Intelligence in Plants and Animals - Being a New Edition of the Author's Privately Issued "Soul and Immortality."

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Title: Intelligence in Plants and Animals - Being a New Edition of the Author's Privately Issued "Soul and Immortality."
Author: Gentry, Thomas G. (Thomas George)
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Notes

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SNAPPING-TURTLES FIGHTING.]

INTELLIGENCE
IN
PLANTS AND ANIMALS

BEING A NEW EDITION OF THE AUTHOR’S
PRIVATELY ISSUED “SOUL AND IMMORTALITY”

BY
THOMAS G. GENTRY, Sc. D.

AUTHOR OF “LIFE-HISTORIES OF BIRDS OF EASTERN PENNSYLVANIA,”
“THE HOUSE SPARROW,” “NESTS AND EGGS OF BIRDS
OF THE UNITED STATES,” ETC., ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
1900

TO
ALL HUMAN BEINGS
WHO ARE GOOD AND KIND
TO THE HUMBLEST OF GOD’S CREATURES
THIS VOLUME
IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR.

“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.”--Psalm 1:10, 11.

PREFACE.

Nothing is more charming to the mind of man than the study of Nature.
Religion, moderation and magnanimity have been made a part of his
inner being through her teachings, and the soul has been rescued by
her influence from obscurity. No longer doth man grovel in the dust,
seeking, animal-like, the gratification of low and base desires, as was
his wont, but on the wings of thought is enabled to soar to the very
gates of Heaven and hold communion with God.

Though made “a little lower than the angels,” yet, through the
mighty play of forces that have been at work in the world, which we,
in the latter half of this enlightened century, are just beginning
to recognize and comprehend, he has been lifted from the mire of
degradation and placed upon a higher social, intellectual, moral
and spiritual level. Out of the animal, in the scheme of Deity, the
spiritual system of things is to be elaborated, and not the animal out
of the spiritual. This natural world, so to speak, is the raw material
of the spiritual. Therefore, ere man can understand the spiritual,
he must understand the natural. Though his knowledge was at first
about material things, or such as pertained to natural phenomena, yet
from this through the ages has been builded, little by little, that
mountain-height of knowledge, intellectual and moral, which, if rightly
directed, is to bring him into fellowship with Deity. “As we have borne
the image of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly,”
or, Lord from heaven.

When is considered, therefore, the immense good which the study and
investigation of nature have accomplished, it is not at all surprising
that the literature on the subject should be markedly in the ascendant.
Natural science bids fair to be in a preëminent degree the pursuit of
the coming man. There is no end to the books that have been written
upon the subject during the past few decades, if not by specialists,
but by men and women who have been well informed and who have made
themselves fully capable of contemplating understandingly the world
which lies about them.

Our libraries are to-day quite affluent in books that are the handmaids
of natural science. Michelet and Hugh Miller, in their day, opened
glorious new worlds before a rising generation, and that generation is
now doing excellent work under the inspiration of the impetus which it
then received. Tait, Balfour Stewart, Dawson, Gray, McCook, Thompson,
Scudder, Mrs. Treat, Olive Thorne Miller and others have done much
to continue the interest, pleasure and enthusiasm awakened by those
earlier writers, and even Darwin and Huxley themselves, in detailing
their experiments, have not scorned to bring their thoughts within the
range of narrower minds.

But in the popularization of natural science no man has done more than
Rev. J. G. Wood in his numerous works. Not only have his writings
created in thousands a taste for nature-studies, but they have been no
less the means of cultivating the observation, awakening enthusiasm
and directing effort in the lines of original research and discovery.
Certainly no one, as his many writings so abundantly attest, possessed
a larger fund of knowledge concerning the powers and capabilities of
the lower animals than this author. Few knew our domestic animals
better than he, and none was more capable of judging of the mental
and moral _status_ which they should occupy in the world of animals.
It is true that men and women, eminent in theology, literature and
science, had expressed a belief in the idea that the “latent powers and
capacities” of the lower animals might be developed in a future life,
but no one had felt secure enough in this belief to warrant more than a
passing thought or two upon the subject.

Bishop Butler, in his “Analogy of Religion,” undoubtedly believed
the lower animals capable of a future life. In speaking of them in
this connection in the opening of his work, he says: “It is said
these observations are equally applicable to brutes; and it is
thought an insuperable difficulty that they should be immortal, and
by consequence capable of everlasting happiness. And this manner of
expression is both invidious and weak; but the thing intended by
it is really no difficulty at all, either in the way of natural or
moral consideration.” Referring then to the undeveloped powers and
capacities of the so-called brutes, the Bishop could perceive no reason
why they should not attain their development in an existence beyond
the earth-life. It was in pursuance of this same train of thought that
Rev. J. G. Wood was led to show in a work, entitled “Man and Beast
Here and Hereafter,” that the lower animals do possess those mental
and moral characteristics--the attributes of reason, language, memory,
moral responsibility, unselfishness and love--which we admit in man
as belonging to the immortal spirit, rather than to the perishable
body. Having previously cleared away the difficulties which certain
passages in the Old Testament seemingly interposed, and proved that
the Scriptures do not deny futurity of life to lower animals, he very
naturally concluded that as man expects to retain these qualities in
the future life there is every reason to suppose that they may share
his immortality in the Hereafter as in the Now they are partakers of
his mortal nature.

