his distrust of wires, sticks, guns and strings! No man
knows better than he the meaning of foot-tracks in the snow, and how
long they have been there, and which way they lead; thus, those that
survive their enemies have acquired extreme wisdom, and keep carefully
away from everything that is at all suspicious to their eyes and
nostrils.

The Siberian fox is one of those wise creatures that has defied in a
most extraordinary way his handicaps, and, refusing to admit them, has
boldly selected the strangest dwelling-place known to the animal
world--the horn of the mountain sheep. This unique dwelling-place has
been the home of the Siberian fox for ages, and his ancestors have known
no other. The mountain sheep, which are giants among their kind, have
the longest horns in proportion to their size of any animal in
existence. The argali of Siberia is the largest of all sheep, and is
equal in bulk and weight to an average-sized ox, with horns
proportionally large. The horns of these animals are strikingly like
those of the Rocky Mountain sheep of America, except they are much
larger. They spring up from the forehead, tilt backward, then boldly
curve below the muzzle, before finally again pointing upward and
tapering into a sharp and delicate point. They are hollow, though
exceedingly stout and elastic, and strengthened on the outside by a
number of ridges or horny rings set very close together. They are found
in large numbers in this land of perpetual ice and snow, and it is
thought that they break from the sheep's heads very easily.

It is not uncommon to find them lying in a spot which has been a
battlefield, where two sheep in attempting to settle some dispute have
fought and fallen. It is not long after they have thus fallen before
they are utilised by Mr. Fox. He stores himself carefully away in these
roomy horns, one of which Mrs. Fox uses as a nursery, finding it a snug,
safe, and warm place to rear her little family.

The other varieties of foxes, especially the grey and red, are not so
skilled in home-making. This may be due to the fact that they do not
have need of such elaborate houses as their arctic cousins. Again, it
may be that the existence of numerous deserted homes of badgers, or even
rabbits, makes it unnecessary for them to spend their time in building
homes of their own. It is much easier to enlarge the ready-made burrow
of a rabbit than to dig a new tunnel, of course.

If there is no ready-made burrow to be had, then the wise fox sets to
work and scoops out his own. Herein he sleeps all the day, and comes
forth only at night. A small chamber from the main room serves as the
nursery, and here the babies are born and nurtured. Nothing is more
beautiful than to see the entire family--mother, father, and
children--come forth at evening to play. The young are as sportive as
pups, but they never wander far from home. Their broad heads, grey
coats, short tails and awkward appearance would lead no one to think
that they were the children of handsome, nimble-limbed, intelligent Mrs.
Fox!

Woe to the dog that enters Mrs. Fox's home! She is a pugilist of the
first order, and knows how to fight far better than the average bull
terrier. It requires a very savage dog to kill her, and he is apt to be
minus an ear when the battle is over.

Red and grey foxes are similar in intelligence, but differ in many other
ways: the former are like the gipsies in always moving about from place
to place, while the latter stick to one general locality, although their
hunting-grounds may range for several miles in all directions. Red foxes
seem actually to enjoy being hunted by dogs; in most cases they will
outrun the dogs, and rarely seek protection from caves or rocks.

The grey fox, on the other hand, cares little for racing, but seeks
protection among rocky cliffs where the dogs are at a disadvantage. Here
none but the smallest canines may enter the holes and crannies, and they
are usually wise enough to stay out. Hunters are thoroughly familiar
with the tactics of the fox family, and therefore select the red ones
for their sport.

The foxes are truly famed for their cunning, and when other animals try
to play tricks on them, the trick usually turns out in the foxes'
favour. During the winter season these wise creatures are sometimes hard
pressed for food. Birds and small animals are hard to catch, and the
farmers' chicken houses are closed. It is then that the wise fox needs
all his wit and wisdom, for he oftentimes becomes the hunted as well as
the hunter. His chief enemies are the puma and the timber wolf, but they
are seldom able to get him.

The prairie-dog is so talented that he might be classed under several
headings; he is sociable, a burrower, and especially gifted in the art
of constructing underground "dog towns." He is rarely called by his
Indian name, _Wish-ton-wish_, and we know him only as the prairie-dog.
Evidently he was given this name because of his yelping bark, which
resembles the cry of a young domestic dog.

He is a good-looking but rather curious little animal. He has a round,
flat head, and garish-red fur, and a stout little body. He makes an
affectionate pet, and loves the society of human beings. When he decides
to start a town, he usually succeeds, for he is an exceedingly prolific
animal, and his extensive burrows seem to have no ends. They are rather
large, and run to great depths. In the western part of the United
States, especially on the big prairies, the prairie-dog towns often
cover large areas. They are usually dug in a sloping direction, and
descend four to six feet in depth, and then suddenly rise upward again.
Hundreds of these little tunnels are dug in such close proximity to each
other that it is quite unsafe for cattle and horses to pass over them.
This is the chief reason why ranchmen do not like the otherwise harmless
little animals of the prairies.

These dog towns are most curious, and a visit to one of them well repays
the traveller. Strangely enough, the prairie-dog is exceedingly
inquisitive and this very quality often costs the little animal his
life. Mr. Wood, in describing the prairie-dog's habits, says that this
wise little Westerner, when perched on the hillocks which we have
already described, is able to survey a wide extent of territory and as
soon as he sees a visitor, he gives a loud yelp of alarm, and dives into
his burrow, his tiny feet knocking together with a ludicrous flourish as
he disappears. In every direction similar scenes are enacted. The
warning cry has been heard, and immediately every dog within a hundred
yards repeats the cry and leaps into his burrow. Their curiosity,
however, cannot be suppressed, and no sooner have they vanished from
sight than their heads are seen protruding from their burrows. Sometimes
hundreds of them will be peeping from their homes at one time, their
beautiful eyes sparkling as they cautiously watch the enemy's every
movement.

The prairie-dog is truly a tenement dweller, and his home is occupied
not only by his own kind, but by owls and rattlesnakes. Most naturalists
believe that these incongruous families live in perfect harmony; but it
is a well-known fact that the snake occasionally devours the young
prairie-dogs, and he must be considered by them as an intruder who
procured board and lodging without their consent. The owls, on the other
hand, are supposed to do no harm, although it may be that they also
occasionally feast on a tender young pup.

The magnificent little animals known to scientists as vizcachas, and
whose homes are on the pampas of South America, are the most skilled
builders of underground cities in the animal world. Their villages or
cities are called "vizcacheras" and are provided with from ten to twenty
mouths or subway entrances, with one entrance often serving for several
holes. If the ground is soft, it is not uncommon to find twenty to
thirty burrows in a vizcachera; but if the ground is rocky and hard,
only four or five burrows are found. These wide-mouthed, gaping burrows
are dug close together, and the entire town usually covers from one
hundred to two hundred square feet.

The vizcacheras are different from other underground animal cities; some
of the burrows are large, others are small. Most of them open into a
subterranean main-street at from four to six feet from the entrance;
from this street other streets wind and turn in all directions, like a
man-made subway, and many of them extend clear into other streets or
subways, thus forming a complete network of underground passageways. All
the tunnelled-out dirt is brought to the surface and forms a large mound
to prevent the water from entering the cities.

According to W. H. Hudson, in _The Naturalist in La Plata_, "in some
directions a person might ride five hundred miles and never advance half
a mile without seeing one or more of them. In districts where, as far as
the eye can see, the plains are as level and smooth as a bowling-green,
especially in winter when the grass is close-cropped, and where the
rough giant-thistle has not sprung up, these mounds appear like brown or
dark spots on a green surface. They are the only irregularities that
occur to catch the eye, and consequently form an important feature in
the scenery. In some places they are so near together that a person on
horseback may count a hundred of them from one point of view."

Unlike some burrowing animals, the vizcacha does not select a spot where
there is a bank or depression in the soil, or roots of trees, or even
tall grass; knowing that they only attract the opossum, skunk,
armadillo, and weasel, he chooses an open level plot of ground where he
can watch in all directions for enemies while he works.

The great or main entrance to some of these underground cities is
sometimes four to six feet in diameter. A small man stands shoulder deep
in them. The going and coming of these little vizcachas would almost
lead one to believe that they have a primitive city government, and are
ruled according to definite laws. Their cities stand for generations,
and many of the old human inhabitants tell of certain vizcacheras around
them which existed when their parents were living. The founder of a new
village is usually a male; and he goes only a short distance from the
other villages to establish his new colony.

These cities are by no means occupied by their builders alone, but have
their undesirables within their borders. The unique style of burrowing
which the vizcachas employ benefits several kinds of birds, especially
the Minerva, and one species of the swallows, which build their nests in
the bank-like holes in the sides of the vizcacha's cities. Several
insects, among which may be mentioned a large nocturnal bug, with red
wings and shiny black body, also seek the same shelter; another foreign
inhabitant is a night-roaming cincindela, with dark green wing-cases and
pale red legs, which remind one of oriental jewels. There are also no
less than six species of wingless wasps, beautifully coloured in red,
black, and white. Dozens of spiders and smaller insects that live in and
near the vizcacheras, which are everywhere sprinkled over the pampas,
pass in and out among the streets recognising their respective friends
and enemies.

The home life in these communities is most interesting. The burrowers
remain indoors until late in the evening during the winter, but in
summer appear before the sun sets. One of the larger males is the first
to appear, as if to see if everything is safe from danger; if it is,
others immediately pop up and take their places at the entrance to the
burrow. The females are smaller than the males, and stand up that they
may see everything that happens. Curiosity struggling within them for
mastery is often the cause of their death. Tiny swallows hover over the
entrances, like myriads of large moths, with never-ending low, mournful
cries.

Of all the incongruous inhabitants of the vizcacheras, the fox is the
most dreaded and the least welcome. To appease his growls and snarls the
vizcachas are sometimes forced to let him occupy one of their rooms for
a season, or even permanently. During a part of the year he appears
quite unassuming and indifferent to the general affairs of the
household, and he really goes quite unnoticed, even though he may be
sitting on the mound in the family group. But when the vizcachas appear
in the spring, the fox begins to become interested in the nursery and as
soon as the older animals are away he devours the young. Occasionally,
if the fox is hungry, or if he has another friend to aid him, he will
hunt the vizcachera from end to end, battling with the old, and usually
killing all the young. It often happens that the mother vizcacha, when
her babes are large enough to follow her, will take them away to another
place that is safer.

The language of these city-builders is most unusual; the males
frequently utter the most varied and astonishing cries. They are jarring
in the extreme, and are produced in the most leisurely manner, growing
louder and louder and finally ending with a slow quaver. At other times,
they grunt like small pigs. Hudson says that any quick noise, like the
report of a gun, produces a most startling effect among these little
animals. As soon as the report is broken on the stillness of the night a
perfect furore of cries issues forth from every direction. In a few
seconds it ceases for a momentary lull, and then suddenly breaks forth
again, louder than before. The tones of the different ones are so
different that the cries of nearby individuals may be plainly
distinguished amidst the babel of voices coming from the distance. It
sounds as if thousands upon thousands of them were striving to express
every emotion with their tiny tenor voices. No words can describe the
effect that these sounds produce. One of the most peculiar calls is the
special alarm-note, which is sharp, sudden, and shrill. It is reported
from one to another until every vizcacha is safe in his burrow.

But with all the kind and sociable qualities of these little animals,
they have characteristics which seem rather paradoxical, and chief among
these is their resentment of any intrusion of neighbours into their
burrows. Although a number of individuals may reside in adjoining
compartments in the same burrow, yet if one enters a burrow not his
own--woe is he! Even when pursued by fierce dogs a vizcacha will rarely
enter a room of another. If he does, he is immediately pounced upon by
the angry owner, and is usually driven clear out of the burrow. These
animals are undoubtedly far the most versatile and intelligent rodents
in the world.

A most unusual miner and underground dweller is the pocket gopher of
North and Central America. He is a rat-like animal, and is most
plentiful on the plains of the Mississippi region. He is unusual in
appearance, dressed in brown and grey fur, with tiny white feet, small
eyes and ears, and a short stubby tail. His feet are wonderfully strong,
and his fore-paws are armed with strong, curved claws. But he is famed
for his wonderful fur-lined pouches which open inside his cheeks and
serve a peculiar use.

His entire life, with rare exceptions, is spent underground. There he
makes long tunnels for the purpose of securing tender roots for food;
these tunnels are about twelve to eighteen inches below the surface, and
usually wind under the foot of a tree where a sinking passage goes down
four to five feet further and leads to a large living-room. This is the
family nest and nursery, lined with grass and soft fur which Mrs. Gopher
has taken from her own body. Adjoining the living-room is a storage bin
filled with nuts, dried bits of roots, tobacco, and potatoes.

Much that is exaggerated has been said in regard to the adaptability of
the gopher for his work. But it is a fact that he is of all the diggers
best suited for his task. He uses his strong teeth, like a trench-digger
uses a pick, to loosen the earth; and while his fore-feet are kept
constantly at work in digging and pressing the dirt back under the body,
the hind feet also aid in shovelling it still farther back. When a
sufficient amount has heaped up behind him, he performs the strangest of
all his feats--he turns around, and places his hands vertically against
his chin, thus forcing himself backwards, pushing the dirt ahead of
himself until it is forced out of the tunnel. At the outer end of the
tunnel is formed a little hillock.

Dr. Merriam has made a special study of the gopher, and in speaking of
the strange habit of running backwards, he says that even in carrying
food to one of his barns or storehouses the gopher rarely turns round
but usually runs backwards and forwards, over and over again like a
shuttle on its track.

The gopher uses his pouches for carrying food, not dirt. When he has
eaten a sufficient amount of food, he fills his pouches. If a potato is
too large to be carried in this way, he trims it off to the right size.
His method of emptying his pouches is most interesting; with his two
tiny paws he delicately presses the food from his cheeks.

The woodchuck is an American basement-dweller of considerable renown.
His peculiar whistling cry has won for him from the French the name of
_siffleur_; and we sometimes call him by the very inappropriate name of
ground-hog. He is a skilled weather prophet, and his appearance in the
early spring signifies that the winter is over. He never shows himself
until the cold is gone.

The home of the woodchuck is usually found under a hill, with a
sheltering rock to protect the entrance, which leads into a tunnel, from
twenty to thirty feet in length, finally ending by entering his home
proper. The tunnel descends obliquely for several feet, and again rises
towards the surface. His nest is rather large, and nicely lined with dry
grass and leaves, which serve as a carpet for the young woodchucks when
they come into the world. The young remain in the underground home until
they are about five months old, then they go out into the world for
themselves.

The ground squirrel long ago decided that he would rather have a
dwelling under the ground than in the tree-tops, for in an underground
home he would have more protection, a better place for storing food,
and a far safer nursery for rearing his precious babes. So snug, cosy
and hidden are the tiny quarters to which his runs or subways lead that
his family is quite safe against most enemies. The ingenuity and skill
shown in the construction of his home entitles him to rank among the
leading animal miners and excavators.

The most unusual of all the underground and basement dwellers is the
polar bear. This wise inhabitant of the Far North has long ago learned
that no animal needs to freeze to death in the snow. To him the snow is
a constant means of warmth and protection, and as winter approaches, he
seeks a position, usually near a big rock, where he digs out a hole of
small dimensions, and allows the snow to cover his body. Strangely
enough it is only the female bear that seeks this permanent snow hut;
the males do not care to spend so much time in seclusion. The same is
true of the unmated females. But the mated females always have snow huts
in which they give birth to their young, and where they reside until
early spring; then the mother bear comes forth with them to seek food
and teach them the ways of the world.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

TO THE POLAR BEAR THE ICE AND SNOW OF THE FAR NORTH MEAN WARMTH AND
PROTECTION. THE MOTHER BEAR DIGS HERSELF INTO A SNOWBANK, WHERE SHE
LIVES QUITE COMFORTABLY THROUGHOUT THE WINTER.]

[Illustration: THE SHARP CLAWS OF THE GROUND SQUIRREL ARE EFFICACIOUS
TOOLS IN DIGGING HIS COSY UNDERGROUND BURROW.]

There is no danger that the bears will stifle for air under the snow,
because the warmth of their breath always keeps a small hole open at
the top of the snow-cell. This snow-house increases as time goes on, the
heat exhaled from their bodies gradually melting the snow. Often Mrs.
Bear's home is discovered by means of the tiny hole in the roof around
which is collected quantities of hoar frost.

Hibernation is one of the strangest phenomena of the animal world, and
bears, especially the white bear of the polar regions, the black bear of
North America, and the brown bear of Europe, agree in the curious habit
of semi-hibernation. In the late fall of the season, the bears begin to
eat heavily and soon become enormously fat, preparatory for the long
winter of semi-sleep.

During the winter, at least for three months, the polar bear takes no
food, but lives entirely upon the store of fat which her body had
accumulated before she went into retirement. The same is true of many
hibernating animals, but in case of the bears it is more remarkable
because the mother bear must not only support herself but nourish her
young for a long period without taking any food for herself.

Another good example of a ground-dweller is the aard vark of Southern
Africa. He is as curious as his name, and scoops out immense quantities
of earth to form his home. This dwelling might be termed a cave, as he
heaps up the earth in the shape of a mammoth artificial ant-hill; on
one side is the entrance, which is so skilfully formed that it looks far
more like the work of man than of an animal.

His name is Dutch and means earth-hog. It is applied to him because his
head looks somewhat like that of a pig. His claws are powerful and
enormous, and with them he is able to dig into the hardest soil, and to
destroy the giant ant-hills which are dotted over the plains of South
Africa, and which can withstand the weight of a dozen men.

This strange creature sleeps during the day, and comes forth at evening
to seek his food. The first thing he does is to burst a hole in the
stony side of an ant-hill, to the utter dismay of its tiny inhabitants.
As they run among the ruins of their fallen city, he throws out his
slimy tongue and catches them by the hundreds. In a short time only the
shell of a half-destroyed wall remains.

These once stately ant-homes metamorphosed into caves, form homes for
the jackals and large serpents of the plains. The Kaffirs of Africa use
them as vaults into which are thrown their dead. The aard vark
outrivals, with his great claws, the most skilled burrowing tools of
man. These animals are therefore rarely captured. It is not uncommon for
a horse to fall into their excavations and be killed.

Miners, excavators, and underground dwellers teach us the great lesson
that, while many of them sought the ground as a protection, and found
there many difficulties to overcome, they not only have won in the great
struggle of life but have so skilfully adapted themselves to their
environment and surroundings as to become entire masters, even artists,
in their methods of living.




VI

ANIMAL MATHEMATICIANS


  _"But what a thoughtless animal is man,--
  How very active in his own trepan!"_

  --PRIOR.

Among the special senses of animals none seems more human than their
knowledge of mathematics. A recognition of this quality in animals is
encouraging because the new scientists are earnestly trying to build up
a true knowledge of animal behaviour by studying them in the light of
the new psychology. This will fill the place of the vast amount of
misinformation which those skilled only in book-knowledge, without
really knowing the ways of Nature, have builded. It will also record all
the strange and curious facts about animals and their ways without
insisting too much on rigid explanation. These new scientists are far
different from their predecessors who tried to explain everything they
did not understand about an animal's behaviour in terms of the scanty
information gained by studying a few museum specimens. We might as well
attempt to explain human nature from the study of an Egyptian mummy. The
new method is simply to give the facts about an animal, and frankly
admit that in many cases, such as are found in their knowledge of
counting and numbers, we must leave complete explanation to the future
when we shall have a greater fund of scientific data on which to base
our conclusions.

It is an established fact that some animals can count, and that they
have the faculty of close observation and keen discrimination. They
learn to count quickly, but they do not fully appreciate the value of
numerical rotation. Most of the arithmetical feats of trained animals
are hoaxes regulated by their sense of smell, sight, touch and taste.
But no one doubts their ability to count. I have known a monkey that
could count to five. He played with a number of marbles, and I would ask
for two marbles, one marble, four marbles, as the case might be, and he
would quickly hand the number requested.

Another incident that will illustrate the point is the case of a mule
owned by an old negro near Huntsville, Texas. The regular routine work
of this mule was to cart two loads of wood to the town every day. One
day the negro wished to make a third trip, but was unable to do so. When
asked the reason, he replied, "Dat fool mule, Napoleon, done decided we
had hauled enough wood fo' one day!"

Prantl claims that the time-sense is totally absent in animals, and that
it belongs only to man, as one of the attributes of his mental
superiority. However, many facts go to show that animals have not only a
specific time-sense, but also a sense of personal identity which reaches
back into the past.

Time-sense is very highly developed in dogs, cats, hogs, horses, goats,
and sheep. They apparently are able to keep an accurate account of the
days of the week and hours of the day and night, and even seem to know
something of numerical succession and logical sequence. A friend in
Texas had an old coloured servant, whose faithful dog had been trained
to know that just at noon each day he was expected to carry lunch to his
master. I have seen the dog on more than one occasion playing with
children in the streets, suddenly break away without any one calling
him, or any suggestion on our part as to the time, and rush for the
kitchen just at the proper moment. No one could detain him from his
duty. This same dog, however, would on Sundays continue to play at the
noon hour. Surely, if any explanation is to be offered in such a case as
this, it will imply as strict a sense of time as it does of duty.

A friend relates a case of a dog that went each evening to meet a train
on which his master returned from the city. On one occasion the train
was delayed two hours, and it was exceedingly cold, but the devoted
companion remained until his master arrived. Innumerable instances of
such all-absorbing affection, showing at the same time a sense of time,
might be cited.

Dr. Brown gives a most remarkable example of a dog's ability to
distinguish time. The story is of a female dog, though named Wylie,
which was purchased by Dr. Brown when he was a young man, from an old
shepherd who had long been in his employment. Wylie was brought to his
father's, "and was at once taken," he says, "to all our hearts; and
though she was often pensive, as if thinking of her master and her work
on the hills, she made herself at home, and behaved in all respects like
a lady.... Some months after we got her, there was a mystery about her;
every Tuesday evening she disappeared; we tried to watch her, but in
vain; she was always off by nine P. M., and was away all night, coming
back next day wearied, and all over mud, as if she had travelled far.
This went on for some months, and we could make nothing of it. Well, one
day I was walking across the Grass-market, with Wylie at my heels, when
two shepherds started, and looking at her, one said, 'That's her;
that's the wonderful wise bitch that naebody kens.' I asked him what he
meant, and he told me that for months past she had made her appearance
by the first daylight at the 'buchts' or sheep-pens in the
cattle-market, and worked incessantly, and to excellent purpose, in
helping the shepherds to get their sheep and lambs in. The man said in a
sort of transport, 'She's a perfect meeracle; flees about like a
speerit, and never gangs wrang; wears, but never grups, and beats a' oor
dowgs. She's a perfect meeracle, and as soople as a mawkin'.' She
continued this work until she died."