Few minds, unswayed by thoughts materialistic, can study the living
works of God, whether vegetal or animal, and fail to be convinced that
they, as living exponents of Divine conceptions, are as needful in the
world of spirit as in the world of matter. While many are disposed to
believe that man will share the future life with beast, bird, insect
and such like, yet but few, if any, can be found who believe that
tree and shrub and flower will be there to continue the life begun on
earth and reach out to higher and fuller development. In announcing
this belief, the author but expresses a conviction as deep as any that
could occupy a human mind. The possession of soul and spirit can be
predicated no less of plants than of man and the lower animals. They
have all one breath or life and one spirit, and as such are living
souls, living, breathing frames or bodies of life. From being living,
breathing frames, and endowed with the same life and spirit as man and
the lower animals, they have all one destiny, for “all go unto one
place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” But of the new
life which Christ came down to earth to proffer to man that he might
inherit the kingdom of God. While to man it was only offered, and had
for its purpose the uplifting and improvement of his earth-life by
the promise of something higher and better to those who are accounted
worthy, yet there can be no doubt that it was equally intended through
his uplifting to place all the creatures of the earth over which he
was given dominion by God upon a more elevated and nobler plane, so
that those which had been profited in the earth-life by his beneficent
influence should become partakers with him in the new life, when Christ
shall “transfigure the body of our humiliation, that it may become
of like form with the body of His glory, by the power of that which
enables Him even to subdue all things to Himself.” As all existence
is a unit, which the author has taken especial pains through the body
of this book to impress upon the minds of his readers, it can hardly
be conceived that an all-wise God, who is infinite in love, mercy and
justice, would look to the preservation in a future state of but a very
small part of the life which He has been instrumental in placing upon
this earth. It would be more consistent with His attributes, and with
the scheme of development of life upon our planet, whereby life has
been progressive, the fittest only being allowed to survive, to have
provided in the grand plan of redemption, not merely the salvation of
the highest of earth-life, but of all life, the purest and the best,
that would represent in the heaven-life, in spiritualized form, the
highest living exponents of Divine ideas. No other belief accords so
well with the teachings of science and philosophy. In its acceptance,
for it makes all life related to the Divine life, can there be any hope
of escape from materialism, that curse of the age.

THOMAS G. GENTRY, SC. D.

PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY 28, 1897.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Preface 1

Life and Its Conditions 9

Plants that Feed on Insects 16

Slime-Animals 32

Primitive Lasso-Throwers 36

Five-Fingered Jack on the Oyster 41

Earth-worms in History 48

Fiddler-and Hermit-Crabs 70

Funnel-Web Builder 77

Book-Lovers 86

You-ee-up 90

Tower-Building Cicada 95

Honey-Dew 104

Milch-Cows of the Ants 108

Living Artillery 111

Bright and Shining Ones 115

Queen of American Silk-Spinners 121

Basket-Carriers 126

Honey-Producing Caterpillars 132

Hibernating Butterflies 144

Leaf-Cutter Bee 149

Battle Between Ants 153

Nest-Building Fishes 158

Slippery as an Eel 168

Rana and Bufo 174

Our Natural Enemies 186

House-Bearing Reptiles 198

Summer Duck 204

American Woodcock 210

Piping Plover 218

Bob White 222

Ruffed Grouse 230

An Old Acquaintance 240

American Osprey 245

Turkey Buzzard 252

Rare and Curious Nests 263

Strange Friendship 279

Nature’s Little Store-Keeper 285

Canine Sagacity 290

Feline Intelligence 295

Bright Little Cebidae 301

Untutored Man 309

Living Souls 316

Consciousness in Plants 323

Mind in Animals 344

Life Progressive 404

Survival of the Fittest 426

Man’s Preëminence 469

Future Life 479

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

1 Portrait of Author Frontispiece
2 Venus’s Fly-trap 20
3 Round-Leaved Sundew 25
4 Protomyxa Feeding 34
5 Fresh-Water Hydra 37
6 Star-fish Opening an Oyster 45
7 Common Earth-worms 60
8 Fiddler-Crabs 72
9 Warty Hermit-Crabs 75

10 Agalena and Her Funnel-Web 79

11 Lepismas at Work 88

12 You-ee-up in His Den 91

13 Seventeen-year Cicada 97

14 New-born Cicada 99

15 Dome-like House of Cicada 101

16 Blossom of Cucurbita 105

17 Nest of Lasius 109

18 Brachinus Pursued by an Enemy 112

19 Common Tiger Beetle 117

20 American Luna Moth 123

21 House-builder Moth 129

22 Pseudargiolus Butterfly 134

23 Violacea Butterfly 138

24 Neglecta Butterfly 142

25 Mourning-Cloak Butterfly 146

26 Leaf-Cutter Bee at Work 150

27 Battle Between Ants 154

28 Nest of Common Sun-fish 159

29 Black-nosed Dace 163

30 Common American Eel 172

31 Rana Clamata, or Green Frog 177

32 Common American Toad 181

33 Northern Rattlesnake 189

34 Mother Black Snake 192

35 Summer Green Snake 195

36 Water Snake 196

37 Common Box Tortoise 201

38 Summer Ducks and Young 206

39 American Woodcock 214

40 Female Piping Plover 220

41 Home of Bob White 225

42 Ruffed Grouse in Spring-time 235

43 Mexican Wild Turkey 241

44 Nest of American Osprey 247

45 Female Turkey Buzzard Dining 259

46 Nest of the Robin 264

47 Red-winged Blackbird’s Nest 266

48 Double Nest of Orchard Oriole 268

49 Female Baltimore Oriole 270

50 Acadian Flycatchers 272

51 Long-billed Marsh Wrens 274

52 Golden-Crowned Kinglets 275

53 Lace Hammock of Parula Warbler 276

54 Three-story Nest of Yellow Warbler 278

55 Saw-whet Owl and Chickaree Squirrel 282

56 Hackee, or Chipping Squirrel 287

57 My Dog Frisky 292

58 Tom on Duty 297

59 Jack at Dinner 305

60 Australian at Home 311

61 Representative Life of Western Asia 319

62 Seedling of Winter Grape 325

63 Tip of Radicle of Seedling Maple 331

64 Wonderful Equine Intelligence 347

65 Papier-Maché Palace of the Hornet 353

66 Unsolicited and Unlooked-for Kindness 357

67 Exhibition of Grandeur 378

68 Four Orphaned Robins 389

69 Mated for Life 396

70 Evidence of Conjugal Affection 400

71 Life in the Primordial Sea 410

72 Carboniferous Times 412

73 Mesozoic Flora and Fauna 415

74 Palæolithic Men Attacking Cave Bear 448

75 Era of Mind and Heart 462

FULL PAGE PLATES.

From Photographs from Nature by A. RADCLYFFE DUGMORE.

1 Snapping Turtles Fighting Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

2 Crab Waiting for Food Under a Rock 74

3 Box-tortoise Feeding on Fungus 200

4 Woodcock on Nest (showing protective coloring) 212

5 Red-eyed Vireo’s Two-Storied Nest With Cow-bird’s egg beneath 264

6 Long-billed Marsh Wren’s Nest 272

7 Chipping Squirrels Feeding 286

8 Wood Thrush Setting 402

LIFE AND IMMORTALITY.

LIFE AND ITS CONDITIONS.

All natural objects, roughly divided, arrange themselves into three
groups, constituting the so-called Mineral, Vegetable and Animal
kingdoms. Mineral bodies are all devoid of life. They consist of
either a single element, or, if combined, occur in nature in the form
of simple compounds, composed of more than two or three elements.
They are homogeneous in texture, or, when unmixed, formed of similar
particles which have no definite relations to one another. In form they
are either altogether indefinite, when they are said to be amorphous,
or have a definite shape, called crystalline, in which case they
are ordinarily bounded by plane surfaces and straight lines. When
mineral bodies increase in size, as crystals may do, the increase is
produced simply by accretion. They exhibit purely physical and chemical
phenomena, and show no tendency to periodic changes of any kind.
Fossils or petrifactions, which owe their existence and characters to
beings which lived in former periods of the earth’s history, cannot,
though made up of mineral matter, be properly said to belong to the
mineral kingdom.

But objects belonging to the vegetable and animal kingdoms differ
markedly from inert, lifeless, mineral matter. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen
and nitrogen are the most important of the few chemical elements which
enter into their composition, and these elements are combined into
complex organic compounds, which always contain a large percentage of
water, are very unstable, and prone to spontaneous decomposition. They
are composed of heterogeneous, but related, parts, termed organs, the
objects possessing them being called organized bodies. Some of the
lowest forms of animals have bodies whose substance is so uniform that
they exhibit no definite organs, but this exception does not affect
the general value of this distinction. They are always more or less
definite in shape, presenting concave and convex surfaces, and being
limited by curved lines. When they increase in size, or grow, as we
properly term it, it is not by the addition of particles from the
outside, but by the reception of foreign matter into their interior and
its consequent assimilation. Certain periodic changes, which follow
a definite and discoverable order, are invariably passed through by
organized bodies. These changes constitute what is known as life. All
the objects, then, which fulfil these conditions are said to be alive,
and they all appertain either to the vegetable or the animal kingdom.
The study of living objects, no matter to which kingdom they belong,
is therefore conveniently called by the general name of Biology, which
means a discourse on life. And as all living objects may be referred to
one or other of these kingdoms, so Biology may be divided into Botany,
which treats of plants, and Zoölogy, which treats of animals.

Now that we have divided all organized bodies into plants and animals,
it becomes necessary to inquire into the differences which subsist
between them, and which will enable us to separate the kindred
sciences of Botany and Zoölogy. Nothing was thought so easy by older
observers than the determination of the animal or vegetable nature
of any given organism, but, in point of fact, no hard-and-fast line
can be drawn, in the existing state of our knowledge, between the
animal and vegetable kingdoms, and it is sometimes difficult, or even
impossible, to decide with positiveness whether we are dealing with a
plant or an animal. In the higher orders of the two kingdoms there is
no difficulty in reaching a decision, the higher animals being readily
separated from the higher plants by the possession of a nervous system,
of a locomotive power which can be voluntarily exercised, and of an
internal cavity adapted for the reception and digestion of solid food.
No so-called nervous system or organs of sense are possessed by the
higher plants, although some of them doubtlessly manifest conscious
and intelligent action, nor are they capable of voluntary changes of
place, nor provided with any definite internal cavity, their food being
generally fluid or gaseous.

Descending the scale to the very bottom, we reach a class of animals,
the Protozoa, which cannot be separated in many cases from the
Protophyta by these distinctions, since many of the former have
no digestive cavity, nor the slightest trace of a nervous system,
while many of the latter possess the power of active locomotion. As
to external configuration, no certain rules can be laid down for
separating animals and plants, many of the lower plants, either in
their earlier stages, or in their maturity, being exactly similar
in form to some of the lower animals. This is the case with some of
the Algæ, which resemble very closely in form certain Infusorian
animalcules. Again, many undoubted animals, which are rooted to solid
objects in their adult state, are so plant-like in appearance as
to be popularly regarded as vegetables. The Sea-firs, and the more
highly organized Flustras or Sea-mats, which are usually considered
as sea-weeds by sea-side visitors, are a few of many examples that
might be taken from the so-called Hydroid Zoöphytes. No decided
distinction between animals and plants can be drawn as to their minute
internal structure, both alike consisting of molecules, of cells, or
of fibres. Some decided, though not universal, differences exist in
chemical composition. Plants exhibit a decided predominance of ternary
compounds, or compounds which, like sugar, starch and cellulose, are
made up of the three elements, carbon, hydrogen and oxygen, but are,
comparatively speaking, poorly supplied with quaternary compounds, or
those which contain an additional element of nitrogen. Animals, on
the contrary, are rich in quaternary nitrogenized compounds, such as
albumen or fibrin. Still, in both kingdoms we find nitrogenized and
non-nitrogenized compounds, and it is only in the proportion which
these sustain to each other in the organism that animals differ in any
way from plants.