Another most striking instance, showing animals' sense of time, is that
related by Watson in which he tells of two friends, fathers of families,
one living in London and the other at Guilford. For many years it was
the custom of the London family to visit their friends in Guilford,
always accompanied by their spaniel, Cćsar. After some years a
misunderstanding arose between the two families. The usual Christmas
visits were discontinued; not, however, so far as the spaniel was
concerned. His visits continued as before. On the eve of the first
Christmas following the misunderstanding, the Guilford family were
astonished to find at their door their London friend, Cćsar. Naturally,
they expected that he had come in advance of the family, and were happy
in the thought of this unexpected reconciliation. All evening they
awaited their friends, but none arrived. Nor did they the next day.
Cćsar had come of his own accord at the accustomed time, and remained
with his friends for the usual number of days. This naturally led to a
correspondence between the families, who thereupon resumed their former
friendly relations. We do not believe, of course, that this dog counted
the exact number of days to know when to start to Guilford, but he
doubtless saw something to remind him of the past.

Sir John Lubbock once related before the British Association at Aberdeen
how cards bearing the ten numerals were arranged before a dog, and the
dog given a problem, such as to state the square root of nine, or of
sixteen, or the sum of two numbers. He would then point at each card in
succession, and the dog would bark when he came to the right one. The
dog never made a mistake. If this was not evidence of a mentality at
least approaching that of men, we do not know what to call it.

If there is any difference between an animal and a human mathematician,
it depends upon special training. The animal never has the same
opportunities to learn as the man. Many savages, for example, cannot
count beyond three or four. Sir John Lubbock gives an anecdote of Mr.
Galton, who compared the arithmetical knowledge of certain savages of
South Africa and a dog. The comparison proved to the advantage of the
dog.

There is no reason that a dog should not be taught arithmetic. And if
one wishes to do so, it might be well to begin by making the dog
distinguish one from two, allowing him to touch both once at the word
one, and twice at the word two. Then he might pass on to six or seven.
After he had progressed to ten, he might begin addition. At least the
experiment would be interesting and conducive to learning the truth.
Surely a knowledge of mathematics is no more wonderful than that of the
ordinary pointer dog's ability to distinguish different kinds of birds.
Certain of those wise dogs are trained to hunt only quail, while others
hunt several varieties of game.

It should be remembered that all degrees of arithmetical aptitude are
found in the human races, from the genius of a Newton and a Laplace to
the absolute inability of certain of the Hottentots to count to three.
These inequalities in the mathematical notions of different people
should make us very cautious about saying that animals cannot count and
have no sense of numbers. It is extremely probable that if we had a way
of choosing those animals with a special gift for arithmetic, they
would surprise us with their learning.

[Illustration: THE COYOTE CAN READILY DISTINGUISH WHETHER A HERD OF
SHEEP IS GUARDED BY ONE OR MORE DOGS, AND WILL PLAN HIS ATTACK
ACCORDINGLY.]

[Illustration: THE ZEBU, THE SACKED BULL OF INDIA, IN SPITE OF ITS
DOMESTICATION, HAS AN AGILE BODY AND A QUICK, ALERT MIND.]

No one denies that animals are capable of distinguishing relative sizes
and even quantities. They are not so skilled as the average human being
in making these distinctions, yet when mentally compared to the state of
Bushmen, Tasmanians, and Veddahs, who can count only two, and call it
many, there is not such a vast gulf between them and mankind.

The zebu, or sacred bull of India, shows his mathematical qualities to a
pronounced degree. When he grows attached to a small group of his kin,
he will often refuse to leave them unless the entire group accompany
him. When driven from his pen, if by chance one of his party is left
behind he refuses to go--thus indicating that he is able to tell that
the exact number is not with him. His affectionate and gentle
disposition, not to mention his love of his offspring, would entitle him
to rank among the most human of animals. No wonder he is worshipped in
India, where the human side of animal life is understood and appreciated
to a degree quite unknown to the Western world!

The fox and the wolf, and even the coyote, can readily distinguish
whether a herd of sheep or cattle is guarded by three or four dogs, and
whether there is one herdsman or two. They cannot tell the exact number
of sheep, however; neither could a man without first counting them.
Their knowledge of geometry is remarkable. They can orient themselves to
the surrounding woods, measure distances, figure out the safest way of
escape, and the power of the enemy even better than savage man. Yet in
most of these problems, definite notions of number or figures have
little part. A dog, when hunting, for example, on a prairie where he has
to leap over ditches or quickly turn around a large tree, is able by a
second's thought to do so without danger. He clears the wire fence,
leaps the ditch, dashes through a closing gate, or escapes an infuriated
enemy at a moment's notice. This natural wisdom is exercised
spontaneously in him, it is the result of inborn theorems of which he
may not even be aware, but which he uses with a sureness that defies the
book-learning of all our teachers of mathematics. He uses speed, force,
space, mass, and time with so small an effort, and by the quickest and
shortest routes.

Suppose a wolf or a wild hog could not tell how many dogs were attacking
it? There would be no way for it to defend itself. If four dogs attack
it, they are counted and the tactics used that would be useless in other
cases. If four dogs attack, two on each side, it retreats, with face
toward the enemy. If a dozen dogs are in the attacking force, the hog
becomes confused, loses all idea of number, and wildly bites at any
enemy that comes nearest. Man in a similar condition would use
practically the same tactics.

Cats undeniably count their kittens. If the mother loses one of three or
four, she searches for it immediately. When dogs are chasing a hare, if
they raise another, they become very confused, as if they did not know
which to follow. Many shepherd dogs know if a sheep is missing from the
flock and go to hunt it.

The efforts of scientific investigators, who work with so many learned
theories, have been less successful in discovering the real facts about
animals than of laymen, largely because the scientists have not yet
learned that arithmetical notions are more difficult than geometrical
ones. Our industrial civilisation has caused us to lose the idea of the
insignificance that number has in animal life compared to the idea of
size. Most animals have a remarkable sense of size; they measure time
and distance better than civilised man. A hyena, for example, knows just
how near he dare approach an unarmed man.

A sense of time is common among animals that daily eat at fixed hours.
A donkey was accustomed to being fed at six o'clock in the morning, and
when on one occasion his master did not appear on time, he deliberately
kicked in the door to the barn and proceeded to feed himself.

Animals are capable of measuring lapses of time in which they are
particularly interested. Houzeau claims that a female crocodile remains
away from her eggs in the sand for twelve to twenty days, according to
the species, but returns to the place exactly on the day they hatch.

Although we should hesitate to affirm that all animals have an extensive
knowledge of figures and numbers, yet it can hardly be denied that the
elephant, donkey, horse, dog, and cat, if given the proper training,
become good mathematicians. It is undeniable that they have a love of
mental acquisition, and it seems that the Creator has given to every
animal, as a reward for its limitations in other respects, a definite
innate knowledge and desire to advance educationally. There is in the
breast of every animal an irresistible impulse which urges it to advance
in the scale of knowledge. Where the animal is blessed with other mental
powers, there is found a perfect harmony--of tact, intuition, insight,
and genius--all that man himself possesses.




VII

THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS


  _"Who ever knew an honest brute
  At law his neighbours prosecute,
  Bring action for assault and battery
  Or friends beguile with lies and flattery?"_


The fact that all animals possess ideas, no matter how small those ideas
may be, implies reason. That these ideas are transmitted from one animal
to another, no one can doubt in the light of our present scientific
knowledge. "Be not startled," says the distinguished animal authority,
Dr. William T. Hornaday, "by the discovery that apes and monkeys have
language; for their vocabulary is not half so varied and extensive as
that of the barnyard fowls, whose language some of us know very well."
The means by which ideas are transmitted from one animal to another can
be rightly described by no other term than _language_.

It is evident that there are many kinds of language: the written; the
spoken; the universal, which implies the motion, sign, and form
language; the language of the eye, by which ideas are exchanged without
words or gestures; and lastly, a mode of expression little known to the
human world, but universal among animals. This language is spoken by no
man, but is understood by every brute from the tiniest hare to the
largest elephant; it is the language whereby spirit communicates with
spirit, and by which it recognises in a moment what it would take an
entire volume to narrate. In its nature it differs essentially from all
other languages, yet we are justified in thinking of it as a language
because its function is to transmit ideas from one animal to another.
Every form of language is used by animals, and each has its own peculiar
language or "dialect" common to its tribe only, though occasionally
learned by others. All the emotions--fear, caution, joy, grief,
gratitude, hope, despair--are disclosed by some form of language.

It would be interesting to know how the use of the word "dumb" ever
became applied to animals, for in reality there are very few dumb
animals. Doubtless the word was originally employed to express a larger
idea than that of dumbness, and implied the lack of power in animals to
communicate successfully with man by sound or language. The real trouble
lies with man, who is unable to understand the language spoken or
uttered by the animals.

The gesture language is commonly used by many of the tribes of Southern
Africa, and some of the Bushmen are unable to converse freely after
dark, because their visible gestures are needed as an aid to their
spoken words. Only a few years ago there were almost as many different
languages among the North American Indians as there were different
tribes, and yet each tribe had a sign-language which any Indian in any
part of the world might understand. In fact it was so simple that it
might be practically mastered in a few hours, and through it one might
converse with the Indians of the world without knowing a single word of
their spoken language. And this is exactly what the animals do with
their universal language.

Who does not understand the meaning of a dog when he approaches his
master, after receiving a reprimand for some misdemeanor, with downcast
head and lowered tail? Or who could fail to interpret the glee when he
has done a noble deed and been praised by his master? His is the
language of gesture and look, and is very similar to that in use by our
deaf-and-dumb men throughout the world.

The Hindoos invariably talk to their elephants, and it is astonishing
how they understand. Bayard Taylor says that "the Arabs govern their
camels with a few cries, and my associates in the African deserts were
always amused whenever I addressed a remark to the dromedary who was my
property for two months; yet at the end of that time the beast evidently
knew the meaning of a number of simple sentences. Some years ago, seeing
the hippopotamus in Barnum's museum looking very stolid and dejected, I
spoke to him in English, but he did not even open his eyes. Then I went
to the opposite corner of the cage, and said in Arabic, 'I know you;
come here to me.' I repeated the words, and thereupon he came to the
corner where I was standing, pressed his huge, ungainly head against the
bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a touch of delight while I
stroked his muzzle. I have two or three times found a lion who
recognised the same language, and the expression of his eyes, for an
instant, seemed positively human."

Every one familiar with the habits of dogs believes that they have a
language. Certain shepherds are quite particular about the company their
dogs keep. This story is told of a couple of shepherds meeting in a
market-place in Scotland, each accompanied by his dog, one of which was
a sheep-murderer, the other a faithful and respectable dog. They seemed
to strike up a great friendship, "and soon assumed so remarkable a
demeanour in their conversation that their owners consulted together on
their own account, and agreed to set a watch upon them. On that very
evening both dogs started from their homes at the same hour, joined each
other, and set off after the sheep." It is unquestionable that these
dogs had a sufficiency of language to understand each other. The
criminal had invited his innocent young friend to join him in his
mischief, and they agreed upon the time to meet and each kept his
appointment. It is likely that there was not an audible sound uttered
during their conversation, but that they used the language of look and
gesture, and while it was not understood by their masters, it was
entirely comprehended by themselves.

Another instance of canine language is given by John Burroughs, who says
that a certain tone in his dog's bark implies that he has found a snake.

There is an old maxim which says: "The empty wagon makes the most
noise," and it is interesting to note that the loudest-mouthed and most
loquacious of all the animals are the lemurs, who are the least
intelligent members of their great family. They chatter, scream, squeak,
and grunt from morning till night, and two of them can make more noise
than a cageful of apes and monkeys. The orangs and chimpanzees, on the
other hand, exceptionally wise and gifted linguists, seldom utter a word
or cry, except under extraordinary circumstances, and then briefly.

Prof. Richard L. Garner, who has spent much time in studying the
language of animals, has attracted a great amount of attention through
his special study of the anthropoid apes. He has lived among these
animals in a steel cage in their native haunts and has used a phonograph
to record their language. Prof. Garner told recently of an exceptionally
intelligent ape, named Susie, whose home used to be at the Zoological
Park, under the care of the Zoological Society, and he claimed that
Susie could speak "in her own language" at least five words. They were
"yes," "no," "protest," "satisfaction" and "contempt."

Mr. George Gladden, writing in the _Outlook_ on the chimpanzee's voice,
did not exactly commit himself as to his belief regarding this matter,
but he says: "Now, although Mr. Engeholm (for four years in charge of
the Primates House in the New York Zoological Park) has not been able to
discover that his apes use any language, correctly speaking, he is
confident that the chimpanzees Susie, Dick, and Baldy comprehend the
definite meaning of many words, and that their minds react promptly
when these words are addressed to them in the form of commands. This
capacity is more highly developed in Susie than in any other of the apes
in this particular group....

"It is difficult, of course, to determine from the commands which an
animal will obey precisely how many words employed in these commands are
plainly understood; but I have endeavoured to do this tentatively in the
case of Mr. Engeholm's commands to Susie, all of which I have seen her
obey repeatedly and promptly."

Mr. Gladden enumerates about forty-three commands which he claims to
have seen Susie obey promptly. And he further states that the belief
which many students of animal psychology hold that an animal gets more
of the meaning of a command from the gesture which accompanies the
command than he does from the actual words by which he is commanded, is
false, and he adds, "as to this, I can testify that of the forty-three
commands ... thirty-six may be, and generally are, unaccompanied by any
gesture whatever. How, then, does Susie comprehend those commands unless
through her understanding of the meaning of the words in which they are
conveyed?"

The distinguished phrenologist Gall had a dog whose memory was
remarkable, and he thoroughly understood words and phrases. "On this
subject I have made," says Gall, "the following observations: I have
often spoken intentionally of things which might interest my dog,
avoiding the mention of his name, and not letting any gesture escape me
which would be likely to arouse his attention. He always exhibited
pleasure or pain suitable to the occasion, and by his conduct afterwards
showed that he understood perfectly well."

Col. W. Campbell in his _Indian Journal_ gives two remarkable instances
of language and unity of work among animals which he saw at Ranee
Bennore, while he was on a hunting trip. He witnessed, one morning, a
striking case of wolfish generalship, which in his belief proved that
animals are endowed to a certain extent not only with reason but are
able to communicate their ideas to others. He was scanning the horizon
one morning to see if any game was in sight when he discovered a small
herd of antelopes feeding in a nearby field. In another remote corner of
the field, hidden from the antelopes, he saw six wolves sitting with
their heads close together as though they were in deep conversation.

He knew at once that they were also seeking venison for breakfast and he
determined to watch them. He concealed himself behind a clump of
bushes, and the wolves who had evidently already decided upon their mode
of attack began their manoeuvres: one remained stationary, while the
other five crept to the edge of the field and one by one took the most
advantageous positions, the fifth concealing himself in a deep furrow in
the centre of the field.

The sixth, which had made no previous movements, dashed at the
antelopes. The swift, graceful creatures, trusting in their incomparable
speed, tossed their heads as if in disdain of so small an enemy and
galloped away as though they were riding on the winds with their enemy
far behind. But as soon as they reached the edge of the field, one of
the hiding wolves sprang up and chased them in an opposite direction,
while his fatigued accomplice lay down to recuperate. Again the
light-heeled herd darted across the field, evidently hoping to escape on
the opposite side, but here again they met another crafty wolf who
chased them directly toward another of the pack. The chase had begun in
earnest, the persecuted antelopes were driven from place to place, a
fresh enemy springing up at every turn, till at last they became so
terrorised with fear that they crowded together in the center of the
field and began running around in diminishing circles.

During all this performance, the wolf which was hidden in a furrow in
the centre of the field had not moved, although the antelopes had passed
around and over him dozens of times. He well realised his time for
action had not yet come and crouched closer and closer awaiting a signal
from his fellow hunters to spring into their midst, and down one of the
weakened antelopes.

At this point Col. Campbell shot one of the wolves, and the other five
ran away and allowed the antelopes to escape. Surely no human
combination could have shown greater reason and concerted action than
was shown by the wolves under such conditions. Each had a particular
post assigned, and evidently some means of communication was used in
indicating their respective locations. Each had a definite part to play
in the complex scheme--so that their language quite evidently expressed
abstract ideas. That these ideas were carried out shows that the wolves
were capable not only of laying ambitious plans for capturing prey, but
of carrying them out as well.

"That beasts possess a language, which enables them to communicate their
ideas," says Thomas Gentry, "has been clearly shown. It is just as
apparent that they can act upon the ideas so conveyed. We have now to
see whether they can convey their ideas to man, and so bridge over the
gulf between the higher and the lower beings. Were there no means of
communicating ideas between man and animals, domestication would be
impossible. Every one who has possessed and cared for some favourite
animal must have observed that they can do so. Their own language
becomes, in many instances, intelligible to man. Just as a child that is
unable to pronounce words, can express its meaning by intimation, so a
dog can do the same by its different modes of barking. There is the bark
of joy or welcome, when the animal sees its master, or anticipates a
walk with him; the furious bark of anger, if the dog suspects that any
one is likely to injure himself or master, and the bark of terror when
the dog is suddenly frightened at something which he cannot understand.
Supposing, now, that his master could not see the dog, but could only
hear his bark, would he not know perfectly well the ideas which were
passing through the animal's mind?"

There is no doubt that animals understand something of our human
language. They may not be able to comprehend the exact words used, but
it is evident they get the meaning to a certain extent. I once had a
small Mexican dog sent me from Mexico; he seemed not to understand what
was said to him, until a friend called who spoke to him in Spanish,
whereupon he showed his delight and became at once a friend to the man
who spoke his own language.

The Rev. J. G. Wood tells the following incident, which forcibly
illustrates the ability possessed by animals to commune with each other.
"While I was living in the country with a friend, a most interesting
incident was observed in the history of the dog. My friend had several
dogs, of which two had a special attachment to, and an understanding
with, each other. The one was a Scotch terrier, gentle and ready to
fraternise with all honest comers. The other was as large as a mastiff,
and looked like a compound between the mastiff and the large rough
stag-hound. He was fierce, and required some acquaintance before you
knew what faithfulness and kindness lay beneath his rough and
savage-looking exterior. The one was gay and lively, the other, stern
and thoughtful.

"These two dogs were often observed to go to a certain point together,
when the small one remained behind at a corner of a large field, while
the mastiff took a round by the side of the field, which ran up-hill for
nearly a mile, and led to a wood on the left. Game abounded in those
districts and the object of the dogs' arrangement was soon seen. The
terrier would start a hare, and chase it up the hill towards the large
wood at the summit, where they arrived somewhat tired. At this point,
the large dog, who was fresh and had rested after his walk, darted after
the animal, which he usually captured. They then ate the hare between
them and returned home. This course had been systematically carried on
some time before it was fully understood."

Every animal has a definite language which is quite sufficient to
express the desires and emotions of its nature, and to make them
intelligible, not only to its own species, but also to other animals and
sometimes to human beings. Those which do not actually speak by means of
a voice, make signs or mimic understood things so as to be perfectly
intelligible. If animals had no language, they could not instruct their
young. The young of animals in a civilised country are far wiser than
the old ones in wild, uninhabited countries. This can be explained only
by the knowledge which the young receive from their parents.

It is not uncommon for animals belonging to widely different species to
speak the same language, and thus become great friends. A friend in
Texas once owned a cow whose sole companion was a small black goat. One
day the young goat followed the cow home from her grazing place, and
from that time on they were constant companions, even occupying the same
stall in winter, sharing the same food, and always sleeping near each
other.

If one shoots a monkey in South Africa, and wounds it, allowing it to
escape, there usually come droves of its kinspeople, screaming and
chattering the most diabolical language, seeking to revenge the wrong
done their tribe. Nothing demonstrates plainer that they have a common
language; otherwise, how could they understand that one of their number
had been wounded? It is because of the communication of ideas by a
common language among animals that hunters so fear to allow a wounded
animal to escape at the beginning of their hunting season in certain
localities. A wounded bear who escapes, for example, will spoil the
entire season for hunters by spreading the alarm among his people.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

ROOSEVELT'S COLOBUS. THESE HORSE-TAILED MONKEYS CHATTER TOGETHER IN A
LANGUAGE EXCLUSIVELY THEIR OWN, YET THEY SEEM TO HAVE NO DIFFICULTY IN
MAKING THEMSELVES UNDERSTOOD BY OTHER MONKEY-TRIBES.]

[Illustration: A TAMED DEER OF TEXAS, WHOSE CONSTANT COMPANION AND
PLAYMATE WAS A RABBIT DOG. BETWEEN THE TWO THERE DEVELOPED, NECESSARILY,
A COMMON LANGUAGE.]

Near our country home in Texas my sister found a very young red deer one
morning just outside the garden, and bringing it into the yard, soon had
a wonderful pet in this dainty spotted child of the woods. We knew that
its mother was not far away, and so we placed salt and food just where
the baby was found, to attract the mother's attention. In a few days,
we saw the mother, and shortly afterwards five grown deer were seen
eating the food we had placed for the mother. Evidently the news had
been carried through the pine forests that it was safe for deer to come
near our home. My sister's pet grew rapidly, and became a great friend
of our yard dog. They often played by running races together, the deer
would leap over the fence and the dog would chase him with great
delight. Surely, they must have had a spoken common language!

No one claims that in the language of animals there are principles of
construction such as we find in the human languages. The term Barbarian
means those whose language is only a "bar-bar," and this is really all
that the sound of an unknown tongue implied to the cultured Athenians.
The neighing of horses, the howling of dogs and wolves, the mewing of
cats, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cows, the chattering of
monkeys and baboons is nothing more nor less than their language. And it
is quite as intelligible to us as is the chattering of the Hottentots of
Africa. Because we do not speak the languages of our animal friends does
not take away from the genuineness of the languages; we might as well
claim that because our horse does not comprehend what we are saying,
that we are not speaking a language!

Animals and men, under normal conditions, have been friends and
companions since the beginning of time; and in order that they may
convey ideas to each other, it is necessary for them to have some sort
of means of communication.

As a matter of fact, animal language is quite often intelligible to man.
Their language might be likened to that of a young child that cannot
pronounce distinctly the words we commonly use; and yet we get the
meaning from the intonation and gesture.

Any man who has ever owned a horse understands the meanings of his
various actions and vocal expressions. There is the neigh of joy, upon
returning home after a hard day's work, the neigh of distress, when he
has strayed from his companions, the neigh of salutation that passes
between two horses when they meet, and the neigh of terror when enemies
are near. There is also the neigh of affection that is often given to
his master when they first meet in the morning. Thus, spoken words are
not necessary to express elemental feelings.

Elephants readily understand most of the words uttered by their masters.
Menault tells of an elephant that was employed to pile up heavy logs.
The manager, suspecting the keeper of stealing the grain set aside for
the elephant, accused him of theft, which he denied most vehemently in
the presence of the elephant. The result was remarkable. The animal
suddenly laid hold of a large wrapper which the man wore round his
waist, and tearing it open, let out some quarts of rice which the fellow
had stowed away under the voluminous covering.

Animals have the power to make themselves understood by man, especially
when they are in distress and wish man to help them. And they often
combine to help one another. I was on a sheep ranch in western Texas
once when one of the sheep came bleating up to the camp late in the
afternoon. She uttered the most distressing calls. A friend, whom I was
visiting, assured me that something unusual was wrong. Together we
followed the sheep back to where she had been feeding in the pasture,
she going forward in short spurts and continually looking back to see if
we were coming. She finally led us to an old well, and we heard the
plaintive voice of her young lamb that had fallen in. As the well had no
water in it, and was only about six feet deep, we secured a ladder and
in a few minutes the lamb was restored to its mother. She seemed
delighted at the successful outcome of the accident. She had come and
told us her troubles and got aid.

Cats are gifted linguists. By mewing they can just as plainly express a
desire to have a door opened or closed as if they requested it in so
many words. A friend has furnished me with an interesting account of her
cat's ability to make herself understood. It seems that the cat, with
her three small kittens, at one time slept in a box prepared for her in
the kitchen. But one night when it was particularly cold, some one left
the kitchen window open, and late in the night the cat went to her
mistress's bed and mewed continuously until her mistress arose and went
to the kitchen and closed the window. The cat was perfectly satisfied,
as she had made her great need understood.

The ability that animals have to make their own language understood by
man is not the only linguistic power they possess; as already mentioned,
they are also capable of understanding something of human speech. There
is no doubt that all domesticated animals understand the human language;
the horse, dog, ox, and sheep comprehend a large part of what is said to
them, though of course they may not understand the precise words used.

I once owned a rabbit dog, "Nimrod," and if he never understood another
word of the English language, there is no doubt that he knew what the
word "rabbit" meant. No matter in what manner or way I used the word,
Nimrod was ready for a hunt, and yelped with glee at the thought of the
chase that he was to have. I tested him over and over again by saying
"rabbit hunt" gently; it thrilled him with delight, and while he was not
very well educated in other things, he always lived up to his name.

The Rev. J. G. Wood speaks of the great individuality of character which
he has observed in dogs, and that they unquestionably understand the
human language. "There was in my pet greyhound 'Brenda,' there was in my
dear lurcher 'Smoker,' and there is now in my dear lurcher 'Bar,' and in
my three setters 'Chance,' 'Quail,' and 'Quince,' a refinement of
feeling and sagacity infinitely beyond that existing in multitudes of
the human race, whether inhabiting the deserts or the realms of
civilisation.

"I cannot better define it than by saying that, if I give these dogs a
hastily angered word in my room, though they have never been beaten,
they will, with an expression of the most dejected sorrow, go into a
corner behind some chair, sofa, or table, and lie there. Perhaps I may
have been guilty of a hasty rebuke to them for jogging my table or elbow
while I was writing, and then continued to write on. Some time after,
not having seen my companions lying on the rug before the fire, I have
remembered the circumstance, and, in a tone of voice to which they are
used, I have said, 'There, you are forgiven.' In an instant the
greyhound Brenda would fly into my lap, and cover me with kisses, her
heart tumultuously beating. After she grew old, her joy at my return
home after a long absence has at times nearly killed her; and when I was
away, the bed she loved best was one of my old shooting-jackets, but
never when I was at home."

The impassable gulf which the writers of old created between mankind and
the animal kingdom was based mainly upon the belief that animals had no
language, but this has been proved a mistake and no longer exists. In
the light of modern knowledge and a better understanding of the
marvellous theory of evolution, we are thoroughly convinced that there
is no break whatever in the long chain of living beings. Man has no art,
has developed no thing whatever, no mode of language or communication,
that is not to be found in some degree among animals. They are capable
of feeling the same emotions as human beings, and are therefore subject
to the same general laws of life. No science has been more beneficial
than psychology in proving that they are human in all ways; no discovery
made by the human mind is so poetical and of such value as that which
leads mankind to recognise some part of himself in every part of
Nature, even in the language of animals.

This knowledge of all life is recognised by thinking men the world over,
removing forever that artificial barrier by which, in his ignorance and
prejudice, he has separated himself from his lower brothers, the
animals, denying unto them even a means of intelligent communication.
This recognition of the existence of a common language will go far
toward establishing the universal brotherhood of all living creatures.




VIII

IN THEIR BOUDOIRS, HOSPITALS AND CHURCHES


  _"Never stoops the soaring vulture
  On his quarry in the desert,
  On the sick or wounded bison,
  But another vulture, watching
  From his high aerial look-out,
  Sees the downward plunge and follows,
  And a third pursues the second,
  Coming from the invisible ether,
  First a speck and then a vulture
  Till the air is dark with pinions."_


Many animals show a surprising knowledge of medical and sanitary laws,
but these laws vary in the different species as much as they do among
humans. Animals are divided into as many classes and social castes as
are mankind; and those that have advanced beyond the nomadic life, and
have fixed homes with servants and luxuries, naturally are more refined
in the matter of their personal care.

Science may yet prove that the old legend of the mermaid sitting on a
rock, with a glass and comb in her hand, was not so far from truth as
we imagine. No doubt, the bright-eyed seals looked like sea-maidens to
many ancient mariners. The originator of the mermaid stories had
possibly seen seals making their toilettes. These beautiful and
affectionate human-like creatures of the water, wear, attached to their
front flipper, a handsome comb-like protuberance. When they rest on the
rocks, they use this little comb to brush the fur on their faces; and
the Northern fur-seals, when the weather is warm, use their flippers as
fans. The secret of teaching seals to play tambourines is due to their
desire to comb their fur and fan themselves!

Members of the cat family are, perhaps, the cleanest of all animals,
with the exception of some of the opossums. Lions, panthers, and pumas
dress themselves very much as the domestic cat performs her toilette.
They use their feet, dipped in water, as wash cloths, and their tongues
as combs and brushes. Hares also use their feet to wash their faces, and
this they do very often, to keep their exquisite hair in perfect
condition. Dogs enjoy wiping their coats against green grass and shrubs.

Certain animals are so fastidious that they have community
beauty-parlours! Goats, deer, giraffes, and antelopes, for example, are
very particular about their personal neatness and cleanliness, and they
come together to assist each other in making toilettes. One of the
reasons that animals suffer so much in captivity, especially when alone,
is that they have no one to help them dress, and some of them, such as
the giraffe, cannot reach all parts of their bodies. I have seen a young
guinea pig that had been rescued from a mud puddle being cleaned by both
of his parents. Water-loving animals, like the beavers, seemingly take
great pride in their toilettes, and in this respect they show more human
traits than any other animal.

It is a general belief that animals are quite care-free, and that when
they awake in the morning there is nothing for them to do but play or
wander about. This is a mistaken belief, for they have to dress
themselves, and this not only means a bath in many cases, but a
smoothing out of their fur and hair. Some are shy and seek the darkest
places to dress themselves, others, like the dog and cat, seek the
hearth. Every one has possibly seen a cow and horse licking each other,
and it is generally believed that this implies special friendship
between the two, but this idea is incorrect; it only implies mutual aid
in making their toilettes. They have a beauty parlour, and thus aid each
other. In no way are animals better prepared to teach man than in their
methods of personal cleanliness, and this means health. Their
utilisation of clay, dust, mud, water, and even sunshine to keep their
health, far exceeds that of mankind. In fact, man's first knowledge of
simple, natural health remedies came from animals. This wisdom they have
acquired by ages of instinct and reason, for theirs has been the normal
life, whereas man's is often abnormal. Each animal is his own
specialist. However, when an animal becomes too ill to doctor himself,
he is treated by another. I have seen a horse licking the wound of one
of his fellows to stop the pain.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

WATER-LOVING ANIMALS, LIKE THE BEAVERS, SEEMINGLY TAKE GREAT PRIDE IN
THEIR TOILETTES. THEIR FUR IS ALWAYS SLEEK AND CLEAN.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

GREAT FOREST PIGS OF CENTRAL AFRICA. LIKE THE COMMON DOMESTICATED HOGS,
THEY WILL SEEK A CLAY BATH TO HEAL THEIR WOUNDS.]

Animals know better than man what kind of food they need, for the simple
reason that their tastes are natural, while man has allowed his to
become perverted. In times of sickness absurd practices have been
observed. Ice-cream and buttermilk, for example, were for ages refused
to typhoid fever patients, while to-day they are generally used under
such circumstances. But the natural desire for sour and cold things was
always in evidence; animals have always depended upon these desires.

Among them are skilled dietitians, who restrict their diet in case of
illness, keep quiet, avoid all excitement, seek restful places where
there is plenty of fresh air and clean water. If a dog loses his
appetite, he eats "dog grass," while a sick cat delights in catnip.
Deer, goats, cows, and sheep, when sick seek various medicinal herbs.
When deer or cattle have rheumatism, they invariably seek a health
resort where they may bathe in a sulphur spring and drink of the healing
mineral waters. They also know the full value of lying in the warm sun.

Cats are skilled physicians, and have various home remedies, such as
dipping a feverish foot into cold water, or lying before a warm fire, if
they have a cold. Many animals know how to treat a sore eye--by lying in
the dark, and repeatedly licking their paws and placing them over the
afflicted member.

How wonderful would the human race become, if it had the strength of a
lion, the power of a bear, the wisdom of an elephant, the cleverness of
a fox, and the health of the wild boar! But these qualities are found
chiefly among the animals because of the marvellous knowledge of the
laws of health and self-preservation.

John Wesley claimed, in his directions on the art of keeping well, that
many of the medicines which were used among the common people of his
time were first discovered by watching animals in their medical
practices to cure their ills and pains. "If they heal animals, they will
also heal men," he claimed. The American Indians learned most of their
cures from watching animals, especially the cure of such diseases as
fever, rheumatism, dysentery, and snake-bites. A rheumatic old wolf
would bathe in the warm waters of a sulphur spring; a sick and feverish
deer would eat the fresh leaves of healing ferns, while a wounded hog or
bear would always seek a red-clay bath to heal the wounds. Sick dogs
will invariably eat certain weeds, and an unwell cat will seek healing
mints and grasses.

Old hunters tell us that a deer after having been chased for several
hours by dogs, and after having escaped them by swimming a cold stream,
will, upon reaching safety, lie down in the ice and snow. If a man did
such a thing, he would immediately die. But not so with the deer, for he
will arise about every hour and move around to exercise himself, and on
the morrow he is perfectly well. The same animal, shut up in a warm barn
for the night, as has many times been demonstrated with circus animals,
will be dead by morning.

From this natural method of healing, mankind may learn much, and
especially as it pertains to the treatment of extreme heat, cold,
exhaustion, and paralysis of the muscles, and most especially sores and
wounds. I have seen a wounded hog that had been badly bitten by a dog,
wallow in rich red mud to stop the flow of blood.

It is a common practice for a raccoon actually to amputate a diseased
leg, or one that has been wounded by a gunshot, and wash the stub in
cool flowing water. When it is healing, he licks it with his tongue to
massage it, and also to stop the pain and reduce the swelling. This
wisdom is often classed by the unknowing under the term instinct,
whereas it displays no less skill and knowledge than that of our modern
surgery. The intelligence of the raccoon stands very high in the animal
world.

Foxes, when caught in a trap, will very often gnaw off a limb. This
requires a special power and a moral energy that few men possess.

William J. Long, in the _Outlook_, tells of an unusual proof of animal
surgery in the case of an old muskrat that had cut off both of his
forelegs, probably at different times, and had grown very wise in
avoiding man-made traps, and when found, had covered the wound with a
sticky vegetable gum from a pine tree. "An old Indian who lives and
hunts on Vancouver Island told me recently," said Mr. Long, "that he had
several times caught beaver that had previously cut their legs off to
escape from traps, and that two of them had covered the wounds thickly
with gum, as the muskrat had done. Last spring the same Indian caught a
bear in a deadfall. On the animal's side was a long rip from some other
bear's claw, and the wound had been smeared thickly with soft spruce
resin. This last experience corresponds closely with one of my own. I
shot a bear years ago in northern New Brunswick that had received a
gunshot wound, which had raked him badly and then penetrated the leg. He
had plugged the wound carefully with clay, evidently to stop the
bleeding, and then had covered the broken skin with sticky mud from the
river's brink, to keep the flies away from the wound and give it a
chance to heal undisturbed. It is noteworthy here that the bear uses
either gum or clay indifferently, while the beaver and muskrat seem to
know enough to avoid the clay, which would be quickly washed off in the
water."

Animals not only know how to doctor themselves when they are sick, but
some of them, such as the fox, have learned how to make artificial heat
by covering green leaves with dirt. And while they do not make fire,
their homes are often heated in this practical way, and thus sickness
avoided. Domestic horses and dogs wear hats in summer, and possibly in
the future they will learn the enormous importance of wearing clothes!
Trained monkeys already take great delight in dressing up, and dogs
like smart suits.

Monkeys show the greatest interest and brotherly love when one of their
number is injured. Watson tells of a female monkey that was shot and
carried into a tent. Several of her tribe advanced with frightful
gestures, and only stopped when met with a gun. The chief of the tribe
then came forward, chattering and remonstrating vigorously. But as he
came nearer, there was every evidence of grief and supplication for the
body. As he was given the body, he affectionately took it in his arms
and slowly moved to his companions, and like a silent funeral procession
they all walked away.

Nor does their interest cease with life, for we are told by no less
authority than Col. Theodore Roosevelt of a large grizzly bear that was
discovered lying across the trail in the woods. The hunter shot her as
she was preparing to charge him, and later he examined the spot where
she was lying, and found that it was the newly made grave of her cub.
Evidently some animal had killed the cub in her absence, and she, in her
grief, was determined to avenge the wrong by lying in wait for the
enemy.

Public meetings for civic council and religious worship are not confined
to man alone. In Macgrave's _History of Brazil_ we are told of a
species of South American monkey known as the ouraines, which the
natives call preachers of the woods. These highly intelligent creatures
assemble every morning and evening, when the leader takes a place apart
from the rest and addresses them from his pulpit or platform, Having
taken his position, he signals to the others to be seated, after which
he speaks to them in a language loud and rapid, with the gestures of a
Billy Sunday, the audience listening in profound silence. He then
signals again with his paws, when all cry out together in apparently
confused noises, until another signal for silence comes from their
leader. Then follows another discourse, at the close of which the
assembly disperses. Macgrave attempts no explanation as to the object of
these addresses; but if his accounts be true, surely they must have as
much meaning for the monkeys as many of our public lectures and church
services have for us! No doubt much of the advice imparted concerns the
personal and collective welfare of the tribe members.




IX

SELF-DEFENCE AND HOME-GOVERNMENT

  _"In the days of yore, when the world was young,
    Sages of asses spoke, and poets sung;
  In God's own book we find their humble name,
    Some enrolled upon the scroll of fame."_


There is no phase of animal life which is more interesting than that
through which Nature governs and protects her children. Each and every
species of animal possesses the method of self-defence and protection
best adapted to it. Most of the larger animals are of themselves so
powerful that they need no protection other than that afforded by their
strength, while most of the weaker and less aggressive animals are
provided with some special method of defence.

The tiger, lion, panther, and wolf have formidable claws and teeth;
while the shark has such immense jaws that he can sever the head of a
goat at one bite. And most of them are in reality tyrants. They rule by
tyranny--the oppression of the weak by the strong, whether that strength
be physical or mental,--a trait as common in animals as in man. Among
the animals it takes the commonest form, and they not only oppress the
weak, but actually kill and eat them, even though they oftentimes are
members of the same family. They are exactly like human cannibals, no
better and no worse.

Flight is perhaps the simplest and most natural method of defence. The
swifter animals, however, such as deer, gazelles, and hares, which may
easily escape by running their fastest, do not always use this method,
but have other means so ingenious as to be real arts. Wolves, when they
see that they are outnumbered, will sometimes escape by following the
exact tracks of a single leader through the snow, and from all
appearances only one has passed the way over which a hundred may have
gone. Hares will separate and run in opposite directions, while
gazelles, if too closely pursued, will jump to one side and lie flat on
the earth to escape notice, and as soon as the enemies have passed, run
in the opposite direction.

It oftentimes happens that aggressively disposed animals, like cowardly
men, are apt to try battle with the unlikeliest adversaries. A
missionary from India tells the story of an alligator who was enjoying a
noonday sleep on the bank of a river, when an immense tiger emerged
from the jungle, made straight for the sleeping saurian until within
leaping distance, when he sprang on the alligator's back, and gained a
strangle hold before the sleeping monster could awake. At first the
tiger was master, for the alligator could not bring his huge jaws into
action, and while lashing viciously at the tiger with his tail, he was
dragged into the jungle. What happened there no one could see, but in a
few moments the tiger dashed out of the jungle and disappeared in the
cane brakes, and the alligator reappeared and crawled into the water.

The ape and the baboon are the most skilled of all animals in making
their flight. They use every method known to man, and because of their
swiftness of action excel man in certain ways. Like man, in the face of
danger, they show great bravery and never lose their presence of mind.
The ape is fast disappearing before man, but against other animals and
Nature he can well protect himself. He is even braver than the lion, who
in captivity allows himself to be petted, but rarely is this true of the
ape, and then only when conditions seem insurmountable.

In making his escape from an enemy, the ape directs his flight in the
most self-possessed and human-like way, never losing his head, and
taking advantage of the first shelter or protection that he meets; if
the young, or females, or aged linger behind, a strong army of males
bravely returns to rescue them at the danger of losing their own lives.
Many of their brave deeds, if recorded in history, would compare
favourably with those of mankind! Too often has a poor, sickly ape,
which by his very feebleness allowed himself to be captured and placed
in a zoo, been compared to human beings. Even in spirit and movements he
has been considered as a human caricature and heaped with ridicule. We
have continually considered his defects, without noticing his better
qualities. We would have a much higher idea of his great family, if we
would take a human derelict and compare him to an ape ruler! This
comparison would be more just.

Certain of the baboon tribes which live among the rocks of high
mountains and cliffs, if pursued by enemies, protect themselves by
ingeniously rolling immense stones down upon their foes. They also hurl
with great force small stones about the size of one's hand. As these
tribes have each from one hundred to three hundred members, they
constitute a formidable grenade army!

In addition to their skilled methods of flight, the baboons, apes, and
monkeys come next to certain of the cat tribes as the greatest fighters
in the animal world. This is astonishing when we remember that these
animals are not professional warriors, nor do they have to fight to
obtain their food. Their greatest defence is their quickness and powers
of biting. When they are attacked by a dog, they usually bite off a foot
or an ear, or leave him minus a tail!

One of the bravest and fiercest of fighters is the bull-dog. Three of
these animals together have been known to capture and hold a large bull.
Deer, when fighting among themselves, often play more than anything, and
are not serious. Red deer seldom injure one another with their long
antlers, but they could easily kill a dog or even a man. Stags, however,
often fight to death, in some instances locking horns and tumbling over
a precipice.

The most ingenious of all the horned fighters is the sable antelope,
whose clever system of self-defence might well be taught in war-schools.
His horns are long, sharp-pointed, and bend backwards. When wounded, or
attacked by wolves or dogs, he lies down, and scientifically covers his
back by rapid fencing with his pointed horns. He can quickly kill any
dog that attacks him in this way.

Occasionally great battles take place between a buffalo and a lion, or
more often two or three lions attack a buffalo, who rarely escapes them.
The strength of a lion is almost beyond our comprehension when we
remember that one can actually carry a cow over an ordinary-sized fence.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT HAS MANY MEANS OF DEFENCE, NOT THE LEAST OF
WHICH IS HIS AGILITY IN CLIMBING TO INACCESSIBLE PLACES.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

WILD BOARS ARE AMONG THE MOST FEROCIOUS OF ANIMALS. BY MEANS OF THEIR
GREAT STRENGTH ALONE THEY ARE WELL ABLE TO DEFEND THEMSELVES.]

A most unique fighter is the giraffe. He has neither claws nor sharp
teeth with which to defend himself; so, if he gets angry with one of his
kind, he deliberately uses his long neck like a pile driver would use a
sledge hammer. Swinging it round and round, he lets his head descend
upon his adversary like a heavy ax! The two animals use the same kind of
tactics, and bracing themselves so as to stand the blows, they fight
until one has to give in. Their heads are furnished with two small
knob-like horns which only protect them from the heavy blows without
serving as offensive weapons.

Most singular and amusing of all methods of self-defence are those which
entirely depend for their efficiency upon bluff, or pretence. The
chameleon, for example, erects his snake-like hood, though he is
harmless, and at the most could scarcely injure the smallest animal.
Equally curious are the methods of skunks and polecats, which project
against enemies a highly disagreeable fluid.

Passive modes of defence are as many and varied as are the active; one
of the strangest and most inexplicable of these is that known as
spontaneous amputation, technically termed autotomy. The lizard, for
example, when captured, will abruptly break loose his tail in order to
escape; and certain wood rats, when caught, loosen the skin on their
tails and deliberately slip away. Autotomy not only permits flight, but
also defends the animal against the most adverse conditions. Nearest
akin to this--defence by means of amputation--is the practice of bears
and raccoons of amputating their limbs when caught in steel traps.

Mimicry, which is treated under another chapter, comes under the head of
passive defence, and form and colour play an important part in it.
Strangely enough, animals which have never resorted to mimicry as a
means of protection, when associated with others who practice it, take
on the habit themselves. This may possibly be due to the fact that new
enemies are constantly arising.

As human sharpshooters dress in garments of the same colour as the woods
in which they hunt, so many animals use this principle of imitation. The
colour of most animals is very similar to their surroundings. This
enables them to lie in wait for prey, a practice as old as the hillsides
with animals. They have learned the extreme value of silence, and that
they must remain at times motionless. This is especially noticeable with
crocodiles, which wait for whole days without moving, concealed in the
water or deep grass, until their prey comes within striking distance,
when they pounce upon it. The same is true of the python snake, which
hangs from a tree so immovable that he appears like a vine or a branch
of the tree. If an animal attempts to pass, he drops upon it.

Perhaps the most unique and successful method of passive defence is the
feigning of death, or "playing 'possum" met with in several animals,
such as the red fox, the opossum, occasionally the elephant, and several
of the snakes. On many occasions I have been 'possum hunting in the
South and found my dog barking at an apparently dead 'possum. As soon as
these animals are approached by larger and stronger enemies, they drop
absolutely motionless on the ground and close their eyes as though they
were dead. Here they remain until the enemy either destroys them,
carries them away, or leaves them alone. If left alone for a few
moments, they immediately spring to their feet and make their escape.

Elephants often feign death when captured, in order to gain their
liberty. Animal catchers tell many interesting tales of elephants
feigning weakness from which they fall to the earth and later apparently
die. In many instances the fastenings are removed from their legs and
head and the carcass is abandoned as useless, when to the utter
astonishment of all--before the captors get out of sight--the animal
springs up and dashes away to the forest, screaming with joy at the
triumph of its deception.