Before the invention of the microscope, no independent voluntary
movements, if we except the opening and closure of flowers, and their
turning towards the sun, the drooping of the leaves of sensitive plants
under irritation, and some other kindred phenomena, were known in
plants. Now, however, we know of many plants which are endowed, either
when young or throughout life, with the power of effecting voluntary
movements apparently as spontaneous and independent as those performed
by the lower animals, the movements being brought about by means of
little vibrating cilia, or hairs, with which a part or the whole of
the surface is furnished. When it is added that many animals are
permanently rooted, in their fully-grown condition, to solid objects,
it will at once be apparent that no absolute distinction can be made
between animals and plants merely because of the presence or absence of
independent locomotive power.

There is, however, a test, the most reliable of all that have been
discovered, by which an animal may be distinguished from a plant, and
that is the nature of the food and the products which are elaborated
therefrom in the body. Plants live upon such inorganic substances
as water, carbonic acid and ammonia, and they have the power of
manufacturing out of these true organic materials, and are therefore
the great producers of nature. All plants which contain green coloring
matter, technically called chlorophyll, break up carbonic acid in the
process of digestion into its two constituents of carbon and oxygen,
retaining the former and setting the latter free. And as the atmosphere
always contains carbonic acid in small quantities, the result is that
plants remove carbonic acid therefrom and give out oxygen. Animals, on
the other hand, have no power of living on water, carbonic acid and
ammonia, nor of converting these into the complex organic substances of
their bodies. That their existence may be maintained animals require to
be supplied with ready-made organic compounds, and for these they are
all dependent upon plants, either directly or indirectly. In requiring
as food complex organic bodies, which they ultimately reduce to very
simply inorganic ones, animals are thus found to differ from plants.
Whilst plants are the great manufacturers in nature, animals are the
great consumers. Another distinction, arising from the nature of their
food, is that animals absorb oxygen and throw out carbonic acid, their
reaction upon the atmosphere being exactly the reverse of that of
plants. There are organisms, it must be understood, which are genuine
plants so far as their nutritive processes are concerned, but which,
nevertheless, are in the possession of characters which could locate
them among the animals. Volvox, so abundant in our streams during the
proper seasons, affords a splendid illustration of the truth of this
statement. Plants, which are devoid of chlorophyll, as is the case with
the Fungi, do not possess the power of decomposing carbonic acid under
the influence of sunlight, but are like animals in requiring organic
compounds for their food. Two points must therefore be borne in mind
in regarding the general distinctions between plants and animals which
we have thus briefly outlined, and these are that they cannot often be
applied in practice to ambiguous microscopic organisms, and certainly
not to plant-forms that are destitute of chlorophyll.

That life should manifest itself certain conditions are essential,
but some of which, though generally present, are not absolutely
indispensable. One condition, however, seems to be very necessary, and
that is that the living body should be composed of a certain material.
This material, which forms the essential and fundamental parts of
everything living, whether vegetable or animal, is technically called
protoplasm. Other substances than it are often found in living bodies,
but it is in protoplasm only that vitality appears to be inherent.

But whether it is the same in plants as in animals is a matter of
opinion. One thing, however, seems reasonably certain, and that is that
it is the medium or vehicle through which vital force is made manifest.
Used in its general sense, protoplasm is chemically related in its
nature to albumen, and generally has the character of a jelly-like,
semi-fluid, transparent material, which, in itself, exhibits no
definiteness of structure. When heated to a certain temperature it
coagulates, just as the white of an egg does when boiled. Living
protoplasm has the power of movement, of increasing in size or of
maintaining its existence by the assimilation of fresh and foreign
materials, and of detaching portions of itself which may subsequently
develop into fresh masses. Though protoplasm be present in the ova of
animals and the seeds of plants, yet there is no external and visible
manifestation of life. There is in them what is called a dormant
vitality, which may remain for a long time unchanged, until altered
external circumstances cause the organism to pass into a state of
active life.

Generally, certain external conditions must be present before any
external vital phenomena can be manifested. The presence of atmospheric
air, or rather of free oxygen, is in an ordinary way essential to
active life. Life, that is its higher manifestations, is only possible
between certain ranges of temperature, varying from near the freezing
point to about 120° Fahrenheit. As water is a necessary constituent of
protoplasm in its living state, so it becomes an absolutely essential
requisite to the carrying on of vital processes of all kinds, for
the mere drying of an animal or plant will, in most cases, kill it
outright, and will always bring about a suspension of all visible
life-phenomena.

While the large majority of living beings are organized, or composed of
different parts, called organs, which sustain certain relations with
one another, and which discharge different offices, yet it must not
therefore be concluded that organization is a necessary accompaniment
of vitality, or that all living creatures are organized. Innumerous low
forms of life, so low that they occupy the very lowest place in the
scale of animated existences, absolutely exhibit no visible structure,
and cannot, therefore, be said to be organized, but they, nevertheless,
discharge all their vital functions just as well as though they
possessed special organs for the purpose. Concluding our theme, we
are forced to admit that animals are organized, or possess structure,
because they are alive, and not that they live because they are
organized. By carefully comparing the morphological and physiological
differences between different animals and plants, naturalists have
divided the entire animal and vegetable kingdoms into a number of
divisions, whose leading characteristics may be found in almost every
text-book. All that we promised ourselves when this work was first
thought of was a brief treatment of a few of the most interesting
life-forms of this planet of ours in the light of their ways and
doings, and the direction of human thought to those traits of character
and manifestations of conscious intelligence which fit them to become
partakers with man of that new life which awaits him beyond the grave.