Many animals deliberately assume a frightful, terrifying or grotesque
appearance. This they do by inflating their bodies, by erecting hair,
skin, or folds, or by unusual poses. Darwin speaks of the hissing of
certain snakes, the rattle of the rattle-snake, the grating of the
scales of the echis, each of which serves to frighten or terrify the
enemy.

Bluffing is another form of defence that many animals use. The cobra,
for example, when disturbed, raises its immense hood in a most
terrifying attitude! Many of the lizards use the same tactics; while the
horned toads of America when disturbed actually eject blood from their
eyes. Every one is familiar with the cat's habit of raising the fur on
his back when molested by a dog. All bluffing animals, when in danger,
try to assume a pose that will make them look most dangerous and
impressive to their enemies, and there is little doubt that in most
cases they succeed very well, for we have all seen a dog slink away from
a menacing cat.

The elk or moose, whose home is in the northern part of America and
Europe, is a powerful and large animal, sometimes seven feet in height,
and is able to endure much cold. He has many enemies among animals and
mankind, and during the summer season he is quite able to protect
himself, but in winter there is considerable danger from hordes of
wolves. This is especially true just after a heavy snowstorm, if the
snow is wet and melting. When it is dry and frozen, he can travel over
it with great speed, and this he does by a most unusual trot which
carries him along much faster than the trotting gait of a horse. Thus he
is able to escape the hungry, carnivorous wolves, whose courage
increases with appetite. If crowded too close, he is able also to
protect himself by the most terrific blows of his fore-feet.

But when the spring weather sets in, and the snows begin to melt
underneath, leaving the upper crust sufficiently strong to support the
weight of lighter and smaller animals, such as wolves, especially when
they travel swiftly, he is in great danger. For with every step he sinks
to the belly in the snow, while his enemies can walk right up to his
head and shoulders without his being able to strike or paw them with his
dangerous hoofs. The advantage seems to be with the wolves, and if ever
they bring the moose to bay in the snow, his life is doomed. For they
care little for his arrow-like horns, but boldly jump at his throat and
kill him. Herein comes the elk's wisdom--he deliberately sets to work,
before the snow melts, and builds for himself and family an elk-yard,
which is nothing more than a large space of ground on which the snow is
smoothed or trampled down until it becomes a hard surface on which he
can walk; it is also surrounded by a high wall of snow, through which
are certain exits that allow him to pass out, if he desires. All the
enclosed space is not smoothed down, but parts of it only are cut up
into roads through which he may pass very swiftly. Woe unto the daring
wolves that enter his snowy fortification--his "No Man's Land"--- for
sure death awaits them!

A sense of law, order, government; the sacredness of family ties--all
these aid in the protection of animals. Family life with them originated
just as it did in the human world. The social instinct and the moral
sentiments which arise from social relations in man and animal are the
same. Moral obligations, especially in relation to family ties and
conjugal unions of animals, are in many cases sacred binders to such
ties. The bear, for example, is proverbial for his conjugal
faithfulness. The married life of most animals is strictly moral, and
most of them are monogamists and have reached the highest form of family
association and life.

In those places where they live promiscuously, it gives them the same
protection in herds as it does among our lower savages. Cattle, sheep,
and horses unite for mutual protection; wolves band together in packs;
and after they have been domesticated there is still not only a strong
desire to band together for social purposes, but also to hold courts of
justice. It sometimes happens that an angered husband takes the law in
his hands, like uncivilised men, and beats his wife.

In the development and organisation of social and civil life the horse
and the goat hold the foremost position. It corresponds to that of man
among the lower animals. They do not believe in monarchies, but strictly
in republics, or rather, a democracy where all power comes from the
working class. The claims of the working class to the exercise of
supreme control in all political affairs are practically realised. Among
a herd of wild Arabian horses, the leading stallion, or so-called king,
is really only the father of the tribe; his functions are paternal
rather than regal. If he may be said to reign in a certain sense, the
true workers rule, and his scouts and sentinels obey his wishes which
the workers have influenced and formulated.

The existence of but one king leaves no room for dynastic troubles and
rivalries which disturb, so often, our human countries and empires with
such dreadful results. If two rival kings arise at the same time in a
herd of horses, instead of forming factions in the state which end in
civil war, they fight it out personally until one of them is killed or
defeated. Once in a great while the other horses intervene, and drive
the less desirable, or the false-claimant of power, away from the herd
and its grazing territory. In these troubles the real king has little or
no power, all activities are carried on by the workers.

If by chance he dies or is captured, another king, chosen by the herd,
immediately assumes the kingship. It is a well-known fact that if the
king of a herd of wild horses is caught, it is not uncommon for his herd
to remain as near him as possible, and in their attempt to release him
are often trapped themselves. The king has no heirs, either apparent or
presumptive, and no right of succession is recognised. Any member of the
herd, provided the workers choose him, may become the king, as every
American school boy is a possible president of the United States.

Among many animals there is a perfect social and industrial organisation
in which the division of labour is far better adjusted than in many
human organisations. This, of course, is the result of gradual growth
and evolution just as it is in the human species. This can easily be
proved among animals by their more primitive and savage habits. Monkeys,
for example, in civilised monkey communities, differ very greatly from
those of wilder and less trained districts. They are constantly changing
their habits, becoming more and more civilised by improving their
methods of work and their moral and religious life as well. In many
cases they have ceased to kill members of their own tribe for small
offences for which they used to kill, and the cleanness and beauty of
their home lives seem to increase with the years.

It oftentimes happens, however, that powerful ape and baboon colonies
relapse into barbarism, and roam, plunder, rob and murder, like a pack
of uncivilised wolves or hyenas. They seem all at once to forget their
peaceful industries and lose all desire for clean and right living. And
strangely enough, when they once turn bad, they seldom reform. Some
naturalists believe that they are led astray by a wicked king or ruler
who comes into power; the natives believe the evil spirits have suddenly
taken possession of them.

There is unquestionably, in the life of many tribal animals, a definite
historical connection between the mother tribe and its colonies. This
relation extends to the tribes of tribes, and thus there is an
international relationship between the various members of a large number
of tribes. These communities share the same likes, dislikes, hatreds,
and aspirations. A missionary friend told of his experience with monkey
folk, and how once, when hunting, his gun was accidentally discharged,
instantly wounding a large semi-tame baboon near his home. He hastened
to help the injured animal, but saw that the relatives had crowded
around and were terrorised, as they thought it was intentional. They not
only followed him to his home, but returned in the night and actually
tore his fence down. For months he was afraid to leave his wife alone
during the day. And the natives reported that large tribes of monkey
folk immediately came into the community from remoter regions and were
distinctly on the war path. It was evident that their unjust antipathy
was extended to all the kinspeople.

This is evidence of hereditary enmity, such as is common among families,
tribes, and clans, and it often takes the form of feuds, which are still
in vogue in the mountainous counties of the South. The baboons had
suffered wrongs and never forgot it, and it was transmitted to their
offspring.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

BRONTOSAURUS. THE ANIMALS THAT SEEMED BEST EQUIPPED TO DEFEND THEMSELVES
ARE THE ONES THAT, THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO, BECAME EXTINCT.]

[Illustration: THIS PREHISTORIC MONSTER WAS EQUIPPED NOT ONLY WITH A
PAIR OF STRONG HORNS, BUT WITH A SHIELD BACK OF THEM AS WELL.]

The ability to use weapons, tools, and war instruments is not
exclusively human. Even fish are capable of reaching their prey at a
long distance. The _toxotes jaculator_, which lives in the rivers of
India, and feeds upon insects, cannot afford to wait until the insects
which thrive upon the leaves of aquatic plants fall into the water. So
as he cannot leap high enough to catch them, he fills his mouth with
water and squirts it at an insect with such aim and force that he rarely
fails to knock the insect into the water where he can easily catch it.
Many other animals squirt various liquids, occasionally in attack, but
most times in defence. The fish makes a veritable squirt-gun of his
mouth.

Beavers use sticks, chips, and even stones in building their dams; and
their engineering abilities are astounding. They are also capable of
meeting emergencies, as shown by the following incident. A farmer in
Michigan discovered one morning, just after a flood, that all his potato
sacks, which had been hung on a back fence to dry, had suddenly
disappeared. A few days later he found them in a nearby beavers' colony,
used in rebuilding their dam, which had suddenly overflowed. The beavers
wasted no time, when they discovered their danger, in meeting the
emergency by using the sacks to prevent the destruction of their home.

Monkeys make skilled use of clubs and stones in capturing their prey and
fighting their enemies.

The skill with which some of them throw pebbles would lead us to believe
they have already reached the degree of civilisation that many tribes of
savages had reached only a few years ago, when they learned to use the
boomerang and lasso. Some naturalists claim that monkeys actually set
pitfalls for their enemies and lie in wait for them to be caught, just
as a hunter would do.

Elephants also know the value of clubs in warfare, and will often use a
broken limb of a dead tree as a weapon of defence. The story is told and
vouched for by Mr. William B. Smith that on his farm, near Mount
Lookout, a few years ago a donkey grazed in the same pasture with a
ferocious bull. He was frequently attacked by the bull, and always got
the worst of the fight. His feet were no match for the bull's horns, but
one day the mule grabbed a long pole in his mouth, and, whirling it
about, almost killed the bull, and henceforth the two lived on the best
of terms in the same pasture.

I have a friend who owns a cow that knows exactly how to lift an iron
latch to the barn door with her tongue and open the door. Innumerable
times she has opened a gate in the same way to permit her calf to go
free with her. So skilled is she in the manipulation of doors and
latches that we are tempted to believe in some previous state of
existence she was a professional lock-picker!

Cats and dogs are famed for their ability to open doors by pulling
latch-strings. And not a few cats show a strong desire to study music by
walking up and down the keyboard of a piano!

Monkeys who live near the seashore show wonderful aptness in opening
oysters and shell-fish with sharp stones, exactly as a man would do.
Monkeys have already reached the degree of civilization where they
select the stones best suited for their work, and from their progress in
the past it is reasonable to believe that in the near future they will
not only be able to make their own tools--thus placing themselves on a
mental footing with our flint-chipping ancestors of the early stone
age,--but will also learn the use of fire and eventually the use of guns
and ammunition, which marks one of the most important epochs in the
evolution of the human species.

The chimpanzees, gorillas, and apes of the African forests have many
times been observed in the act of piling brushwood upon the fires left
by travellers, and though they do not know how to kindle a fire, they
have learned how to keep it burning. The tame ones soon learn how to
ignite matches, and often do great harm by starting forest fires.

But they show quite as much intelligence about the use of fire as the
average small child. In fact, it has been thought by a number of great
scholars that man had not yet made his appearance upon the earth in the
miocene age, and that all the marvellous chipped flints of that age
belong to semi-human pithecoid apes of wonderful intelligence. There is
surely nothing in the facts of natural history, nor in Darwin's theory
of evolution, that makes such a supposition unbelievable.

Baboons use poles as levers, stones as hammers, and seem to understand
the more simple mechanical devices. Prantl claims that man is the only
animal capable of using fire but not a few baboons know how to strike a
match, heap dried leaves over the blaze to make it burn, and then heap
on dead wood to feed the fire. This knowledge with them, exactly as with
primitive peoples, is a product of long experience and does not show any
mathematical truths or principles any more than making a direct cut
across a field implies "knowledge of the relation of a hypothenuse to
the two other sides of a right-angled triangle." This is what Prantl
calls "spontaneous mathematical thinking."

I knew of a tame ape in Chicago that learned to swing from the end of a
clothes-line and seemed to enjoy it very much. The line was just the
right length and properly hung so as to allow the ape to swing out from
a kitchen window and touch the ground. Just for fun, some one cut a
piece from the line so that he could not reach the ground; immediately
the ape hunted another piece of cord, tying it to the end of his line so
as to increase its length, and much to his delight, continued to swing
on the line.

The distinctive features of animal protection and home government,
especially in the higher groups, may compare favourably with any of the
methods used by civilised man. This is true both of their offensive and
defensive contrivances and for their monarchies and republics. They use
shells, scales, plates of every kind, with innumerable modifications for
various purposes--spines and allied armaments--all shapes and sizes;
poisonous secretions, deadly odours, strong claws and teeth wielded by
strong muscles, and form colonies that are more than a gregarious
association. In most cases, they have communities composed of
individuals living individual lives, yet which act in cases of need as
one unit.




X

ANIMAL ARCHITECTS, ENGINEERS, AND HOUSE BUILDERS

  _"The heart is hard that is not pleased
  With sight of animals enjoying life,
  Nor feels their happiness augment his own."_


The most popular and perhaps the most interesting department of
natural-history study is that which treats of the manner in which
animals utilise the various materials of the universe for purposes of
protection, for war and defence, for raiment, food, and even the
luxuries of life. Man, by his superior power of adaptation, excels the
lower animals in providing for the comforts of life; but, on the other
hand, in such practical arts as engineering and domestic architecture
man frequently finds himself an amateur in comparison. With all man's
inventions he has not been able to equal some of the remarkable results
produced by some animals. The beaver, for example, shows a more profound
knowledge of hydraulics than man himself. The power possessed by these
craftsmen, not only in felling trees, but in duly selecting the best
places for making homes and in appropriating substances suitable for
their needs, is a never-ending marvel!

Nowhere can we find a greater animal-workman than the beaver. He belongs
to the great burrowing family, and is also extremely graceful in the
water. Long ago he learned the advantages of co-operation, and he unites
with his fellows in building dams of felled trees, which have been cut
up into suitable length for use in damming up water places. These are
skilfully placed, and with the aid of mud, control the level of the
water in selected places as efficiently as man could do. As a social
animal, the beaver should be ranked among the first; of course, the
various marmots are extremely sociable, but they ordinarily live quite
independently of each other, except in cases where they chance to
congregate because of favourable conditions. The beavers, on the other
hand, thoroughly understand the benefits of united labour, and work
together for the good of the community.

Beavers, if their skill were generally known, would have a great
reputation among their human friends. Recently, at the New York
Zoological Gardens, a visitor was pointing out different animals to his
little son, and when he came to the beaver pond, referred to two of
these dam-builders and tree-cutters, which were swimming through the
water with large sticks in their mouths, as big rats!

Young beavers make their appearance in May, and there are usually from
four to eight to a family. These kittens, as they are called, are odd
looking little fellows, with big heads, large sharp teeth, flat tails,
like little fat paddles, and delicate, soft, mouse-like fur, not at all
coarse like that of their parents. If taken at an early age they make
nice pets and are easily domesticated. In the early days of American
history it was not uncommon to see one running around an Indian lodge,
playing like a child with the little Indians, and frequently receiving
with the papoose nourishment from the mother's breast. Strangely enough,
the cry of the young beaver is exactly like that of the baby child. One
of my friends in Michigan recently stopped at an Indian's house to see a
real live baby beaver. "He cry all same as papoose," remarked the squaw,
as she brought the young beaver out of the house, giving him a little
slap to start him crying--and cry he did!

The body of a grown beaver is usually about thirty inches long, and
something over eleven inches wide; it weighs about sixty pounds. The
fore-paws are quite small in comparison with the rest of the body; the
hind feet are larger, webbed like a duck's feet, and are the principal
motive power in swimming. The most unique feature of the animal's body
is the famous mud-plastering tail, which is oft-times a foot long, five
inches in width, and an inch in thickness. The colour of the beaver
varies; there are black beavers, white beavers, and brown beavers. The
black are the best known.

The beaver is well equipped for defending himself, and for carrying out
his architectural schemes. His jet black tail, which is like a large
paddle, covered with horny scales, he uses in many ways. With it he
turns the body in any desired direction while swimming and diving, and,
in time of danger, employs it as a sound board, or paddle. When alarmed
at night, he dives into the water, and, by means of his tail, splashes
so violently as to give warning to all beavers within a half-mile
distance. The stroke of the tail sounds not unlike a pistol shot. As
soon as a beaver sounds the alarm all others dive underneath the water.
His teeth are expressly suited by nature for cutting and chiselling out
trees.

The dam is the beaver's masterpiece. In the alder or birch swamps, where
he usually lives, he oft-times builds from six to eight little dams from
knoll to knoll, and in this way makes a pond sufficiently large for his
purposes. The average beaver dam is from twenty to thirty feet long; but
they differ greatly in size. There is one on a branch of Arnold's River
in Canada, where the stream is twenty-one feet wide and two feet deep,
which is especially well built. The dam is seven feet high, and rises
five to six feet above the pool. It is constructed mainly of alder
poles, which are arranged side by side, and their length is parallel
with the direction of the current. To create a pond for himself and
provide against drought is the chief aim of the beaver in building his
dam.

Just how these dams are built; who plans the job; who sees that it is
carried out; whether each works under his own impulse or whether they
co-operate; when they begin and how they finish; all these things are
unknown to man. The investigation of such questions is almost
impossible. It is generally believed, however, that beavers work in
gangs under a common "boss" or "overseer," and it is a known fact that
they work only at night. During a dark, rainy night they accomplish
twice as much as on a moonlight night. No doubt the darkness gives them
a sense of security which aids their work. Anyway, in the completed job,
we see the evidences of a skilled engineer and architect, and one who
knew thoroughly what he was about.

The size of a dam depends entirely upon the wishes of its builders and
location and general conditions of land and water. Sometimes the more
ambitious beavers build a dam a quarter of a mile in length. They employ
exactly the same principle as is used in making a mill-dam. Beavers,
however, were building dams long before millers came into existence, and
their methods are fully as scientific as those of man. Mill-dams usually
run straight across a stream, while beaver-dams are so curved that the
water is gently turned to each side. In this way the beaver-dams are
capable of resisting immense quantities of water which in its impetuous
rush would carry away the ordinary mill-dam. Many scientific thinkers
claim that the beaver employs this principle of construction without
knowing it. How absurd! Who can be sure that he doesn't know it?
Scientists of the old school desire proof before they will accept
anything as a fact, yet they themselves repeatedly make wild statements
without proper substantiation.

It is not unusual for a beaver family to select a home on the bank of a
pond, lake, or stream whose waters are sufficiently deep and abundant
for all their needs. In such a case dams are not needed, and regulation
beaver houses are rarely constructed. Instead, apartment houses are
hollowed out from the banks. But in the ease of a town-site on shallow,
narrow waters, dams are absolutely necessary to insure sufficient depth
to conceal the beavers, and to prevent obstruction by ice. The entrance
to the beaver's home is almost always under the water. This arrangement
safeguards the home from predatory enemies.

During the summer months, beavers are inclined to live alone, except
when a new home occupies their attention; but when autumn comes, the
various families of a neighbourhood meet and remain together through the
following spring. In the latter part of August the busy season begins,
and each and every beaver, old and young, aids in repairing the dam and
dwellings, which have been allowed to fall into decay. The cutting and
felling of trees is the first important work to be done.

These interesting "tree-cutters" usually work in pairs, and are
sometimes assisted by younger beavers; thus the family works together in
cutting and felling the trees, but in other forms of labour it seems
that several families work together. If only two are engaged in felling
a tree, they work by turns, and alternately keep guard; this is a
well-known practice of many animals both in work and play. As soon as
the tree begins to bend and crack, they cease cutting and make sure of
their definite direction of escape, then they continue to gnaw until it
begins to fall, whereupon they plunge into the stream, usually, where
they remain for some time lest the noise of the falling tree attract the
attention of enemies.

Their next work is to cut up the tree into sections which they can
remove. If the tree is not too large and has already fallen in the
water, they take it as it is, otherwise it must be cut up and conveyed
to the dam. No professional lumberman better understands how to
transport lumber to a desired place than beavers. They realise the value
of water transportation and thoroughly appreciate that trees can only be
removed downhill. From tame beavers we have learned that they remove
smaller limbs by seizing them with their teeth, throwing the loose end
over their shoulder, and then dragging them to their destination.

These water-loving animals rely mainly upon their native element for the
movement of lumber and food, and to aid this they employ engineering
skill that is rivalled only by their feats of tree-cutting and
dam-building. This constructive faculty is shown largely in their
canal-digging. From one small stream to another, or from one lake to
another, they excavate canals from three to four feet in width, with a
water depth of two feet, and occasionally one hundred and fifty to two
hundred feet in length. The amount of labour they perform is almost
unbelievable; every particle of dirt is carried away between their chin
and fore-paws. This earth is sometimes used in plastering up a nearby
dam or repairing their winter home. Small and tender twigs are
transported to the vicinity of their lodges, and then sunk for winter
food.

Mr. Morgan has made a close study of these canals, and in speaking of
them he says that when he first saw them, and heard them called canals,
he doubted their artificial origin; but upon examination he found that
they were unquestionably beaver excavations. He considers these
artificial canals, by means of which the beavers carry their wood to
their lodges, the supreme act of intelligence on the part of these wise
animals. Even the dam, remarkable as it is, does not show evidence of
greater skill than that displayed in the making of these canals. No one
who has ever understood the ways of the beaver can believe that he is
not exceedingly intelligent. The banks of these canals soon become
covered with growing plants and moss, and they look not unlike slow
sluggish streams winding through the marshy lands.

[Illustration: THE BEAVER IS THE GREATEST OF ALL ANIMAL ARCHITECTS. HIS
SKILL IS EQUALLED ONLY BY HIS PATIENCE.]

The beaver huts, or "lodges" as they are usually called, look not unlike
beehives, somewhat broader at the base, with thick walls and roof,
four to six feet in thickness. They are formed of numbers of poles,
twigs, and small branches of trees, woven together and plastered with
mud, in the same way that the dams are made. Inside the house are
circular chambers formed of mud, which have been smoothed and polished
like waxed floors by the feet of the occupants. Around the outer border
of each polished floor is dry grass used for Mrs. Beaver's nursery, and
here the young beavers sleep and play.

From the outside these beaver huts resemble Esquimaux snow-houses, being
almost circular in form, and domed. The walls are quite thick enough to
keep out the cold, but with all the beaver's ingenuity, he is helpless
against trappers. Summer and winter they are hunted, until now they are
fast becoming extinct. How few people seem fully to realise and care
what is being done to wild animals! They do not seem to know that it is
a crime to take the life of a being unnecessarily. Only human life is
sacred to them! To realize the wonderful work of beavers, and then to
act as we do toward them is unworthy of our civilisation.

An interesting cousin of the beaver, the musquash or muskrat, and called
by the Indians the beaver's "little brother," is also a house-builder
and engineer of no mean abilities. He is at home throughout the greater
part of North America, and, like the beaver, frequents the regions of
slowly flowing streams and large, reed-bordered ponds. Here he mingles
in groups of his own kin, and together they build houses, work and play,
dive and swim, with almost as much skill as their big beaver brothers.

The muskrat is a skilled engineer, and delights in tunnelling. His home
consists of a large rounded chamber which is reached by a long burrow
from the side of a stream. From his main living-room are oftentimes
found a number of smaller chambers or galleries, and these are used to
store food in the form of delicate roots and bits of bark. Some of the
more ambitious muskrats build large houses on piles of mud which rise
out of the water. These houses are usually made of heaps of dead grass
and weeds which are cemented together with mud and clay; at other times
they contain no mud or clay, and seem to be only piles of tender roots
and swamp grasses to be used for food during the long, cold winters.

From his physical appearance, the muskrat is well prepared to do his
work: he is stoutly built, with a body about a foot in length, not
including the tail; has small eyes, and tiny ears, partly covered with
fur. In the winter, as food gets scarce, he begins to eat even the
walls of his house, and by the time his home is gone--spring has
arrived!

A most unusual family of skilled house-builders are the brush-tailed
rat-kangaroos, or Jerboa kangaroos of Australia and Tasmania. They are
no larger than an ordinary rabbit, but they have cousins who are as
large as a man. These rat-kangaroos have most interesting tails, covered
with long hair which forms itself into a crest near the tip. Their homes
are found among small grassy hills, where there are a few trees and
bushes. They scratch out a small hole in the ground, near a tuft of tall
grass, and so bend the grass as to form a complete roof to the house,
which is rather poorly constructed, and whose chief interest lies in the
unusual way the kangaroos have of carrying all the building materials,
like tiny bundles of hay, held compactly in their tails. There is no
other workman among the animals that employs quite this method of
transporting materials.

The rat-kangaroos have a dainty little brown cousin that lives in
Africa, and who is occasionally seen jumping around on the ground,
underneath bushes, and near damp springs. He is very small, not over
three inches in length, and is like a miniature kangaroo, except for his
long tail. Like their great cousins--the kangaroos--Mrs. Jerboa often
carries her babies on her back when she goes out to seek food.

In the Great Sahara Desert, parched and dry, are found numerous cities
of these little animals. With the exception of a few birds, reptiles,
jackals and hyenas, they are the only inhabitants of this barren and
desolate land. From the Arabs we learn that these little animals have
extensive and intricate burrows, consisting of innumerable passages
tunnelled out in the hard, dry soil. And these tunnels are the result of
combined labour on the part of the entire community. The least alarm
causes them to scuffle away into their underground homes.

One of the larger species of Central Asia employs a stratagem that is
remarkable. Like their cousins of Africa, they live in a great
underground city which is a perfect network of burrows which end in a
large central chamber. From this chamber a long winding tunnel
terminates very near the surface of the ground, and it is a long
distance from the other burrows. No sign of its existence appears from
above the surface of the earth, but if an enemy invades the burrow, away
the jerboas rush for this secret exit and break through to the surface
out of reach of the trouble, and escape.

These African jerboas are exceedingly odd in appearance, and they are
two-legged in their habits of walk, and never go on all-fours. They walk
by placing one hind foot alternately before the other; and they run in
the same way. They can leap an extraordinary distance.

Frogs and toads, as a class, are not so skilled in house-building as
some of their higher relations, but there is one of their number--the
_Hyla faber_--that is remarkably gifted in building mud houses. He lives
in Brazil, and the natives call him the _ferreiro_, or smith, and he is
indeed the master-builder of his family. Mrs. Hyla is really the gifted
member of the tribe, and it is during the breeding season that she
diligently dives underneath the water, digs up handfuls of mud, and
builds on the bottom a small circular wall, which encloses a space about
ten to fourteen inches in diameter. This wall is continued until it
reaches about four inches above the surface of the water. It looks not
unlike a small volcano, and the inside is skilfully smoothed. This has
been done by Mrs. Frog's artistic hands. When the house is entirely
completed, Mrs. Frog lays a great number of eggs, and here they are
quite safe from enemies both as eggs and baby tadpoles.

Mr. Frog seems little concerned in the building of the home, but he does
take pleasure in croaking for Mrs. Frog while she works. Perhaps this
is to her heart genuine music, and his faithful attention to their
children makes up for his love of idleness!

Perhaps the strangest animal engineer in the world is found in
Madagascar and Australia. It is the duckbill or duckmole, and is
scientifically known as the _Ornithorhynchus paradoxus_. The natives of
Australia call it by several names: _Mallangong_, _Tambreet_, and not a
few call it, _Tohunbuck_.

This odd little aquatic engineer digs long tunnels of great intricacy in
the bands of lazy rivers, and because of its paradoxical nature and
appearance has caused many strange stories to originate about its habits
and methods of propagation. It has the beak of a duck and waddles not
unlike this bird, but, like other mammals, it gives birth to its young,
and does not lay eggs, as is so often claimed for it. When swimming it
looks like a bunch of floating weeds or grass.

Its home is always on the banks of a stream, and is always provided with
two entrances: one below the surface of the water, and the other above.
This insures escape in case of enemies. The main tunnel or road to the
home is sometimes fifty feet in length, and no engineer could devise a
more deceptive approach; it winds up and down like a huge serpent, to
the right, and to the left, and is so annoyingly variable in its sinuous
course that even the natives have great trouble in digging the duckbill
out of its nest.

The nest is oval in form, and is well-carpeted with dry weeds and grass.
Here the young reside on soft beds until they are large enough to care
for themselves. There are from one to four in each nest.

There are no greater architects in the universe than may be found among
the coral-polypes. These interesting little animals of the deep have
been much misunderstood, and have sometimes had the erroneous
designation of "insect" bestowed upon them. The word "insect" has been
applied in a very loose and general sense in other days; but naturalists
and scientists should see to it that the use of this term be corrected
in reference to these wonderful coral-architects, and that no informed
person refer to them except as animals. Even poets have been guilty of
propagating the most erroneous ideas about the nature and works of these
sea-builders. Montgomery, in his _Pelican Island_, makes statements that
are shocking to an intelligent thinker, and which no scientist can
excuse on the ground of poetical license. "The poetry of this excellent
author," says Dana, "is good, but the facts nearly all errors--if
literature allows of such an incongruity." Think of coral-animals as
being referred to as shapeless worms that "writhe and shrink their
tortuous bodies to grotesque dimensions"! These deep-sea builders
manufacture or secrete from their own bodies the coral substance out of
which the great reefs are built. It is a part of their life work and
nature, as a flower produces its own colours and shapes; it is amusing
to know that it has only been about one hundred and fifty years since it
was discovered not to be a plant but an animal! Even Ovid states the
popular belief of the classic period when he speaks of the coral as a
seaweed "which existed in a soft state as long as it remained in the
sea, but had the curious property of becoming hard on exposure to the
air."

These strange coral-producing animals of the deep demand two especially
important conditions only under which they will thrive: namely, a
certain depth of water and a certain temperature. Thus it is seen that
the warmth of the sea determines the distribution of the corals; the
geography of these animals is defined by degrees of temperature. Only in
equatorial seas may reef-building corals be found; and if we select the
"Equator as a natural centre of the globe, and measure off a band of
1800 miles in breadth on each side of that line," we will find that it
will include the chief coral regions of the earth.

The work of the corals is most interesting. Small as are these tiny
workmen, each and every one does his bit and, speck by speck, adds his
minute contribution to the growing mass of coral until entire islands
are surrounded by extensive reefs. Tahiti, for example, is surrounded by
a barrier reef which is really an immense wall. The large barrier reef
on the northeast coast of Australia extends in a continuous line for
1,000 miles, and varies from 10 to 90 miles in breadth. Some reefs are
mere fringes which simply skirt the coast lands, and seem to be mere
extensions of the beach. Still another variety of reef is known as the
"atoll" or "lagoon" reef. This latter form is seen in circular rings of
coral of various breadths which enclose a body of still water--the
lagoon. There are many of these coral islands in the Indian and Pacific
Oceans. Keeling or Cocos Atoll, of the Indian Ocean, is 9-1/2 miles in
its greatest width; Bow Island is 30 miles in length, and 6 miles wide;
while in the Maldive Archipelago one island measures 88 geographical
miles in length, and in some places is 20 miles wide. When one beholds a
large coral ring, covered with rich soil and tropical vegetation, and
"protecting a quiet lake-haven from the restless ocean without, it is
little to be wondered at that the earlier voyagers recorded their
surprise that the apparently insignificant architects of such an
erection are able to withstand the force of the waves and to preserve
their works among the continual attacks of the sea." As Pyrard de Laval
truly said, "It is a marvel to see each of these atollons surrounded on
all sides by a great bank of stone--walls such as no human hands could
build on the space of earth allotted to them.... Being in the middle of
an atollon, you see all around you this great stone bank, which
surrounds and protects the island from the waves; but it is a formidable
attempt, even for the boldest, to approach the bank and watch the waves
roll in, and break with fury upon the shore."

As to the explanation of the modes of formation of these coral-reefs,
the scientists have long been propounding theories which are sometimes
amusing. Strangely enough they have nearly all explained that
coral-polypes aggregate themselves in the forms of atolls and
barrier-reefs by a mysterious "instinct," mediocrity's only term for
screening its ignorance, and which is also given as the cause for their
secreting lime. Flinders says that they form a great protecting reef in
order that they may be protected by its shelter, and that the leeward
aspect of the reef forms a nursery for their infant colonies.

Thus we see that these same scientists are accrediting these little
architects with the possession of a great intelligence, and they are
thought to co-operate together in a manner expressive of the greatest
degree of efficiency and brotherly feeling. Each of these scientists
gives a theory that leaves untouched the essential question of the
causes for coral-reefs assuming their various shapes; and it is
reasonable to believe that they work according to a divine wisdom and
plan, and that mankind does not yet understand their strange ways, which
give us a higher conception of the universe than that held by the
ancients. Science has come to the point where it must recognise the
perfect unity of all life, and that our fellow-architects, engineers,
and house-builders in the animal world also fill an important place in
Nature's great scheme.




XI

FOOD CONSERVERS

  _"He prayeth well who loveth well
  Both man and bird and beast.
  He prayeth best who loveth best
  All things both great and small;
  For the dear God who loveth us,
  He made and loveth all."_

  --COLERIDGE.


It can almost be said that there is no industry or profession of the
human world that is not carried on with equal skill in the animal world.
This is especially true of merchandising and store-keeping; animals,
however, have different methods of merchandising than men, although
these methods are none the less real. They give and take instead of buy
and sell and have co-operative shops which they operate with great
success. They unite for a desired end, and demonstrate their ability to
work together in a common enterprise in a way that might teach man a
good lesson.

Food and shelter are the first needs of animals. In order to obtain
these, they group themselves into foraging parties in the most ingenious
manner. Like mankind, they sometimes co-operate for dishonest ends; they
form "trusts" and organise into gangs for purposes of mutual aid.

Deer, monkeys, rabbits, foxes, and numerous others conduct their
dining-rooms on a co-operative principle. Some watch and wait while
others dine. The same is true where they go to watering places to drink
and bathe.

Perhaps the most unique and clever food conserver is the American
polecat. He not only provides for himself, but prepares a larder for his
young, so that they will have plenty of food. The nursery is usually
comfortably embedded in a cave, and is lined with soft, dry grass.
Adjoining this nursery is a larder, which often contains from ten to
fifty large frogs and toads, all alive, but so dexterously bitten
through the brain as to make them incapable of escaping. Mr. and Mrs.
Pole-cat can then visit or hunt as they please, so long as their
children have plenty of fresh meat at home!

Another interesting food conserver is the chipping squirrel, or
chipmunk, so named because his cry sounds like the chirp of little
chickens. His method of dress is most unusual; he is brownish grey in
colour, with five stripes of black and two of pale yellow running along
the back of his coat; the throat and lower part of his body is snowy
white. These colours occasionally vary, when the grey and yellow are
superseded by black.

His home is underground, usually under an old wall, near a rock fence,
or under a tree; his burrow is so long and winding that he can easily
escape almost any enemy, except the weasel, which is not easily
outwitted. His nursery and living-room is quite pretentious, but his
lateral storeroom is a marvel! He is a miser indeed, and stores up every
acorn and nut he can find, even many times more than he can ever eat.
His variety of food is almost unending--he loves buckwheat, beaked nuts,
pecans, various kinds of grass seeds, and Indian corn. In carrying food
to his home he first fills his pouches to overflowing and then takes
another nut in his mouth; he thus reminds the classical reader of
Alemćon in the treasury of Croesus.

The hedgehog is a regular Solomon in her methods of collecting fruit.
Plutarch had a very high opinion of her. He says that when grapes are
ripe, the mother hedgehog goes under the vines and shakes them until
some of the grapes fall; she then literally rolls over them until many
are attached to her spines, and marches back to her babies in the
cave. "One day," says Plutarch, "when we were all together, we had the
chance of seeing this with our own eyes--it looked as if a bunch of
grapes was shuffling along the ground, so thickly covered was the animal
with its booty."

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE SKUNK MOTHER TRIES TO KEEP ON HAND A GOOD SUPPLY OF SUCH DELICACIES
AS FROGS AND TOADS, SO THAT HER YOUNG MAY NEVER GO HUNGRY.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE PORCUPINE AND THE HEDGEHOG HAVE A UNIQUE METHOD OF COLLECTING FOOD
FOR THEIR YOUNG. AFTER SHAKING DOWN BERRIES OR GRAPES, THEY ROLL IN
THEM, THEN HURRY HOME WITH THE FOOD ATTACHED TO THEIR QUILLS.]

Alpine mice not only form comfortable winter homes in the earth, but
combine into small winter colonies, each colony numbering about ten to
twelve inhabitants, all of whom are under the direction of a leader.
Thus organised, they proceed to lay up provisions for the winter. They
use their mouths as scythes and their paws as rotary machines. Surely
their wisdom and foresight call forth our greatest admiration. The
jerboas or jumping mice are not only skilled athletes in the art of
jumping, but they are gifted food conservers and producers as well. They
lay up complete storehouses of food, which they do not consume
altogether as their appetite may direct; but conserve it carefully for
the times when nothing can be obtained from the fields. Then, and then
only, do they open the closed magazines. Such acts of intelligence
cannot be recorded under the head of "instinct"! They demonstrate the
ability to plan for the future, and meet all emergencies.

Certain food hoarders and robbers, like the vole, are so very greedy and
become such misers that they often threaten total destruction to large
areas of grain. They were so plentiful in the classic land of Thessaly,
the vale of Tempe, and the Land of Olympus that the old Greeks
established what they called an Apollo Smintheus, the Mouse-destroying
God. In the early spring, according to Professor Loeffler, who has made
a special study of their invasions, they begin to come down from their
homes in the hills to the cultivated fields. They seem to follow regular
roads, and often travel along the railroad embankment. They travel very
slowly, and when at home live somewhat on the order of prairie dogs,
that is, in underground dwellings with numerous winding passages and
tunnels.

These wise little food conservers are nocturnal in habit, and are rarely
seen except by careful observers. When they once determine to rob a
field, they do it with amazing rapidity and completeness. In a single
night hordes of these workers go into a cornfield and by daylight not a
stalk of corn remains. The field is as empty as if a cyclone had struck
it. They work with great system, and while a part of their number cut
the stalks down, others cut it up into movable sizes, while still others
superintend its systematic removal. Storehouses are usually provided
before the grain is even cut. They make long voyages throughout a
country, storing away tons of grain and food in these various
granaries. To these they come for supplies whenever necessary. All
poverty-stricken voles are also fed from these storehouses, since it is
the product of the community as a whole. Aristotle wrote at length about
their wise and destructive ways.

Not the least ingenious of food conservers are the hamsters, members of
the great rodent family. They have made their dwellings most comfortable
and even luxurious in arrangement and furnishings. Like wealthy farmers,
they are not satisfied with comfortable dwellings only, but they too
must have spacious barns adjoining their homes. Their home, or burrow
proper, consists of two openings: one, which is used as an entrance, and
which sinks vertically into the ground; the other, which is used as an
exit, with a winding slope. The central room is beautifully carpeted
with straw, moss, and dry leaves, which makes it a very pleasant
living-room and bedroom. A third small winding tunnel leads from this
room to the barns and storehouse. Thus, Mr. and Mrs. Hamster and the
children have no need to go forth in the cold and wet weather to seek
food--they can remain at home perfectly protected and well-fed. They are
very liberal, and in case of need or poverty, will always share their
food with their neighbours.

I once found the nest of a harvest mouse, which was woven of plaited
blades of straw of the oats and wheat. It was perfectly round, with the
aperture so ingeniously closed that I could scarcely tell to what part
of the nest it belonged. It was as round as a marble and would actually
roll when placed on a table, although within its walls were six tiny
mice, naked and blind. As they increased in size day by day, the elastic
wall of their small home expanded, and thus served their need until such
time as they were old enough to live independent of this specially
provided shelter.

There is a larger animal, known as a "rat-hare" or the harvest rat,
which gathers piles of hay for winter use, sometimes to the height of
six or eight feet in diameter. They begin harvesting in the early part
of August, and after having cut the grass, they carefully spread it out
to dry before placing it in their barns. These barns are usually located
in holes or crevices of mountains. They are found in immense numbers in
the Altai Mountains.

The California woodrat is not only a food hoarder but a notable thief
and robber. A nest was found that was a veritable tool chest and pawn
shop! It contained fourteen knives, three forks, six small spoons, one
large soup spoon, twenty-seven large nails, hundreds of small tacks, two
butcher knives, three pairs of eye-glasses, one purse, one string of
beads, one rubber ball, two small cakes of soap, one string of red
peppers, several boxes of matches, with numerous small buttons, needles,
and pins. Apparently these woodrats are as ambitious for unnecessary and
useless possessions as is man himself. Their big storeroom did, however,
contain a larder in which they had some of their favourite food, such as
seeds and nuts.

Some animals have learned not only to acquire, but also to defend and
protect, all their property. We see in the human world how strong is the
impulse to collect, and children will invariably collect anything from
pebbles to peach-pits, if they see other children doing the same thing.

Most animals that do not hoard are those that forage for food, or fish,
and rarely have permanent homes. The orang-outangs, for example, are
regular gipsies, and go from place to place wherever food is plentiful.
They take life easy, and sometimes during their journeys select a
suitable spot near the seashore and have a real picnic. A scout has
already discovered the right spot for getting big oysters, of which they
are exceedingly fond, and when they have assembled, certain ones proceed
to dig up the oysters, which they hand to others on the shore and they,
in turn, place them on big stones, and proceed to open them for the
feast. If one of the fishermen-monkeys discovers an oyster open, he will
not insert his hand to remove the meat until first placing a stone
between the valves. This assures him protection against the closing of
the oyster. In most cases, they open the oysters by first placing them
on stones and then using another stone as a hammer. These facts are
vouched for by no less authorities than Gamelli Carreri, Dampier, and
Wafer.

It is only a matter of time until many animals will understand the use
of man-made tools. Some have already learned to use such tools as they
make and shape for themselves. Monkeys and apes are already gifted in
this art. Of course, under domestication, they use knives, forks,
spoons, and dishes not so much from intelligence as from imitation.
This, however, might be said of many human beings. I have seen an
immense chimpanzee sit in a chair, set his own dinner table, use his
knife and fork correctly when eating, and take great delight in the use
of his napkin, which he always carefully refolded when his meal was
over.

The human-like qualities of apes and monkeys, however, need scarcely be
told. They are so very similar to man in most ways that there are few
things they cannot do. Aelian tells of an ape which learned to drive
horses skilfully. He knew just when and how to use the whip, how much
slack to allow in the reins, and when to tighten them! They greatly
resent any intrusion on their hunting-grounds, and make use of sticks
and clubs to protect them. The chief is always armed with a club, and is
thoroughly skilled in the use of it. It sometimes happens that an
elephant will come to the same tree to seek food that apes frequent, and
although they have no enmity towards each other, they like the same kind
of food. As soon as the ape sees the elephant reaching his trunk among
the branches, he immediately slips near the elephant, and when an
opportunity presents itself, he whacks him over the trunk with his club!
The infuriated elephant runs away in terror!

A story is told of a party of foraging apes who went into a cornfield
with the purpose of robbing it, and discovered two men. They immediately
rushed upon them and attempted to poke their eyes out with sticks and
would have succeeded but for the intervention of two other men who
chanced to be near. The extreme cleverness of apes in applying their
reason and judgment is shown in Vosmaer's account of the female
orang-outang, who tried to open the padlock of her chain with a small
stick. She had seen her master open it with a key, and she exactly
imitated the motion of his hands in the attempt.

Man shows a disposition to deny animals all traits and characteristics
which are similar to his own. This reminds us of a remark that Cardinal
Newman once made that men know less of animals than they do of angels.
Why should we show such foolish pride and delusion, and try to baffle
one of God's great facts? When men attempt to extinguish the idea of
animal intelligence and sentiment by referring to it as instinct, we are
reminded of the desert ostrich, which buries its head in the sand and
thinks it cannot be seen. We should proudly acknowledge the wonderful
human-like methods of these food conservers of the animal world, and
recognise in all this a guiding Providence who provides for and protects
all his creatures, be they great or small.




XII

TOURISTS AND SIGHT-SEERS

  _"Every night we must look, lest the down slope
  Between us and the woods turn suddenly
  To a grey onrush full of small green candles,
  The charging pack with eyes flaming for flesh.
  And well for us then if there's no more mist
  Than the white panting of the wolfish hunger."_


The desire to travel and see the great world is by no means peculiar to
the human race. It is found among animals to such a degree that groups
of them will often leave their homes in one country and journey to
another. These strange wanderlust habits are noticed even by the casual
observer, and no special insight is required to see that these wise
creatures have their annual tours excellently arranged and marked out.
Their route is possibly as definitely arranged before starting, as is
the route of a human traveller. They have their selected eating places
arranged, know every danger spot and the enemies they are likely to
encounter.

The members of these co-operative tours take life tickets, and each tour
lasts about one year. One of the most unusual instances of such
co-operation is that of the lemmings of the Scandinavian countries.
These are animals of the mouse tribe, which live in the mountainous
districts. They live upon roots and grasses. They breed very rapidly. At
certain times they go from the centre of Norway to the east and west,
crossing valley, hill, and river in great masses. Many are destroyed by
birds and beasts of prey, but finally the survivors reach the Atlantic
on the Gulf of Bothnia and, for some strange unknown reason, plunge in
and die. Only enough remain from one season to another to propagate the
species. It is an immense co-operative suicide society.

Rivers and valleys are sometimes effectual barriers. On the plains of
the Amazon great numbers of animals are found on one side of the river
only; these have not been able to cross to the other. On the north side
of the Rio Negro are two varieties of monkeys, the _brachiurus conxion_
and the _jacchus bicolor_, which are unknown on the south side. Of
course, water-loving animals, such as seals, whales, and porpoises are
at home in the water and can swim for days without stopping. Quite a few
animals can swim for a short distance, but comparatively few for long
distances. In the early days in North America it was not uncommon for
buffalo to swim across the Mississippi River. Rats and squirrels often
migrate in great numbers. It oftentimes happens that Arctic animals
travel from one place to another on floating ice. In the South American
waters it is a common sight to see floating islands covered with plants
and trees upon which there are live animals; and while these animals are
likely to perish, they are oftentimes carried safely to land. Eagles
have often been instrumental in bringing new species of animals to
islands where they had previously been unknown, their purpose being to
provide food for their own young. Some of these animals would escape and
henceforth become citizens of their new habitation.