PLANTS THAT FEED ON INSECTS.

Perhaps it would be difficult to find in the whole range of vegetable
creation anything more curious than the carnivorous or flesh-eating
plants. That animals eat plants creates in us no emotion of curiosity,
for this is the common law of nature. But that plants should devour
animals is a marvel to which few minds uninitiated in science would
give credence. Though these strange forms of vegetable life have been
known for about a century, yet it has been but a few years since the
attention of naturalists was first specially called to their habits
and character. No one has probably done more to explain the life and
operations of the flesh-eating plants than Mr. Darwin.

For centuries strange rumors had been circulated of the existence of
huge plants in the more remote and unvisited parts of Asia which would
imprison and destroy large animals and men that would venture within
reach of their great quivering leaves armed with hooked spines, the
flesh of the dead victim being absorbed into their structure, but all
these giant flesh-eating trees or plants have so far proved to be mere
myths. Science has discovered, however, that there is some foundation
for these exciting fictions, and it has not been obliged to go to
the distant East to find it, for flesh-eating plants are by no means
uncommon in this country and Europe. But these plants confine their
destructive propensities to the crawling and flying insects which
are beguiled by some tempting reward to rest on their leaves. Such a
strange provision of nature is no less interesting than if these plants
had the power to destroy the larger animals, for it is the fact itself
which startles the attention by its seeming reversal of natural laws.

No better example of carnivorous plants could be taken than _Dionæa
muscipula_, or to use the common name, Venus’s Fly-trap. It is a
species that is indigenous to North Carolina and the adjacent parts of
South Carolina, affecting sandy bogs in the pine forests from April
to June, and a representative of the _Droscraceæ_, or Sundew Family.
One cannot fail after once seeing it of becoming impressed with its
peculiar characteristics. It is a smooth perennial herb with tufted
radical leaves on broadly-winged, spatulate stems, the limb orbicular,
notched at both ends, and fringed on the margins with strong bristles.
From the centre of the rosette of leaves proceeds at the proper time
a scape or leafless stalk which terminates in an umbel-like cyme of
from eight to ten white bracted flowers, each flower being one inch
in diameter. The roots are small and consist of two branches each an
inch in length springing from a bulbous enlargement. Like an epiphytic
orchid, these plants can be grown in well-drained damp moss without any
soil, thus showing that the roots probably serve for the absorption
of water solely. Three minute pointed processes or filaments, placed
triangularly, project from the upper surface of each lobe of the
bi-lobed leaf, although cases are observed where four and even ten
filaments are found. These filaments are remarkable for their extreme
sensitiveness to touch, as shown not only by their own movement, but by
that of the lobes also. Sharp, rigid projections, diminutive spikes as
it were, stand out from the leaf-margins, each of which being entered
by a bundle of spiral vessels. They are so arranged that when the lobes
close they interlock like the teeth of an old-fashioned rat-trap. That
considerable strength may be had, the mid-rib of the leaf, on the lower
side, is quite largely developed.

Minute glands, of a reddish or purplish color, thickly cover the upper
surface of the leaf, excepting towards the margins, the rest of the
leaf being green. No glands are found upon the spikes or upon the
foliaceous footstalk. From twenty to thirty polygonal cells, filled
with purple fluid, constitute each gland. They are convex above,
somewhat flattened underneath, and stand on very short pedicels, into
which spiral vessels do not enter. They have the power of secretion
under certain influences, and also that of absorption. Minute octofid
projections, of a reddish-brown color, are scattered in considerable
numbers over the footstalk, the backs of the leaves and the spikes,
with a few on the upper surfaces of the lobes.

The sensitive filaments, which are a little more than one-twentieth
of an inch in length, and thin, delicate and tapering to a point, are
formed of several rows of elongated cells, filled with a purplish
fluid. They are sometimes bifid or even trifid at the apex, and towards
the base there is a constriction formed of broader cells, and beneath
the constriction an articulation, supported on an enlarged base,
consisting of differently shaped polygonal cells. As the filaments
project at right angles to the surface of the leaf, they would have
been in danger of being broken off whenever the lobes closed together
had it not been for the articulation, which allows them to bend flat
down. So exquisitely sensitive are these filaments, from their tips
to their bases, to a momentary touch, that it is hardly possible to
touch them even so lightly or quickly with any hard object without
causing the lobes to close, but a piece of delicate human hair, two and
a-half inches in length, held dangling over a filament so as to touch
it, or pinches of fine wheaten flour, dropped from a height, produce
no effect. Though not glandular, and hence incapable of secretion,
yet the filaments by their sensitiveness to a momentary touch, which
is followed by the rapid closure of the lobes of the leaf, assure to
Dionæa the necessary supply of insect food for all its wants.