An interesting division of migrants is that of the casual travellers,
like the men and women who always remain at home except when special
business calls them away. Sudden climatic changes, or the scarcity of
food, often cause stay-at-home animals to make tours into new
territories. As a good instance, I might cite the case of three wolves,
which I saw entering Jackson Park in Chicago, during very severe weather
when Lake Michigan was frozen over. The morning papers stated that
because of forest fires in Michigan, and the extreme cold, which not
only made food scarce for the wild animals of Michigan, but froze the
Lake, many of them had come across the ice into the great Chicago parks
seeking food and shelter.

The subject of animal travel is full of interesting and difficult
problems, and not the least interesting nor the least difficult is the
question of just how they find their way to and from various places.
Many naturalists tell us that these animals are led by inherited
instinct along the migration lines followed by their forefathers. But
even if this were true, what made them originally follow such a course?

Wild horses when travelling always have a leader as well as several
sentinels for each herd. By some unknown code this leader makes known
his wishes and directs the movements of the herd. No human army could
have greater order or more perfect obedience to commands; and under him
there is absolute unity by means of which the carnivorous animals, such
as the wolf, the jaguar, and the puma, are repelled. Wild deer
invariably have a leader, and while we do not know how he obtains his
position, nor how he directs his followers, we do know he is highly
successful in his efforts.

No act in the animal world bespeaks more intelligence than that of
placing sentinels, especially during a journey. Horses show striking
skill and ingenuity in the choosing and placing of their sentinels. Any
one who has been fortunate enough to have seen them travelling in the
forests of South America, where the wild horses are gregarious, and
travel in herds of five hundred to a thousand, has noticed that
sentinels are always stationed around the herd. These animals are not
well prepared for fighting, and experience has taught them that their
greatest safety is in flight, and so, when they graze or sleep,
sentinels are always on the look-out for enemies. If a man approaches,
the sentinel at first walks toward him, as if to make sure what the
enemy is, and what he desires, if the man goes nearer to the herd, the
sentinel neighs in a most peculiar tone. Immediately the herd is
aroused, and gallops away, not in confusion, but perfect order, as
though its members were human soldiers.

The same is true of the white-legged peccaries, so plentiful in Guiana.
They congregate by the thousands, choose a leader whose position is
always at the front, and travel for hundreds of miles through the great
forests. If they come to a river, the leader halts, as if to make sure
that all is well for crossing, then he plunges into the water and is
followed by his immense army. The sureness of the leader would suggest
that he has been over the same route many times before--perhaps this is
why he has been chosen! If an enemy appears, or any form of danger is
approached, they carry on an immense amount of chattering and proceed
only when they have talked it out. Any hunter that should be foolish
enough to attack them, unless he were already up a tree, would be torn
to pieces with their terrible teeth and tusks. They are as bloodthirsty
as the wild boars of the Black Forest of Germany, and will sometimes
actually tear down a tree up which an enemy has escaped, that they may
kill him.

The African apes have an interesting way of sending their sentinel to
the top of an adjacent rock or tree, that he may look over the
surrounding valleys and plantations before they go to plunder a garden
or field. If he sees any danger, he utters a loud shriek, and the entire
troop immediately runs away. The monkeys of Brazil post a guard while
they sleep; the same is true of the chamois and other species of wild
antelope.

A few years ago, many of the sheep in the northern part of Wales had
become quite wild, and they usually grazed in parties of twelve to
twenty, always having a sentinel so stationed as to command a prominent
view of the surrounding territory. If any animal or person came near, he
would give a peculiar hiss or whistle, repeating it two or three times,
at which the whole herd would scamper away to places of safety.

One of the most striking facts about migration is its never-failing
regularity and success. Most animals migrate at the recurrence of the
breeding season. Of these, the great sea-turtle, which seeks the shallow
water and deep sandy hills when ready to lay her eggs, is well known.
Notwithstanding the great risks that practically all travelling animals
assume, they are successful as a whole in their travels, and many return
to bear testimony to a successful trip even across continents and
sometimes the ocean. They migrate, for a variety of reasons. When it is
not for a more desirable climate, nor more food, nor even better
breeding grounds, we must either believe it is because of the natural
desire to travel, or frankly admit that we do not understand it.

The Icelandic mice have probably the most curious methods of travelling
of all migratory animals. Dr. Henderson, an authority on Iceland, not
only verifies the fact himself, but gives the names of many prominent
investigators who have seen the mice crossing small rivers and streams
on thin pieces of dry board, dragging them to the water, launching them,
and then going aboard their little rafts. They then turn their heads to
the centre, and their tails, which hang in the water, are used as
paddles and rudders until they reach the destined shore.

Among travellers none are more famed than the camels. In their sphere
and use they are supreme, and Nature has prepared them especially for
travelling on the dry, hot, and barren deserts. They are truly the
"ships of the desert" for they travel on a sea of sand, and their
pad-like feet, so poorly adapted for travel on moist soil, is admirably
suited to the desert sands. They are capable of travelling many days
without food or water, and are used extensively in the desert regions of
the East not only as beasts of burden but for their milk, which is an
important article of diet in those countries where the camel is at home.

Animals that do not migrate, especially those living in cold climates,
change their clothing at regular intervals. Their hair or fur increases
in thickness in winter. If we compare the Indian and African elephants
of to-day, whose delicate thin hair is scarcely noticeable, with the
great extinct mammoth, which had an enormous amount of woolly fur, we
readily see the great difference in their clothing. Yet these animals
are members of the same great family. The same difference may be
noted with horses: the Arabian horse, for example, has short,
glistening fur, while those of Iceland and Norway have very thick fur;
the same is true of Northern and Southern sheep. Animals which live in
temperate regions, put on much thicker coats in winter, and shed them as
summer approaches.

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

THE BLACK BEAR IS NOT ONE OF THE GREAT MIGRATING ANIMALS. THE THICKNESS
OF HIS COAT MUST THEREFORE CHANGE WITH THE SEASONS.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

RABBITS SEEM TO HAVE A WELL-DEVISED SYSTEM IN THEIR ROAD-BUILDING,
RUNNING THEIR PATHS IN AND OUT OF UNDERBRUSH IN A TRULY INGENIOUS
MANNER.]

The love of their original homes is one of the most striking features of
certain animal travellers. The fierce struggle for existence and the
territory required for an animal's home largely determine the amount of
effort they make to seize and hold certain possessions. A pair of
wildcats, for example, require a comparatively small hunting ground. But
this they will defend against invasion even to the point of death. There
are many more evidences showing the animals' love of home, and that they
also know the meaning of home-sickness.

Not a few animals have learned definitely to lay out and obtain
recognition for the boundaries of their respective ranging-grounds. This
is amply proven by their respect and recognition of rights of way.
Animals of certain farms seem to know the exact boundaries of their
grazing lands and pastures, and to teach this knowledge to their young.
In addition they often police their lands and pastures against
intruders. Woe unto any traveller found on the wrong highway! It is not
uncommon for the transgressor to be pushed from a right of way to the
rocks below. More than once a court's decision regarding disputable
territory has been based on the sheep's recognition of boundary; those
sheep slain in battle or otherwise injured while trying to invade the
questionable territory have been paid for by the owner of the
transgressing sheep.

It is easy to understand how sheep can recognise their rights of way,
but somewhat difficult to account for their knowledge of boundaries.
Sheep and goats have for ages been the greatest mountain-path and
road-makers. Whether or not they have engineers, we are not sure, but
they seem to select the shortest, easiest, and best route across the
trackless hills, and never seem to change the way. In these localities,
the sheep are almost in a primitive condition, and "not the least
interesting feature of their conduct in this relapse to the wild life is
that, in spite of the highly artificial condition in which they live
to-day, they retain the primitive instincts of their race."

That this "peremptory and path-keeping" instinct is shown by the habits
of the musk-ox, is clear. He is as much akin to the sheep as to cattle,
and in habits more like those of the great prehistoric sheep as we
imagine these to have been. The musk-ox naturally assembles in large
flocks, and is migratory, just as the domesticated flocks of Spain are,
and those of Thrace and the Caspian steppe. These flocks always return
from the barren lands in the far north by the same road, and cross
rivers by the same fords. Nothing but too persistent slaughter at these
points by the enemies who beset them, induces them to desert their
ancient highways. Pictures and anecdotes of the migrations of these
animals, and of the bison in former days, represent them as moving on a
broad front across the prairie or tundra. The examples of all moving
multitudes suggest that this was not their usual formation on the march,
and their roads prove that they moved on a narrow front or in file. On
the North American prairie, though the bison are extinct, their great
roads still remain as evidence of their former habits. These trails are
paths worn on the prairie, nearly all running due north and south (the
line of the old migration of the herds), like gigantic rabbit tracks.
They are hard, the grass on them is green and short, and, if followed,
they generally lead near water, to which a diverging track runs from the
highway.

How interesting must have been the life on this great animal highway,
before the Indian made the deadly arrow to destroy these nature-loving
travellers! There is no doubt but that, in their own way, these animals
felt all the emotions known to a human traveller; that they enjoyed the
flowery road, rested and played when weary, looked forward with joy to
their favourite watering and bathing places, and recognised old watering
places that they had visited for years.

The great roads and highways made by graminivorous animals, from those
which the hippopotamus cuts through the mammoth canes and reeds of the
African streams, to the smaller rabbit highways of England and America,
all tell their own story of how these animals live and travel. The
principal roads of rabbits over hills are as permanent as sheep and
buffalo roads. These roads, however, should not be confused with the
little trails that lead to their play and feeding grounds.

My friend and fellow-naturalist, Ralph Stuart Murray, in writing to me
from Quebec, says: "In speaking of animal road builders, I might say
that the rabbit or hare of the north woods deserves much attention, for
greatly interesting are his highways. The life of the north woods brings
one constantly in touch with these roads, which, after generations upon
generations of constant use, are worn deep and smooth into the moose
grass and muskeg through which they run. At places, several distinct
paths intersect, and it is curious to note that while these roads wind
in and out underneath the low hanging evergreens, the 'cross-roads' will
invariably be located in a clear open space, often on the top of some
small hillock.

"The great age of these roads is very evident when compared with the
newer, shallower paths of more recent years. So deep are the old ones,
in fact, that the quiet watcher in the woods will occasionally see two
large, upright ears--unmistakably those of a rabbit, seemingly sticking
out of a hole in the ground--yet moving at a rapid pace, and all the
while no rabbit in view. For all the world these vertical ears belonging
to an unseen owner resemble in use and appearance the periscope of a
submarine--the difference being that the rabbit uses his 'periscopes'
for hearing, in order to locate and avoid his foe, the submarine its
periscope to locate and attack its enemy."

The sheep terraces, which are so common on the sides of hills, though
made by sheep, are not roads, but feeding grounds. Sheep, when walking
on a hillside, invariably graze on the upper side, as they cannot reach
the lower grass. Therefore they walk backwards and forwards on the
slope, just as a reaping machine is driven over a hillside wheat-field.
As the sheep takes a "neck's length" each time, the little ridges or
roads correspond exactly with the measurements of the sheep's neck.

There are as many kinds of roads and terminals in the animal world as
there are in the human, and lest our pride make us forget, we should
remember that even the Panama Canal is dug according to the plan of a
crawfish's canal, such as may be seen near any muddy stream. It is
strange that no animal has learned to build elevated roads, though
animals that live in trees, like flying squirrels, monkeys, and flying
foxes, are very skilled in going from one tree to another. They have
regular aerial highways, and some of the tree frogs are veritable
wonders in the accuracy of their leaps from tree to tree. Even more
skilled than these are the agamid lizards of India, whose chief means of
travel is a folding parachute, which at a moment's notice can be erected
and carry to another tree its lucky possessor. In Borneo is an aviator
tree-snake which is able to so spread his ribs and inflate his body that
he can actually sail from branch to branch in the tree-tops.

There are night travellers as well as day travellers; in fact, there are
more animals that roam around in a great forest at night than in the
daytime. They sleep during the day, when the day animals are roaming
about, and go forth to roam when it is night. It is then they seek for
prey, and are much feared by day animals. They see well in the dark, and
travel so lightly that their footsteps cannot be heard.

On the Island of Java are found a family of strange, dwarfish little
beings, which are called by the natives malmags, or hobgoblins. And they
are well named, for they look like creatures of a distorted imagination
more than real, living animals. They travel only at night, and so
superstitious are the natives of their evil influence that if one of
these uncanny little creatures appears near their rice fields, the
plantation is immediately abandoned. However, these small creatures are
no larger than squirrels, and are perfectly harmless. They are very rare
even in their native lands--the Oriental Archipelago and the Philippine
Islands. They rear their young in the hollow roots of bamboo trees, and
to disturb their nests means to incur the evil of all the land.

Night animals do not go forth to travel and seek prey until the night is
far advanced, and their prey is soundly sleeping. They seem to know the
exact time of the night, as if they had watches or clocks, and they
usually go forth to hunt about midnight and return to their homes about
four o'clock. Only in cases of extreme hunger do they vary from this
rule.

How marvellously skilled are they in finding their way! They pass
through a crowded forest as though it were daytime, and strangely enough
know just how to return to their lairs. This special sense or gift is
not possessed by man; he must have marks and signs to return to a
definite place.

These night-travellers number among their lot bats, flying squirrels,
leopards, and prowling snakes.

Bats are not only the most interesting of the night-travellers, but by
far the most curious and wonderful animals in the world. They are
hideously ugly, reminding one more of a miniature, closed-up umbrella
than an animal! They are coarse, awkward, when not in flight, and
repellent; yet they have such highly developed senses that they have no
rivals in the animal world. They excel most birds in flight, are able to
make long nightly journeys, in which they use their wings not only for
flight, but as air-bags in which they catch all kinds of flying insects.
Their sense of touch as we know it is really a combination of touch,
sight, and hearing.

A bat is a paradox par excellence! Nature seems to have started to make
a little bear or fox, and suddenly forgot how and changed it into a
winged freak, with tail, claws, fur, sharp teeth, small ears that stand
up, and tiny, half-buried eyes. Its queer angular-edged wings look like
an umbrella, with the cloth stretched over steel ribs; but in the case
of the bat, this framework is made of delicate bones which are covered
with a thin skin. The skin contains numerous little sense organs dotted
over its surface, which give the bat his strange power.

Bats look more like mice than they do like birds, and they are sometimes
called flittermice. But they are mammals, and the young are fed with
milk by the mother, just as a cow feeds her calf. There is no danger
that a bat will ever fly against you in the dark; for they can avoid all
mishap even when their eyes are put out. They have special sense organs
that tell them when they are nearing an object, and can fly at headlong
speed with the accuracy of a rifle bullet directly into a small opening.
This power is all due to the mysterious sense located in their wings and
ears, which causes even man to consider his senses weak in comparison.

Bats are sociable creatures and huddle together and sleep in vast
numbers during the day, but when night comes on they come forth for
their nocturnal travels and sport by the millions. I have seen them
leaving caves just at dusk in such numbers as to look like one immense
volume of smoke, twenty to thirty feet wide, and lasting for more than
five minutes. Mrs. Bat often takes her babies with her on these nightly
travels. I found one with two young clinging to her breast. How they
must enjoy these lovely trips!

There are many kinds and varieties of bats, ranging in size from the
flying foxes of the tropical world, with wings five feet in length, to
the wood bat of North America, which is not over six inches long. These
interesting friends of man are his greatest scavengers of the air. They
are doing much to check the mosquitoes throughout the regions of the
world, and in more civilized communities man makes shelters for them,
that they may eradicate mosquitoes.




XIII

ANIMAL SCAVENGERS AND CRIMINALS

  _"A warning from these pages take,
     And know this truth sublime--
   Each creature is a criminal
     When he commits a crime."_


No more remarkable creatures exist in the animal world than those that
play the rôle of Nature's scavengers and criminals. They are as numerous
and varied in their methods of working as they are interesting. The only
things they have in common are their profession and their appetites. As
individuals they are ugly, unattractive and apparently void of
personality and charm. Nevertheless, they have an important part to play
in the scheme of things.

One of the most noted of these scavengers is the jackal--the Bohemian of
the desert--whose territory extends from the Gulf of Persia to the
Strait of Gibraltar. He is equally at home in Arabia, Persia, Babylonia,
Syria, Egypt, and the entire North Coast of Africa, and no country from
Barbary to the Cape of Good Hope is ever out of reach of his ghostly
and uncouth howls. He travels only by night, and very rapidly.

When suffering with extreme hunger, he will attack man, but this he will
do only in very rare cases. As he lives entirely upon dead animals, he
is more of a thief and glutton than a robber and murderer. He depends
mostly upon flight and darkness for his protection, and rarely ventures
a direct attack. With all his unlikable habits he is truly valuable as
an agent of public salubrity, and an important officer of the desert
"commission of highways."

These public scavengers, while especially fond of carcasses and putrid
flesh, are not averse to a little fresh meat occasionally. The jackal is
truly the follower or purveyor for the lion, and oftentimes they work
together. Jackals will gather in large numbers near a lion's den and
howl and scream until the lions come forth to disperse them. As soon as
a lion appears they stop their noise, but when he is out of sight, they
immediately begin again. This is done because game is near, and the wise
jackals wish the lion to kill the game. When this is done, and the lions
have eaten all except the bones, the jackals have their small feast of
scraps.

These weird night prowlers have ways all their own, as any one who has
spent a night in a tropical desert can attest. Imagine yourself on the
Syrian plains between Bagdad and Damascus; a small white tent, and a
starry sky: the silence is appalling, and you are just about to have
your first sleep in the desert. Away, away from the distance comes a
mournful, ghostly cry. Suddenly it ceases and like myriads of echoes it
is repeated in hideous intensity--a babel of cries weird beyond
description--so fierce and screeching as to be almost blood-curdling. It
seems to come from all directions and distance out of measure! Vibrating
over the sands and through the rocks, filling the immense void, crying
out as it were for the sphinx, a veritable _de profundis_ of the wastes.
The vultures, who hold the fort during the day have given way to the
night shift, the jackals. These come from all directions; from the caves
in the earth, from among the rocks, from here, there, and from
everywhere to take up their hygienic services where it has been left off
by the day scavengers.

If you were near an oasis in the desert at the close of day, you would
suddenly hear from the hot, barren sands a deep and peculiar sound. It
swells and grows as an approaching wind, growing louder and louder as it
comes nearer. Suddenly by the light of the camp fire, you see myriads of
horrid green eyes, like ghost torches in a graveyard, and hear gnashing
teeth, greedy in anticipation of the garbage you have thrown away.

These hyena hordes are frightfully ugly, but rarely dangerous to man.
They visit every oasis settlement in immense numbers, howling, yelping,
and fighting for any bit of offal they may find. Not a particle of
garbage remains. At the first sign of dawn, they disappear like rats
from a burning building, and seek their caves to digest their ignoble
banquets.

No human street-cleaner could ever excel their work. No matter how large
the garbage pile, no matter how many dead dogs, cats, and donkeys in a
village street, no matter how unspeakable the offal, it all vanishes as
completely as though it had been burned. Not a piece of bone, not a
single chicken feather remains. The natives have no fear of the hyena; a
small child armed with a stick can put to flight a dozen of them. They
are the lowest of cowards, and will flee from their own shadows.

[Illustration: THE MONGOOSE IS A SCAVENGER OF THE WORST TYPE, FEEDING ON
RATS AND MICE AND SNAKES, AND EVEN POULTRY.]

[Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History, New York_

DIPLODOCUS. THE PREHISTORIC ANIMALS, ALSO, UNDOUBTEDLY HAD THEIR
SCAVENGERS AND CRIMINALS.]

In spite of their valuable services, mankind hates the hyenas. This is
probably because of their absolute cowardice, for they will never attack
a living creature unless it is weak from illness. Sometimes they steal a
baby, never killing it outright, but carrying it away to their dens to
starve it to death before mutilating its body. If the courage of this
beast equalled his strength, he would be the despot of the desert. But
he is like his fellow workman, the jackal, cowardly to the last degree.

Neither of them ever attempts to put an enemy to flight by legitimate
means. They resort to fakery: one howls, and the other wrinkles his face
in great anger. The jackal's greatest asset and protection, when he
meets with an enemy, is bluff. He raises his ugly mane, lifts his
ungainly shoulders and assumes the look of a Jason, while in reality he
is as harmless as a mouse, and the smallest child could drive him away
with a twig. His bravery is all pose--a make-believe game--which he
plays over and over again with every one he meets.

A noted American scavenger is the peccary, a species of wild hog, whose
home ranges from Texas to the Pampas of South America. He is a devourer
of creatures more obnoxious than himself. He moves with great rapidity,
is always on the alert, and stops at nothing from mountains to a flowing
river. When he attacks an enemy he makes short work of him.

Bands of these hogs are led by a chief, who is the swiftest and fiercest
of the herd. This aggressive leader is followed by successive lines of
males, behind which come the strong females, while the rear is brought
up by the old, the sick, and the young. In marching, they have the
discipline of a trained army, and turn neither to the right nor to the
left but go straight ahead. If the leader, for any cause, decides to
change his route, the fact is quickly made known in some way to his
followers, and the turn is made at a direct angle, with the accuracy of
a surveyor, and the peccaries go forward again directly toward their new
destination. This is another evidence of a special sense unknown to man.

But whenever a stop is made, or wherever they go, they do their work as
scavengers. Fallen fruits, dead animals, insects, snakes, and worms are
their prey. Thus they are valuable forest sweepers.

Strangely enough, in the animal world, as in the human, the lower
professions are filled with those of less mentality than the higher, and
as a result we find scavengers are nearest allied to criminals. The idea
of one creature killing and eating another seems terrible. Yet they do,
and most often do human beings commit the same crime. Cannibalism among
wild animals is a common occurrence. The demand for food usually causes
one animal to kill and devour another. But in captivity there are other
causes for cannibalism: fear and excitement will oftentimes cause a
mother to destroy her offspring.

It is a case of dog eat dog! Badgers often kill and devour their young.
Wolves, in cases of extreme hunger, will eat their puppies; and Arctic
travellers, when food for their dogs is scarce, have to guard constantly
against the stronger eating the weaker. I once caught a mother field
mouse with her two young and placed them in a cage; the next day the
young had strangely disappeared, but I am not sure that the mother had
eaten them. Hogs, cats, and rabbits will sometimes kill and eat their
young even when food is plentiful. Crocodiles show an occasional
cannibalistic tendency, while water-shrews are very pugnacious and
oftentimes fight until one is killed. The victorious one eats his enemy!
Thus it appears that Nature does not entirely disapprove of cannibalism,
or she would not allow so many of her creatures to practise it.