Inorganic bodies, even of large size, such as bits of stone, glass
and such like, or organic bodies not containing nitrogeneous matter
in a soluble condition, as bits of cork, wood, moss for examples, or
bodies containing soluble nitrogeneous matter, if perfectly dry, such
as small pieces of meat, albumen, gelatine, etc., may be long left on
the lobes, and no movement is excited. But when nitrogeneous organic
bodies, which are all damp, are left on the lobes, the result is widely
different, for these then close by a slow and gradual movement and not
in a rapid manner as when one of the sensitive filaments is touched
by a hard substance. Small purplish, almost sessile glands, as has
already been stated, thickly cover the upper surface of the lobes.
These have the power both of secretion and absorption, but they do not
secrete until excited by the absorption of nitrogeneous matter. No
other excitement, as far as experiments show, produces this effect.
When the lobes are made to close over a bit of meat or an insect, the
glands over the entire surface of the leaf emit a copious discharge, as
in this case the glands on both sides are pressed against the meat or
insect, the secretion being twice as great as when the one or the other
is laid on the surface of a single lobe; and as the two lobes come
into almost close contact the secretion, containing dissolved animal
matter, diffuses itself by capillary attraction, causing fresh glands
on both sides to begin secreting in a continually widening circle. The
secretion is almost colorless, slightly mucilaginous, moderately acid,
and so copious at times in the furrow over the mid-rib as to trickle
down to the earth. But all this secretion is for the purposes of
digestion. Be the animal matter which the enclosed object yields ever
so little, it serves as a peptogene, and the glands on the surface of
the leaf pour forth their acid discharge, which acts like the gastric
juice of animals.

[Illustration: VENUS’S FLY-TRAP.

How It Captures Insects.]

Now as to the manner in which insects are caught by the leaves of
_Dionæa muscipula_. In its native country they are caught in large
numbers, but whether they are attracted in any special way no one
seems to know. Both lobes close with astonishing quickness as soon
as a filament is touched, and as they stand at less than a right
angle to each other, they have an excellent chance of capturing any
intruder. The chief seat of the movement is near the mid-rib, but is
not restricted to this part. Each lobe, when the lobes come together,
curves inwards across its whole breadth, the marginal spikes alone not
becoming curved. From the curving inwards of the two lobes, as they
advance towards each other, the straight marginal spikes intercross
by their apices at first, and ultimately by their bases. The leaf is
then completely shut and encloses a shallow cavity. If made to shut
merely by the touching of one of the sensitive filaments, or by the
inclusion of an object not yielding soluble nitrogeneous matter, the
two lobes retain their inwardly concave form until they re-expand. The
re-expansion, when no organic matter is enclosed, varies according
to circumstances, a leaf in one instance being fully re-expanded in
thirty-two hours.

But the lobes, when soluble nitrogeneous matter is included, instead
of remaining concave, thus containing within a concavity, slowly press
closely together throughout their entire breadth, and as this takes
place the margins gradually become a little everted, so that the
spikes, which at first intercrossed, at last project in two parallel
rows. So firmly do they become pressed together that, if any large
insect has been caught, a corresponding projection is clearly visible
on the outside of the leaf. When the two lobes are thus completely
closed, they resist being opened, as by a thin wedge driven with
astonishing force between them, and are generally ruptured rather than
yield. If not ruptured, they close again with quite a loud flap. The
slow movement spoken of, excited by the absorption of diffused animal
matter, suffices for its final purpose, whilst the movement brought on
by the touching of one of the sensitive filaments is rapid, and thus
indispensable for the capturing of insects.

Leaves remain shut for a longer time over insects, especially if the
latter are large, than over meat. In many instances where they have
remained for a long period over insects naturally caught, they were
more or less torpid when they reopened, and generally so much so during
many succeeding days that no excitement of the filaments caused the
least movement. Vigorous leaves will sometimes devour prey several
times, but ordinarily twice, or, quite often, once is enough to render
them unserviceable.

What purpose the marginal spikes, which form so conspicuous a feature
in the appearance of the plant, subserve was unknown until the genius
of Darwin solved the mystery. It was he that showed that elongated
spaces between the spikes, varying from one-fifteenth to one-tenth of
an inch in breadth according to the size of the leaf, are left open
for a short time before the edges of the lobes come into contact,
consequent upon the intercrossing of the tips of the marginal spikes
first, thus enabling an insect whose body is not thicker than these
measurements to escape, when disturbed by the closing lobes and
the increasing darkness, quite easily between the crossed spikes.
Moderately sized insects, if they try to escape between the bars, will
be pushed back into the horrid prison with the slowly closing walls,
for the spikes continue to close more and more until the lobes are
brought into contact. Very strong insects, however, manage to effect
their release. It would manifestly be a great disadvantage to the
plant to remain many days clasped over a minute insect, and as many
additional days or weeks in recovering its sensibility, inasmuch as
a very small insect would afford but little nourishment. Far better
would it be for the plant to wait until a moderately large insect was
captured, and to allow the little ones to escape, and this advantage is
gained by the slow intercrossing of the marginal spikes, which, acting
like the large meshes of a fishing-net, allow the small and worthless
fry to pass through.

Touching any one of the six filaments is sufficient to cause both
lobes to close, these becoming at the instant incurved throughout
their entire breadth. The stimulus must therefore radiate in all
directions from any one filament, and it must also be transmitted with
considerable rapidity across the leaf, for in all ordinary cases,
as far as the eye can judge, both lobes close at the same time.
Physiologists generally believe that in irritable plants the excitement
is transmitted along, or in close connection with, the fibro-vascular
bundles. Those in Dionæa seem at first sight to favor this belief, for
they run up the mid-rib in a great bundle, sending off small bundles
almost at right angles on each side, which bifurcate occasionally as
they stretch towards the margin, the marginal branches from adjoining
branches uniting and entering the marginal spikes. Thus a continuous
zigzag line of vessels runs round the whole circumference of the
leaf, while in the mid-rib all the vessels are in close contiguity,
so that all parts of the leaf seem to be brought into some degree of
communication. The presence of vessels, however, is not necessary for
the transmission of the motor impulse, for it is transmitted from the
apices of the sensitive filaments, which are hardly one-tenth of an
inch in length, into which no vessels are seen to enter. Slits made
close to the bases of the filaments, parallel to the mid-rib, and thus
directly across the course of the vessels, sometimes on the inner
and sometimes on the outer sides of the filaments, do not interfere
with the transmission of the motor impulse along the vessels, and
conclusively show that there is no necessity for a direct line of
communication from the filament, which is touched towards the mid-rib
and opposite lobe, or towards the outer parts of the same lobe.
With respect to the movement of the leaves, the wonderful discovery
made by Dr. Burdon Sanderson, and published in 1874, offers an easy
explanation. There is, says this distinguished authority, a normal
electrical current in the blade and footstalk, which, when the leaves
are irritated, is disturbed in the same manner as is the muscle of an
animal when contraction takes place.