Theft is a common vice among these various criminals. Monkeys and
baboons form regular bands to rob and plunder. They have a chief who
sees that a sentinel is posted at each dangerous post. The plunderers
then line up in a long row, and the leader gets the booty and passes it
along the line until it reaches the last of the band--the receiver. He
deposits it in a safe place. If the sentry sounds an alarm, they all
flee away, each with as much booty as he can grab. If the enemy presses
too close, all booty is thrown away.

Passion, especially of love, causes much crime among animals as it does
among men. Jealousy burns fiercely even in the breast of a beast. It is
a common heritage of the fiercest lion and the gentle gazelle alike, and
is capable of perpetrating the most dreadful crimes.

There are types of ugly dispositioned animals, who are always in a
ferocious mood, just like certain ill-tempered human beings, who believe
everything and everybody is trying to injure them. The common shrew, for
example, is noisy, bold and fussy. He seems to delight in calling
attention to himself by his grunty, squeaky voice. He advertises himself
as a bad animal; and bad he is, for his terrible odour prevents other
animals from coming near. Horses and mules are at times quite ferocious,
and kick and bite, with no idea of obedience or kindness. They, of
course, like our human criminals, are mentally unbalanced. Skilled horse
trainers can detect at a glance a criminally inclined horse.

Rogue elephants are common in India. Even their trumpeting shows a
ferocity and unbalance that terrifies the natives. Often these criminal
elephants are sufferers of mental ailments. A respectable, law-abiding
elephant herd will not allow a thug or rogue to live in their midst.
They recognise him as dangerous for their society, and combine to force
him entirely away from their homes.

Certain criminal animals have a strange antipathy for members of their
own tribe, or for other kinds of animals. Such is common among monkeys,
cats, horses, and dogs, and many terrible crimes are committed because
of these antipathies. Every one has witnessed the terror of a dog that
has been insulted, and elephants will carry an old grudge for fifty
years and finally seek the most terrible revenge.

Often violent outbursts of temper on the part of a tame animal are
caused by a change in the temperature or atmosphere. Even animals have
days when they feel ugly and grouchy. Those that live in very hot
climates are especially subject to fits of rage and anger. The approach
of an electrical storm causes many of them to lose their self-control:
herds of cattle often stampede just preceding a cyclone. They, like
human savages, seem terrorised at the unknown. Not a few wild animals
have actually run in the way of an automobile or passing train to
attempt to stop it. Fear and rage are often caused by the appearance of
a curious object. A bull, for example, when he sees a red rag, will
madly rush at it, seemingly altogether oblivious of the man holding it.
The matadors are safe only because the bull is insane from rage.

Many scientists of fame, like Lombroso, have demonstrated that strong
drink is the cause of much crime among animals, the same as it is among
men. In the pastures of Abyssinia the sheep and goats get on regular
"drunks" by eating the beans of the coffee plants. They fight and
carouse at such times like regular topers. Elephants are incorrigible
when drunk, while dogs and horses have to be put in strait-jackets to
prevent them from killing themselves.

Wicked animals always seek their own kind, and often band together for
evil purposes. Figuier tells of three beavers that built for themselves
a nice little home near a stream, and they had as a neighbour a
respectable hermit beaver. The three called on their neighbour one day,
and he received them cordially, and hastened to return their visit, when
they pounced upon him and slew him, like human murderers, who had
trapped their victim.

From all these we learn that Nature is filled with life-saving and
life-furthering adaptations. Just as in the human drama we find deceit,
disguise, mask, trickery, bunco and bluff, all forms of cheating and
clever deceptions, so it is precisely the same in the animal world,
though man is little informed on Nature's real ways.




XIV

AS THE ALLIES OF MAN

  _"Who, after this, will dare gainsay
  That beasts have sense as well as they?
  For me--could I the ruler be--
  They should have just as much as we,
  In youth, at least. In early years,
  Who thinks, reflects, or even fears?
  Or if we do--unmeaning elves--
  'Tis scarcely known e'en to ourselves.
  Thus by example clear and plain,
  We for these poor creatures claim
  Sure sense to think, reflect, and plan,
  And in this action rival man:
  Their guide--not instinct blind alone,
  But reason, somewhat like our own!"_


The wonderful world in which we live is full of animal life. In the
great forests, under the ground, on the steep mountainsides, in the
depths of the oceans, rivers, streams, from the frigid north to the
torrid south, in the parched deserts, are animals of every size, colour,
and form, all of which are, in their general form, adapted to their
peculiar places in nature. Their lives and habits undeniably demonstrate
proofs of divine wisdom, intelligence, and beneficence. In fact they
show an aptitude in many arts and sciences second only to that shown in
man.

The reason that animals are often held in such low esteem by the world
of science, is because people are apt to look upon them as natural
mechanisms and overlook what they are doing and feeling. The propounders
of false statements which attribute every act of an intelligent
animal--second only to man and his faithful ally--as due to instinct
only, deal with metaphysical reasoning. They have never considered the
innumerable and irrefutable facts of animal life which no acuteness of
analysis and pure thinking can ever explain. Most of these narrow,
bookish men deny to animals capabilities which every country schoolboy
knows they possess. It is no exaggeration to say that animals exist
which sing, dance, play, speak a language, build homes, go to school and
learn, wage warfare, protect their homes and property, marry, make laws,
build moral codes, in fact, do everything that is generally attributed
to man.

In comparing man and animals scientists are prone to ascribe to man as a
whole the faculties which only the best trained and most talented
possess. They fail to consider our cannibal brethren, such as are found
among the Dyaks on the Island of Borneo, whose chief articles of
adornment in the house are heads of murdered men, and whose savage and
fiendish ways would put to shame a civilised animal. They forget how
long man lived on this earth before he even learned to make fire by
chipping flints.

Since the beginning of time animals have been the friends and allies of
man. From the very earliest ages they have in innumerable ways been
associated with historical events, and with the laws, customs,
superstitions, and religions of all nations of the universe. Love,
devotion, gratitude, the sense of duty, as well as all the lower
passions of hatred, revenge, distrust and cunning are their heritage.
Only an egotist who has known them in books only, and knows nothing of
their mentality and brain power, would dare say that they are governed
solely by instinct. Cases of animal suicide, following some deep
disgrace among them, are not uncommon.

From the Bible we learn that God frequently employed animals as agents
to dispense His providence. Bullocks, sheep, goats were used by the Jews
in their religious services, while a disobedient prophet was killed by a
lion. Balaam was rebuked for his cruelty by an ass; and David even
called upon the animals to aid in praising Jehovah! That we may learn
real gratitude for common mercies Isaiah says: "The ox knoweth his
owner, and the ass his master's crib," etc. When the city of Nineveh was
threatened, God had pity on it, because there were many cattle there.
The Saviour compared his own earthly condition with that of certain
animals: "The foxes have holes," etc. He called himself the 'Good
Shepherd,' and his followers were sheep who knew his voice. John the
Baptist referred to Him as the 'Lamb of God'; while John, the beloved
disciple, when on the Isle of Patmos, saw the "throne of God in heaven,
and before it a lion, a calf, a man, and a flying eagle."

The first beginnings of co-operation between men and animals must have
begun by the approach of certain less timid animals, which felt that
better conditions for them and more food could be obtained near human
habitations, and perhaps, more protection from dangerous animals. Or it
may have begun through the stupidity of certain animals who failed to
realize the danger of man's proximity.

It seems that the secret ambition of all animals is to become the allies
of man. This is demonstrated by the fact that most of them have gone
near the villages and towns, and, consequently, there are comparatively
few remaining in the heart of the big forests. Under the true state of
conditions man should live in harmony with these animal brothers, with
mutual trust and respect existing between them. That would mean, of
course, that man would have to show a little more kindness to them. For
while he is their true sovereign, he abuses the privileges of his
sovereignty in untold ways, and up to the present time only a few
animals, like the dog and horse, have been fully recognized as his
allies.

All the others, with few exceptions, have shown a desire to become more
closely united with man, and yet during the thousands of years of man's
rulership over the beasts, he has been able to make allies of only about
sixty. This regrettable fact speaks for itself--showing that man has
long abused his trust.

Warfare, as it is waged to-day, demonstrates that notwithstanding man's
vast number of scientific aids, animals are still invaluable. The
innumerable mechanical and electrical devices unknown ten years ago,
such as enormous rapid-firing guns, walking "Willies," wireless
machines, traction engines, smokeless and noiseless powder,
silent-sleepers and tear-bombs, all of these have greatly increased
man's power of offence and defence, yet with all these ultra-modern
improvements, animals are absolutely essential in waging a successful
war.

In military circles there is an ever-increasing demand for well-trained
army horses, sound in mind and body and educated in modern campaigning.
Above all, an army horse must be dependable, must love his
soldier-master and must know absolute obedience to orders. Every army
horse has to pass an examination and prove his worth before he is
enlisted into the service.

The largest of the mountain guns used in Italy against the Austrians
were drawn up the steep mountains by mules. Another 75-millimetre gun
for mountain warfare is taken to pieces, into four parts, and each piece
is separately packed on a mule.

The United States cavalry has the best trained war horses in the world;
many of them actually understand the complicated commands of their
masters. These horse soldiers have the insignia, U. S., branded on the
hoof of the left forefoot, and the other animals in camp, on the
shoulder.

When a horse arrives at a regiment he is assigned to a troop according
to colour, size, weight and mental efficiency, and later he is
permanently assigned to a man. Under no conditions is he interchanged or
even ridden by another than his master, and it is astonishing the
tremendous affection that oft-times springs up between the two; in many
instances horses have been known to seek out their masters among
hundreds of soldiers.

On the European battlefields, near which there are few or no railroads,
animals have been the principal means of transportation, elephants,
camels, horses, mules and oxen being chiefly used for this purpose. The
Italian armies have used numerous teams of mountain-trained bullocks to
draw loads up the mountains, and, while they cannot ascend roads as
steep as those which the mules climb, they are very valuable for heavy
loads. These bullocks work faster than an army mule, for a mule will
never hurry. As the old darkey once said, "De mule warn't born fer to
hurry; not even a torpedo would make him move one step farster!"

Elephants have been used to a small degree in the armies of Europe.
While they are splendid workmen, they are dangerously subject to
stampede, and one stampeding elephant can do much harm in an army.

The British army has used quite a few trained elephants from India in
their ranks. They are especially employed to rout the enemy from small
forests. Breaking through bushes, crushing underbrush, and pulling up
small trees is their specialty. They make splendid bulwarks for
soldiers, and when an army is marching through a forest, are invaluable
in clearing the way. A British officer declared that one trained
elephant is more valuable than a half-dozen traction engines.

Far the most interesting and curious use to which an animal is subjected
is the use of camels chosen and trained because of their strange
colouring and height. Small groups of them have been stationed among
clumps of acacia trees with a spy mounted on the animal's neck. This is
the safest place a person could be, for the camel or, in like manner,
the giraffe, standing with only his head above the small trees, looks
precisely like a bit of the foliage in the distance.

Camels are especially good for desert warfare, because they can go
without water so long and can easily carry loads weighing from 400 to
500 pounds. In the last Afghan campaign the British lost over 50,000
camels and in the Great War they have had more than 60,000 in army
service in Egypt. Camels are especially used for transportation
purposes. The British capture of Jerusalem was greatly aided by these
desert allies. Large numbers of oxen have been used in the French army.
They do not balk at autos and know no fear of shells.

One of the greatest allies of the animal kingdom in warfare is the dog.
These allies are trained to aid relief parties on the battlefields, and
many of the ambulance men have their splendidly trained dogs for seeking
out wounded soldiers among the dead. They are also trained as guards and
watch-dogs and they become marvellously clever when used near the firing
lines. They carry water in the trenches and are trained in packs to
dismount enemy motorcyclists by pulling them from their machines. Dogs
also make splendid scouts, and excellent and reliable messengers when
not required to go too far.

These faithful friends of man, according to Buffon, are far more easily
taught than man, and more easily led "than any of the other animals, for
not only does the dog become educated in a short time, but even adapts
himself to the habits of those who control him." According to
circumstances, a dog may become a soldier, messenger, water-carrier, or
guard.

[Illustration: THE ESQUIMO-DOG IS MAN'S GREATEST FRIEND IN THE FAR
NORTH.]

[Illustration: American Museum of Natural History, New York

CHIPMUNKS ARE AMONG THE MOST EASILY TAMED OF MAN'S WILD FRIENDS, AND
THEY EVEN SEEM FOND OF HUMAN COMPANIONSHIP.]

Not the least among the uses of war dogs is the curious practice of
sending them into the enemies' lines of cavalry to convey fire in order
to terrorise the horses and throw them into confusion. This practice has
been quite common in the past. Each dog is dressed in a cuirass of
leather and on his back is carefully strapped a pot of boiling, blazing
tar. Nothing so terrorises horses as the sight of approaching fire.

A small but valuable ally to man is the ferret. This little creature has
come into prominence more particularly during recent years, when the rat
infested trenches have made his services invaluable. These Hun-like
rats, devouring and devastating in their thirst for human blood, would
have forced the abandonment of many a front line trench but for the aid
of these trained ferrets, thousands of which have been daily employed on
the battle fronts.

The immense services rendered by carrier pigeons in the battle of the
Marne, not only to the military authorities, but also to the public at
large, will cause the civilised world to pay more attention to the
importance of these birds in the future. They carried all kinds of
messages to and from Paris during this memorable battle; in fact, they
have been used in all the battles as invaluable messengers.

Small animals, such as mice, canary birds, guinea pigs and rabbits are
used in trench warfare, because they are more sensitive than man to
poisonous gases. It sometimes happens that hundreds of men must be
rescued from a trench by three or four men. Each rescuer carries with
him a canary bird in a small cage attached to his shoulder. And as long
as these birds show no signs of distress the men are safe from gas
poison. The birds soon become attached to their masters and seem to like
the adventure of the trenches.

As time goes on, it is to be hoped that we will understand our animal
brothers better, and that our old attitude toward the so-called "brutes"
will be entirely changed. Heretofore we have greatly abused the zebra,
for example, because of his wild disposition, ferocious humour, distrust
of all power except that in his own legs, and his pronounced aversion to
work.

Why should we reproach him for his wildwood philosophy? It is perfectly
natural that any animal of his experience with man, and with sufficient
brains, would have only contempt for all mankind. His native home is in
Africa, and his human associates, if they are human, have been the
Hottentots, the Namaquois or the Amazoulons--the most impossible and
hideous people on the earth. Since his babyhood days he has seen nothing
but cannibalism and carnage among the savages; and since his
transportation to Europe by a strange occurrence of horrible
circumstances, he has been the subject for all kinds of barbarous
punishments which man has seen well to heap upon him. The zebra is not
of the mental calibre to be suddenly seized with love for the human
species and its civilisations! And the human species is astounded and
thinks the zebra stupid and wicked. He may be both, but his wisdom is
undeniable when it comes to trusting humanity, and his wickedness is
small in comparison to man's terrible cruelties. He should be awarded a
medal for wisdom! For man is far the greater ass of the two!

He roams the wild prairies where the fields need no ploughing. There he
finds an abundance of grass and fresh water along the streams. No loud
cursing and swearing ever greets his ears, nothing but the sweet song of
the wild birds. And his children romp and play with him, free as the
winds that blow. Of course, he has enemies even there, and so he uses
camouflage by painting himself in attractive stripes, so no one can see
him at a distance. Even Solomon should have praised his wisdom!

In the beginning God created man, and not long after gave him as his
policeman, the dog. And the obedience, friendship and devotion of the
dog to his master has been unending. The dog discusses no questions of
right or wrong, his only duty is to obey. This he does without a murmur.
He is the greatest testimony to man's civilisation, the first and the
greatest element of human progress. Through his co-operation man was
elevated from the savage to the state of the civilised. He made the
herd possible. Without him there could have been no herd, no assured
subsistence of food and clothing, no time to study and improve the mind,
no astronomical observations, no science, no arts, no automobiles, no
airships, no wireless telegraphy--nothing. The East is the home of
civilisation, because the East is the home of the dog.

A young hound knows more about tracking game or scenting the enemy after
six months' practice than the most skilled savage after fifty years of
study. The dog has so aided mankind as to give him more time for study
and self-improvement. Thus began the arts and sciences. An interesting,
and we believe original observation, of the influence of the dog on
peoples is that wherever the dog is found, especially among the shepherd
peoples, such as the Chaldeans, Egyptians, Arabs, Tartars, and Mongols,
cannibalism is unknown. This is due to the fact that the dog enables
them to maintain the herds which supply them with milk, food, and
clothing, thus preserving them from the criminal temptation of hunger.

The Indians of North America never refrained from roasting their enemies
until they made allies of the horse and dog. Humboldt proves the lively
regret held by one of the last surviving chief lieutenants of the
war-like Tecumseh whom he asked about a certain American officer who
took part in the fight. "Uh!" replied the Indian, "I eat some of him."
"Do you still eat your enemies?" asked Humboldt. "No," replied the
Indian. "Big dog catch heap meat for me!"

Surely no animal could be more uncivilised or cannibalistic in its
desires than man! Spinoza believed, however, that benevolence in animals
consisted only in their kindliness and friendly feeling for each other
and that we should expect nothing more of them. A good cow, so he
thought, was one that was kind to her calf, however ferocious she might
be toward human children. But we do not accept this standard of
goodness, nor believe that animals' kindness extends only to their own
tribes. Their lowest standard of life is no worse than the cannibalism
existing among the lower tribes of uncivilised man, which is one of the
highest ideals of tribal life. The greatest hero among our savages is
the one that can put the most enemies to death.

Many animals seem to have a social instinct and a moral sentiment toward
man. They try to break the old bonds of distrust between their master
and themselves. This is especially true of the puma, second to the
largest of the big cats of the Americas, which seems to love the society
of man, and seeks not only to be near him, but to protect him from the
attacks of the much-dreaded jaguar. A civil engineer tells the story of
an experience he had while journeying up one of the big South American
rivers by boat. At their nightly encampments one of the passengers on
board was an old miner who insisted on sleeping in a hammock suspended
between two small trees. His weight was sufficient to bring the hammock
almost to the ground at its lowest curve. One morning, his friends
inquired how he had slept, and he complained that "the frogs and small
animals had made so much noise under the hammock that he could not
sleep." One of the Indian servants roared with laughter, as he said,
"Uh, 'tiger' sleep with old man last night. He watch him!"--tiger being
the Indian term for the puma. Careful searching revealed the footprints
of an immense puma, and that he had evidently lain directly under the
hammock. The noise which had kept the old man from sleeping was the
purring of the animal, pleased over the privilege of sleeping so near a
man. These Guiana Indians know the ways of the forests, and have a
special liking for wild animals. This entire absence of fear in the puma
is the same as exhibited by the tame house cat.

Many animals seem fond of human companionship, and are easily tamed. My
sister raised a small red deer in Texas, and he became so perfectly
tame that he would follow her wherever she went, and would even take
food from her hand. In Yellowstone Park the deer are so tame they will
come into the yards to get food, while the brown bears approach the
hotels like tramps, and many of the smaller animals are perfectly
fearless. At the Bronx Zoological Gardens, and the London Zoo, the
animals have lost all fear. They seem to realise that they have no power
to escape and depend entirely upon man for their daily food. But, of
course, their conditions are artificial, hence such conclusions as we
may draw as to their normal attitude toward man do not necessarily
indicate the innate character of their wild kinsmen. We occasionally
find, for instance, that in unsettled regions like parts of Mexico and
South America, where animals are plentiful and man's influence largely
absent, they are found to be particularly ferocious, yet even then lions
and leopards rarely attack men unless disturbed in some unusual way.

Quite a few naturalists and scientists believe that the animals' love
for man was acquired and not natural. But if this be true, how did the
very early tribes of men escape destruction at the hands of the wild
beasts which were far more numerous than at present? The animal kingdom
was evidently impressed by the power of man at a very early stage of
its development, but in just what manner or what period of time this
came to pass is not known.

If we regard the conflict as merely between two great groups of animals,
surely the animals should have won, and man would have disappeared from
the face of the earth. The fact that he did not, and that he became
master of the animals, is presumptive evidence that man exceeded the
animals in intelligence.

Primitive man could have lived in no other way than by "his wits." For
he was not nearly so well equipped for defence as are the monkeys of
to-day. Their greatest power is in the ability to use their arms and
hands in swinging rapidly from branch to branch. This gives them an
advantage over all tree-climbing cats. They are very proficient in
throwing stones and other missiles. This is dumbfounding to other
animals. Of course, their intelligent and quick-witted methods of
defence, menace, guard-duty, and loyalty to tribe makes them great
warriors, and enables them to survive even the onslaughts of their
greatest enemy and nightmare of every non-carnivorous animal--the harpy
eagle!

Through the necessary adjustments growing out of the close relationships
of men to animals, the mental faculties of both have been greatly
stimulated and advanced. The least developed races seem to be in such
places as Tierra del Fuego, where there are no savage animals, and,
therefore, no inducement for man to arm and defend himself. The Pygmies
of Central Africa are mighty hunters, otherwise they could not survive.
Even the Esquimaux are masters of the great polar bears and other
northern animals.

In the wilds of Africa, where animals have had a terrible struggle for
existence, not only against disagreeable climatic conditions, but all
kinds of fellow-foes as well, we find the nkengos have attained a
civilisation that almost equals that of our savage brothers. And these
pale-faced little beings, with their wrinkled, care-worn, parchment-like
skins, remind one of ill-treated, white, human-dwarfs. Their name,
nkengo, means wild animal-men, and when tamed they actually make
excellent family servants for men.

These closest allies of man live in tall bamboo trees, and are so
curiously human that when seen walking around hunting berries, nuts, and
fruits, talking in guttural, chattering tones, like old fisher-women, no
one could doubt even their kinship to man.

Their children assemble in groups to romp and play under the
guardianship of either one of their mothers or grandmothers; while the
men forage for food, and watch for enemies. It is not uncommon to see
an aged, half-decrepit nkengo lying on a bed of sticks in a tall tree.
Here he eats only green leaves and bits of fruit brought him by some
kind friend, being far too weak to hunt for food himself, and
furthermore, fearing an attack from his mortal enemy, the leopard.

If the colony decides to move to other territory, either because of
enemies or the scarcity of food, they all assemble and hold a farewell
gathering in which there is much mourning and apparent grief at forever
leaving their aged kin to the fate of the wilds. If they are possibly
able to walk, they are given patient assistance in travelling along.
Sometimes, when they are deserted, sympathetic friends return for days
with berries and koola nuts, until at last the colony has gone so far
away that none dare return alone, in which event these helpless
superannuated members are left to die in their lone tree-top beds.

Many of these beds are as well made as the tree-beds of human beings,
and even better than the beds of the savage Dyaks of Borneo. They are
usually located in tall trees, inaccessible to leopards and out of reach
of their most dreaded of all enemies, the terrible hordes of war-ants.
From these nothing escapes--not even elephants and tigers.

The arrival of a baby to these nkengos is of far more importance in
their tree-top village, than in a human city. Each of the female
relatives, and also the aged males, takes special interest in the
new-comer, and they chatter around his little grape-vine cradle with
much enthusiasm, shaking their heads and delicately handling his tiny
hands and toes as though he were the baby of a king.