After contraction has endured for a greater or less time, dependent
upon circumstances which we do not well understand, re-expansion of
the leaves is effected at an insensibly slow rate, whether or not any
object is enclosed, both lobes opening in all ordinary cases at the
same time, although each lobe may act to a certain extent independently
of the other. The re-expansion is not determined by the sensitive
filaments, for these may be cut off close to their bases, or be
entirely removed, and re-expansion occur in the usual manner. It is
believed that the several layers of cells forming the lower surface of
the leaf are always in a state of tension, and that it is owing to this
mechanical state, aided probably by fresh fluid being drawn into the
cells, that the lobes begin to separate as soon as the contraction of
the upper surface diminishes.

Six known genera, Drosophyllum, Roridula, Byblis, Drosera, Dionæa and
Aldrovanda comprise the Droseraceæ, all of which capture insects. The
first three genera effect this purpose solely by the viscid fluid
secreted from their glands, and the last, like Dionæa, which has
already been described, through the closing of the blades of the leaf.
In these last two genera rapid movement makes up for the loss of viscid
secretion. But of all the genera none is more interesting than the
typical Sundews.

Growing in poor peaty soil, and sometimes along the borders of ponds
where nothing else can grow, certain low herbaceous plants, called
Droseras, abound. So small and apparently insignificant are they,
that to the ordinary observer they are almost unnoticed. But they
have peculiarities of structure and nature that readily distinguish
them. Scattered thickly over their leaves are reddish bristles or
tentacles, each surmounted by a gland, from which an extremely viscid
fluid, sparkling in the sunlight like dew, exudes in transparent
drops. Hence the common name of Sundew by which the half-dozen species
found in the United States east of the Mississippi River are known. A
one-sided raceme, whose flowers open only when the sun shines, crowns
a smooth scape, which is devoid of tentacles. _Drosera rotundifolia_,
our commonest species, has a wide range, being indigenous to both
Europe and America. In the United States it extends from New England
to Florida and westward, and is occasionally associated with
_Drosera longifolia_, a form with long strap-shaped leaves, but
whose distribution is mostly restricted to maritime regions, from
Massachusetts to Florida.

[Illustration: ROUND-LEAVED SUNDEW.

Leaves Acting as Stomachs.]

All of the species are remarkably similar in habits, capturing insects,
and digesting and absorbing the soft parts, a circumstance which
explains how these plants can flourish in an extremely poor soil where
mosses, which depend almost entirely upon the atmosphere for their
nourishment, only can live. Although the leaves of the Droseras at
a hasty glance do not appear green, owing to the purple color of the
tentacles, yet the superior and inferior surfaces of the blade, the
stalks of the central tentacles, and the petioles contain chlorophyll,
rendering the best of evidence that the plants obtain and assimilate
carbon dioxide from the air. But when the poverty of the soil where
these plants grow is considered, it is at once apparent that their
supply of nitrogen would be exceedingly small, or quite deficient,
unless they had the power of obtaining it from some other source. From
captured insects this important element is largely obtained, and thus
we are prepared to understand how it is that their roots, which consist
of only two or three slightly divided branches, from one-half to one
inch in length, and furnished with absorbent hairs, are so poorly
developed. From what has been stated it would seem that the roots but
serve to imbibe water, but there is no doubt that nutritious matters
would also be absorbed were they present in the soil.

With the edges of its leaves curled so as to form a temporary stomach,
and with the glands of its closely-inflected tentacles pouring forth
their truly acid secretion, which dissolves animal matters that are
subsequently absorbed, Drosera may be said to feed like an animal. But,
unlike an animal, it drinks by means of its roots, and largely, too,
for it would not be able to supply its glands with the necessary viscid
fluid. The amount needed is by no means an inconsiderable quantity, as
two hundred and seventy drops may sometimes be exposed during a whole
day to a glaring sun. Such a profuse exudation implies preparations for
hosts of insect visitors. In this Drosera has not miscalculated. Its
bright pink blossoms and brilliant, glistening dew lure vast numbers of
the smaller kinds, and the larger ones, too, to certain death. But the
wholesale destruction of life that goes on is much in excess of what
the plant requires for food. While the smaller flies remain adherent
to the leaves, affording them the needed aliment, the larger insects,
after death, fall around the roots, where they decay and fertilize
the soil with nitrogen, which doubtless through the proper channels
makes its way into the body of the plant, thus helping to give it
tone and vigor. There are times when these plants work better than at
others, but whether this is caused by the electrical condition of the
atmosphere, or the amount of its contained moisture, is a question
which science has not positively determined.