This baby is much stronger and quicker to learn than human babies; for
when he is only two days old he is able to cling to his mother, so that
she can carry him with her on her hunting trips. If he becomes too noisy
from sheer delight when she is travelling through the forest with him,
she slaps him, in an attempt to quiet him, lest the leopards get him.

At night he sleeps snugly by his mother's side in the great tree-bed,
and she never allows him to crawl out of her arms for fear that he fall
to the depths below. She loves him dearly, and watches with human
eagerness for his first tooth. He loves his mother and will stand for
hours while she dresses his hair; or lie on her breast as she rubs his
little back.

These wild-children are always ill-tempered and self-willed. No human
mother has to show more patience and love than does the nkengo mother.
She takes the greatest delight in his first efforts at climbing and
hunting, and for hours she and his admiring relatives will watch him
attempting to climb a cocoanut tree. Sometimes she will climb just
behind him to catch him if he falls or becomes frightened.

His arms soon become very powerful, for he is constantly swinging,
climbing, and exercising by hanging from a bough with one hand while he
pulls himself up with the great power of his muscles. He is able to
gather koola nuts long before his jaws are strong enough to crack them;
so his fond mother cracks them for him until his hands and mouth are
stronger. Like all babies, his ambition is to be big and strong like his
father.

Some of the apes are most intelligent and human, and, as allies to man,
are more desirable than certain of the human savages. Dr. Livingstone,
in his _Last Journals_, describes one he first discovered. "Their
teeth," he says, "are slightly human, but their canines show the beast
by their large development. The hands, or rather the fingers, are like
those of the natives. They live in communities consisting of about a
dozen individuals, and are strictly monogamous in their conjugal
relations, and vegetarian, or rather frugivorous, in their diet, their
favourite food being bananas." The natives where these apes live are
cannibals, and Dr. Livingstone says, "they are the lowest of the low."
One of their number, who had committed a great murder, offered his
grandmother "to be killed in expiation of his offence, and this
vicarious punishment was accepted as satisfactory."

Thus it is evident that certain of these wild-creatures--like the
sokos--have a more correct conception of justice than their human
associates, the savages. At least the animals do not make the innocent
suffer for the guilty, and give their lives unjustly. Should a soko try
to take another's wife he is publicly punished by the tribe. These
animals have a great sense of humour and fully enjoy a practical joke.
Strangely enough, they never attack women and children, but if any man
approaches them with a spear or gun, they try to rush upon him, often at
the expense of their own life, and wrest the weapon from him. Most of
them are exceedingly kind and civilised in their actions, and natives
always say, "Soko is a man, and nothing bad in him."

Often they kidnap babies and carry them up into trees. But these are
never harmed and the apes are ever ready to exchange them for bananas.
The robbery is, no doubt, for the purpose of extortion. If perchance one
of their children is stolen, the entire forest sets up a scream and
wail until it is returned. Old hunters and travellers say that they
would rather steal the child of a native savage than to take one of the
sokos. If one of the soko children disappears, and they do not know what
became of it, they immediately send out detectives throughout the
country to seek for it. And woe be the home where a stolen soko baby is
found!

But man has one great power--a far more potent ally than he has in his
animal friends--the use of fire. Unquestionably to the minds of animals
it is a supernatural power. They cannot create it, understand it, and it
is very doubtful if they can yet use it to advantage. How marvellous is
this thing--fire! That great blazing pillar of cloud that destroys all,
and leaves nothing to show where it has taken its enemies! To animals it
springs up wherever man rests his head, and protects him while he
sleeps. It is always with him, and its presence for untold ages has
brought terror to all of them.

Not a few reports tell us that certain of our animal allies among the
monkeyfolk of South Africa use fire. This may not be true; but it is
probable that the time is near at hand when the wild baboon-men of the
woods will learn to make and use fire just as we have done.

Enough instances could be shown illustrating animals as man's allies to
fill an entire book, but a sufficient number have been adduced to show
how truly they are our allies, helpers, and protectors just as we are
theirs, only their mode of manifesting it is different. We have shown
the absolute fallacy of the old belief that animals lack mentality, and
that all their acts of kindness are based upon self-love and personal
gain, and have seen that in proportion to their opportunities in life,
they have quite as much mentality and brotherly love for each other and
mankind as is found among our lower savages. We have seen that among
animals as among men, individuals will give their lives for their
fellows, serve the weak and timid, and demonstrate the highest and
holiest feelings of which true souls can be capable, and always share
equally with man the burdens that fall upon themselves and their human
allies. And the time is already here when man should protect his animal
friends more, and teach them through human kindness not to fear him. But
this can only be done when he is willing to treat them as fellow beings
only a little below him in the scale of existence.




CHAPTER XV

THE FUTURE LIFE OF ANIMALS

  _"Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last
  Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate
  Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose
  Thy best friend, and none was left to plead
  For the old age of brute fidelity.
  But fare thee well. Mine is no narrowed creed;
  And He who gave thee being did not frame
  The mystery of Life to be the sport
  Of merciless man. There is another world
  For all that live and move--a better one!
  Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine
  Of their own charity, may envy thee."_

  --SOUTHEY (on the death of his dog).


The old belief is still prevalent that the Bible teaches that of all
living creatures man alone is immortal. This erroneous belief springs
out of man's egotism, however, and is not substantiated by the
Scriptures. Among many of the Old Testament writers we find that
immortality was assured for neither man nor animals; whereas, with the
larger revelation of the New Testament, immortality is no longer
questioned for any living creature.

There are, of course, many supposedly intelligent people who deny to
animals the power of reason, and attribute all their marvellous powers
and abilities to blind instinct. It is, therefore, not the least bit
surprising that the vast majority of people believe that when an animal
dies, its life principle dies also. The animating power, they believe,
is destroyed, and the body returns to the dust.

These mistaken conclusions are largely, if not wholly, due to two
passages of Scripture, one of which is in the Psalms and the other in
Ecclesiastes. The one most often quoted, from the Psalms, runs in the
authorised version: "Nevertheless, man being in honor, abideth not; he
is like the beasts that perish." This verse is frequently quoted as
decisive of the whole question. The other passage, which is found in
Ecclesiastes, reads: "Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward,
and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?"

It is upon the authority of these two passages that we are supposed to
believe that when an animal dies, its life has gone forever, departed,
expired. In this new age of thought and discovery, we do not attempt to
explain a passage of Scripture, no matter how simple it may appear to
be, without referring to the original text, that we may see if the
translator has kept the true sense of the words and adequately expressed
their significance, remembering that words often change their meaning,
and that the original use of a word may have conveyed exactly the
opposite meaning to that which we at present attach to it.

But if we accept the passage just as it stands, with the literal meaning
of the words as is usually understood, there is but one
conclusion--animals have no future life. Death ends all for them. But,
on the other hand, if we are to take the literal interpretation of the
Bible only, we are forced to believe that man, as well as the animals,
has no life after death. Surely the book of Psalms is full of examples
to support this literal interpretation. For example, "In death there is
no remembrance of thee: in the grave, who shall give thee thanks?"
Again, "The dead praise not the Lord, neither any that go down into
silence." Or, "His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in
that very day his thoughts perish." These quotations could be greatly
added to, and if taken in their literal sense, we would reach but one
conclusion--death ends all for every living creature! Nothing in all the
literature of the earth could be more gloomy and discouraging than
these quotations with numerous others that contemplate death. Yet, vain
man takes one little passage that seemingly denies a future life to
animals from the same book that many times over denies a future life to
mankind; in fact, there are five times as many Scripture passages
claiming for man that all ends in death as there are for animals. Over
and over we are told that those who have died have no remembrance of
God, and cannot praise Him. The Bible speaks of death as the "land of
forgetfulness,"--the place of darkness, where all man's thoughts perish.
Nothing more than this could be said of the "animals that perish!"

Other Biblical writers referred to mankind as those who "dwell in houses
of clay," and Job says: "They are destroyed from morning to evening;
they perish forever, without any regarding it." In another place he
says: "As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth
down to the grave shall come up no more." Again he speaks of "the land
of darkness and the shadow of death," and says: "Man dieth, and wasteth
away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he? As the waters fail
from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up: so man lieth down,
and riseth not." Job laments the pitiable conditions of his life, and
complains that life was ever granted to him, and that even death can
bring nothing to him except extinction.

Yet, if we examine Ecclesiastes, the book in which we find the single
passage upon which many people base a belief in the non-future existence
of animals, there are passages which are really no more positive as to
the future of mankind. For example, "I said in my heart concerning the
estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they
might see that they themselves are beasts. For that which befalleth the
sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them. As the one
dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath, so that a man
has no pre-eminence over a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto one
place; all are of the dust, and all turn to the dust again." Again it is
said: "For the living know that they shall die, but the dead know not
anything, neither have they any more a reward, for the memory of them is
forgotten;" and "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in
the grave whither thou goest."

By interpreting these words literally, there is but one conclusion
relative to a future spiritual life, namely, that there is absolutely
no distinction between man and his "lower brother" animals, and that
when they die they all go to the same place. It is emphatically said
that after death man knows nothing, receives no reward, and can do no
work. Job has the same gloomy strain running through his writings, and
Ecclesiastes gives a most morbid and gloomy view of death.

However, no modern Biblical scholar accepts these passages in this
literal light, for it is known that they were written symbolically, or
as parables, and were not intended to be literally interpreted. They
have a spiritual significance. We are, however, not interested here so
much with this spiritual sense as we are with the literal implication of
the translation. Therefore, according to this literal meaning of the two
texts, if we accept them to prove that animals have no future life, we
are forced to believe by at least fourteen passages, of equal if not
greater power, that man shares their same fate after death. No man has a
right to select certain passages from the same book of the Bible and say
that they shall be accepted literally, and that other passages of equal
merit shall be interpreted otherwise. They must all be treated the same.

All scholars are familiar with that remarkable eleventh book of Homer's
Odyssey, known as the Necromanteia, or Invocation of the Dead, and in it
Ulysses descends into the regions of the departed spirits to invoke them
and obtain advice as to his future adventures. One commentator says: "He
sails to the boundaries of the ocean, and lands in the country of the
Cimmerians, who dwell in perpetual cloud and darkness, and in whose
country are the gates leading to the regions of the dead." All is
darkness, discontent, hunger; nothing is said of virtue, wisdom, beauty,
happiness. Only bitter gloom! No wonder this heathen poet considered,
with such views of a future life, sensual pleasures as the chief object
of this life.

The following dialogue between the inhabitants of the earth and the
dweller in the regions of the dead--between Ulysses and Achilles--is
remarkable for its horrible depiction of the future life:

  "Through the thick gloom his friend Achilles knew,
  As he speaks the tears dissolve in dew.
  'Comest thou alive to view the Stygian bounds,
  Where the wan spectres walk eternal rounds;
  Nor fear'st the dark and dismal waste to tread,
  Thronged with pale ghosts familiar with the dead?'
  To whom with sighs, 'I pass these dreadful gates
  To seek the Theban, and consult the Fates;
  For still distressed I roam from coast to coast,
  Lost to my friends and to my country lost.
  But sure the eye of Time beholds no name
  So blessed as thine in all the rolls of fame;
  Alive we hailed thee with our guardian gods,
  And, dead thou rulest a king in these abodes.'
  'Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom,
  Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom.
  Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear
  A weight of woes and breathe the vital air,
  A slave for some poor hind that toils for bread,
  Than reign the sceptered monarch of the dead.'"

Yet, even this outpouring of hopeless words by the heathen poet is
encouraging when compared to the writings of the Psalmist, of Solomon or
Job, for those who have gone beyond the grave still have memory, an
interest in their friends on earth, love and desire. But no such hope
exists for man, if we are to accept literally all the passages of
Scripture which have been quoted. By such interpretation, man passes
after death into eternal darkness, forgetfulness, silence, "where there
is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom--where even his very
thoughts perish." If these particular passages are to be accepted as
final on the subject, there is no future life for either man or animal.
They are too definite to admit of any interpretation that might soften
or alter their meaning.

It may be shocking to some to compare the belief of an ancient Greek and
the teachings of a Latin Epicurean with the sacred writings of the
Bible. Yet, it may be even more startling to point out that some of the
teachings of the Epicurean sensualist are quite as good as some of those
of the writers of the sacred texts, and that those of the Greek poet are
far better and more spiritual! There is no denying that these are the
facts, if we are to be bound by literal interpretation, unless we throw
to the winds all reason and common-sense.

This leads us back to the point previously mentioned; and we must
determine if the authorised version gives a full and truthful
interpretation of the Hebrew original. Even a man who does not pretend
to scholarship knows that it does not. The word "perish," for example,
is not found at all in the Hebrew text, nor is the idea expressed; the
words which our translation twice renders as "beasts that perish," is,
in the original Hebrew, "dumb beasts." By comparing a number of the
translations of the Psalms, into various languages--Psalm XLIX, for
example--we find that few, if any, of them suggest the idea of
"perishing" in the sense of annihilation. First, let us consider the
Jewish Bible, which is acknowledged to be the most accurate translation
in the English language, and carefully read it. In verses 12 and 20 of
the above Psalm, where the passage is found, the translation reads:
"Man that is in honour, and understandeth this not, is like the beasts
that are irrational." In a footnote the word "dumb" is offered as an
alternative for "irrational." Brunton's translation of the Septuagint is
similar, and reads: "Man that is in honour understands not, he is
compared to the senseless cattle, and is like them." Wycliffe's Bible,
which is translated from the Vulgate, reads thus: "A man whanne he was
in honour understood it not; he is compared to unwise beestis, and is
maad lijk to tho." The "Douay" Bible, put forth by the English Catholic
College of Douay and which is received by the Catholic Church in
England, gives the passage: "Man, when he was in honour, did not
understand; he hath been compared to senseless beasts, and made like to
them." Many other versions might be cited, and very few of them even
suggest the idea of annihilation. If, for argument's sake, we suppose
that the word "perish" has been correctly translated, it by no means
follows that annihilation is signified. Read, for example, the tenth
verse of the same Psalm in our authorised translation: "For he seeth
that wise men die, and likewise the fool and the brutish person perish,
and leave their wealth to others." Certainly no intelligent person would
interpret this passage as declaring that the wise and the foolish and
the brutish have no life after the body dies.

It is plain, therefore, that we may dismiss forever the idea that the
Psalmist believed the beasts had no future life, and the citation may be
rejected as absolutely irrelevant to the subject, and the only one that
appears to make any definite statements as to the future life of the
lower animals. Every student of the Bible will at once recognise how
necessary it is that the original meaning of the Hebrew text should be
known, and that the Psalmist should not be accused of setting forth a
doctrine of such great importance, whether true or false, when he may
never even have thought or suggested it.

[Illustration: MEN CRUELLY TAKE THE LIVES OF THESE DENIZENS OF THE
WILDWOOD, REJOICING IN THEIR SLAUGHTER, BUT THE ANIMAL SOUL THEY CANNOT
KILL.]

[Illustration: TWO PALS. THERE IS BETWEEN MAN AND DOG A KINSHIP OF
SPIRIT THAT CANNOT BE DENIED.]

Having disposed of the possibility of a misunderstanding of the real
meaning of the "beasts that perish," let us consider the quotation from
Ecclesiastes, the only one that refers to the future state of animals.
"Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the
beast that goeth downward to the earth?" We find an admission here that,
whether the spirit ascends or descends, man and beasts alike have the
immortal spark. The Hebrew version is precisely the same as our
authorised translation. Read, not an isolated verse, but the entire
passage:

"I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of man, that God
might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are
beasts.

"For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even the one
thing befalleth them; as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they
have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast:
for all is vanity.

"All go to one place; all are of the same dust, and all turn to dust
again.

"Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the
beast that goeth downward to the earth?

"Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better than that a man
should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion; for who shall
bring him to see what shall be after him?"

These verses tell their own story. It matters little whether Solomon
wrote this book in his later years; it is, in any event, the confession
of one who has had all the good things of this world, and who saw the
emptiness of them all, and who sums up life with the words "Vanity of
vanities, all is vanity." Finally the author ironically advises his
readers to trust only in the good of their labour.

Thus it is shown that the quotation from the Psalms in no way justifies
the belief in the annihilation of beasts, and that the one from
Ecclesiastes has been entirely and wrongfully misunderstood and
interpreted. In no way do the Scriptures deny future life to the lower
animals, but in all ways, if intelligently understood, imply that man
and beasts have, equally, a share in a future life beyond the grave.

As we have found out that the Scriptures, contrary to the popular
belief, do not deny a future life to our lower brethren, the animals,
let us see if they actually declare a future world for them in the same
way that they do for man. Man's immortality, as we know, is taught in
the Old Testament rather by inference than by direct affirmation. This
is possibly due to the fact that the writers of the manifold books,
which were at a late date selected from a large number and made into one
big volume which forms our Bible, thought as a matter of course that man
lived on after death, and never thought it necessary to assert that
which every one knew.

But if we accept the teachings of the Old Testament, inference gives
much stronger testimony to the immortality of animals than it does to
the immortality of man, for while in neither case is there a direct
assertion of a future life, yet there is no direct denial of future life
to the animals, as has been shown to be the case with man.

All Divine Law includes a protection for the beasts, and the laws of
the Sabbath were in essence a spiritual and not only a physical
ordinance. The ancient Scriptures have innumerable provisions against
mistreating or giving unnecessary pain to the lower animals; and these
provisions stand side by side in the Divine Law with those which speak
of man. Note, for example, the prohibition of "seething a kid in its
mother's milk." Again, there is a statement that the ox in treading out
the corn is not to be muzzled, lest he suffer hunger in the presence of
food which he may not eat.

In the following sentences from the Book of Jonah, it is plainly seen
that the Deity has not failed to take notice of the animals: "And should
I not spare Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than six score
thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and their
left hand; and also much cattle?" Again, in the Psalms, "Every beast of
the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the
fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine."
Other passages that proclaim God as the protector of beasts, as well as
man, might be cited, for the Bible makes frequent mention of them. Each
of these Scriptures unquestionably proves that God has an interest in
all His creatures, and that each shares His universal love.

No one can deny that Genesis, ninth chapter and fifth verse, refers to a
future life for beasts as well as man; it is a part of the law which was
given to Noah and which was the forerunner of the fuller law handed down
through Moses: "Surely, your blood of your lives will I require; at the
hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of every man; at
the hand of every man's brother will I require the life of man."
According to the Mosaic law, an ox which kills a man is subject to
death, exactly as a human murderer. Why should the animal be punished by
death, if he has no soul to be forfeited?

It should be remembered that while there are no Scriptural passages that
definitely promise immortality to animals, there are many which infer
it. Moreover, we should not expect to gain definite information on the
subject from the Bible, for it was written for human beings and not for
animals. If there are few direct references to the future life of man,
surely there must be still fewer to that of animals!

But just as man has for countless ages had within himself an everlasting
witness to his own immortality, so do we find that all who have really
become acquainted with the lower animals, with their unselfishness,
parental love, devotion to duty, generosity, wonderful mentality, and
self-sacrifice--all those who know them realise that they are subject to
the same moral law as man and share with him a future life.

Lamartine beautifully expresses a future hope for his faithful dog:

  "I cannot, will not, deem thee a deceiving,
  Illusive mockery of human feeling,
  A body organized, by fond caress
  Warmed into seeming tenderness;
  A mere automaton, on which our love
  Plays, as on puppets, when their wires we move.
  No! when that feeling quits thy glazing eye,
  'Twill live in some blest world beyond the sky."

Who can say that from the depths of the wide ocean, from regions
unknown, and lands unexplored by man; from the remotest islands of the
sea, and even from the far icy North, there are not animal voices ever
rising in praise of our common Creator? The Bible says: "The Lord is
good to all, and His tender mercies are over all His works," and, "All
Thy works shall praise thee, O Lord,"--surely these endorse the above
statements. And why should man define the limit of God's goodness, His
love, care, and attention to the wants and needs of all His creatures?

The distinguished animal authority, Dr. Abercrombie, admitted that
animals have an "immaterial principle" in them, which is distinct from
matter. But he does not say that this principle, or soul, will live
after death, as it is supposed to in man. However, many scholars both of
ancient and modern times hold this opinion. Broderip, in his _Zoological
Recreations_ devotes much space in referring to ancient philosophers and
poets, Christian Fathers, and Jewish Rabbis that have believed in the
immortality of animals. The heroes of Virgil have horses to drive in the
Elysian fields; the Greek poets gave to Orion dogs. Rabbi Manesseh,
speaking of the resurrection, says, "brutes will then enjoy a much
happier state of being than they experienced here," and a number of
scholars, like Philo Judćus, believe that ferocious beasts will in a
future state lose their ferociousness. Among more recent scholars who
hold this belief is Dr. John Brown, who boldly says: "I am one of those
who believe that dogs have a next world; and why not?" The Rev. J. G.
Wood said: "Much of the present heedlessness respecting animals is
caused by the popular idea that they have no souls, and that when they
die they entirely perish. Whence came that most preposterous idea?
Surely not from the only source where we might expect to learn about
souls--not from the Bible, for there we distinctly read of 'the spirit
of the sons of man,' and immediately afterwards of 'the spirit of the
beasts,' one aspiring, the other not so. And a necessary consequence of
the spirit is a life after the death of the body. Let any one wait in a
frequented thoroughfare for one short hour, and watch the sufferings of
the poor brutes that pass by. Then, unless he denies the Divine
Providence, he will see clearly that unless these poor creatures were
compensated in a future life, there is no such quality as justice."

Eugene T. Zimmerman says: "I cannot help but think that my faithful dog,
and playmate of my younger days, will have some form of a future life."

We do not recognise an absolute spiritual barrier of separation between
man and animals. Man is an animal--the first of animals; but it does not
of necessity follow that he will always continue to be so. By what right
does he presume to deny a soul and a continued spiritual existence to
lower animals? Are we not all of us fellows and co-workers, partakers of
the same universal life, sharing alike a common source and destiny? This
has always been the faith and insight of the child, whose simple wisdom
we ever turn to for truth and guidance. And in our clearer realisation
of the oneness of all life, we will extend to all creatures the Golden
Rule, showing them the love and consideration we would have shown to
us.


       *       *       *       *       *


The HUMAN SIDE of BIRDS.

By ROYAL DIXON With 4 illustrations in color and 32 in black-and-white.
Cloth, 8vo.

With every statement based on fact, and every fact of unusual interest,
the author shows that many qualities of and occupations in the human
world have their parallels in the bird world.

     _Here is bird study from a new angle--instead of treating our bird
     neighbors as labeled specimens to be described in scientific terms,
     they are treated as friends, and a careful study is made of their
     disposition, character, emotions and "thought processes."_

Mr. Dixon tells of birds who are policemen, athletes, divers, bakers;
birds who maintain courts of justice and military organizations and many
other curious types.

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