_Drosera longifolia_ folds it leaves entirely around its victim, from
the apex down to the petiole after the manner of its vernation, but
in _Drosera rotundifolia_, whose marginal tentacles are longer, the
tentacles simply curve around the object, the glands touching the
substance, like so many mouths receiving nourishment. Experimented
upon with raw beef, the tentacles of healthy leaves, from within to
without, but in periods of time varying from six to eight or nine
hours, clasp firmly the beef, almost concealing it from view. Equally
vigorous leaves, however, made no move towards clasping a bit of dry
chalk, a chip of flint, or a lump of earth. Bits of raw apple cause
a curving of the tentacles, but very few of the glands are seen
touching them. It would seem, therefore, that these plants are really
carnivorous, preferring animal substances, which they, by the aid of
some ferment analogous to pepsin, which is secreted by the glands, are
able to absorb. A minute quantity of already soluble animal matter is
the exciting cause, and this must be taken in by the glands, or there
is no secretion of the fermenting material.

In all ordinary cases the glands alone are susceptible to excitement.
When excited, they do not themselves move or change form, but transmit
a motor impulse to the bending part of their own and adjoining
tentacles, and are thus carried towards the centre of the leaf.
Stimulants applied to the glands of the short tentacles on the disc
indirectly excite movement of the exterior tentacles, for the stimulus
of the glands of the disc acts on the bending part of the latter
tentacles, near their bases, and does not first travel up the pedicels
to the glands, to be then reflected back to the bending place. Some
influence, however, does travel up to the glands, causing them to
secrete most copiously, and the secretion to become acid, just such
an influence as that which in animals is transmitted along the nerves
to glands, modifying their power of secretion, independently of the
condition of the blood-vessels. Over organic substances that yield
soluble matter the tentacles remain clasped for a much longer time
than over those not acted upon by the secretion, or over inorganic
objects. That they have the power of rendering organic substances
soluble, that is, that they have the power of digestion, is no longer
a question of dispute. They certainly have this power, acting on
albuminous compounds in exactly the same manner as does the gastric
juice of mammals, the digested matter being afterwards absorbed. In
animals the digestion of albuminous compounds is effected by means of
a ferment, pepsin, together with weak hydrochloric acid, though almost
any acid will serve, yet neither pepsin nor an acid by itself has any
such power. It has been observed that when the glands of the disc are
excited by the contact of any object, especially of one containing
nitrogeneous matter, the outer tentacles and often the blade become
inflected, the leaf thereby becoming converted into a temporary cup or
stomach. The discal glands then secrete more copiously, the secretion
becoming acid, and, moreover, some influence being transmitted by them
to the glands of the exterior tentacles, causing them to emit a more
abundant secretion, which also becomes acid. This secretion is to a
certain extent antiseptic, as it checks the appearance of mould and
infusoria, and in this particular acts like the gastric juice of the
higher animals, which is known to arrest putrefaction by destroying the
microzymes.

With animals, according to Schiff, mechanical irritation excites
the glands of the stomach to secrete an acid, but not pepsin. There
is strong reason to believe, too, that the glands of Drosera, which
are continually secreting viscid fluid to replace the losses by
evaporation, do not secrete the ferment proper for digestion when
mechanically irritated, but only after absorbing certain matters of
a nitrogeneous nature. The glands of the stomachs of animals secrete
pepsin only after they have absorbed certain soluble substances
designated peptogenes, showing a remarkable parallelism between the
glands of Drosera and those of the stomach in the secretion of their
appropriate acid and ferment.

Not only animal matter, but also the albumen of living seeds, which
are injured or killed by the secretion, are acted upon by the glands
of Drosera. Matter is likewise absorbed from pollen, and from fresh
leaves. The stomachs of vegetable-feeding animals, as is only too well
known, possess a similar power of extracting nourishment from such
articles. Though properly an insectivorous plant, but as pollen, as
well as the seeds and leaves of surrounding plants, cannot fail to be
often or occasionally blown upon the glands of Drosera, yet it must be
credited with being to a certain extent a vegetable feeder.

That a plant and an animal should secrete the same, or nearly the same,
complex digestive fluid, adapted for a similar purpose, is a wonderful
fact in physiology, but not more remarkable than the movements of a
tentacle consequent upon an impulse received from its own gland, the
movement at the bending place of the tentacle being always towards
the centre of the leaf, and so it is with all the tentacles when
their glands are excited by immersion in a suitable fluid. The short
tentacles in the middle part of the disc, however, must be excepted,
as these do not bend at all when thus excited. But when the motor
impulse comes from one side of the disc, the surrounding tentacles,
and even the short ones in the middle of the disc, all bend with
precision towards the point of excitement, no matter where it may be
located. This is in every way a remarkable phenomenon, for the leaf
appears as if endowed with animal sense and intelligence. It is all the
more remarkable when the motor impulse strikes the base of a tentacle
obliquely to its flattened surface, for then the contraction of the
cells must be restricted to one, two or a very few rows at one end, and
different sides of the surrounding tentacles must be acted on that all
may bend with precision to the point of excitement. The motor impulse,
as it spreads from one or more glands across the disc, enters the bases
of the surrounding tentacles, and instantly acts on the bending place,
but does not first proceed up the tentacles to the glands, causing them
to reflect back an impulse to their bases, although some influence
is sent up to the glands, whereby their secretion is soon increased
and rendered acid. The glands, being thus excited, send back some
other influence, dependent neither on increased secretion nor on the
inflection of the tentacles, which causes the protoplasm to aggregate
in cell beneath cell. This maybe called a reflex action. How it differs
from that which proceeds from the nerve-ganglion of an animal, if it
differ at all, no one can say. It is probably the only known case of
reflex action in the vegetable kingdom.

Concerning the mechanism of the movements and the character of the
motor impulse little is known. During the act of inflection fluid
surely passes from one part to another of the tentacles. In explanation
of the fact it is claimed that the motor impulse is allied in nature
to the aggregating process, and that this causes the molecules of
the cell-walls to approach each other, as do the molecules of the
protoplasm within the cells, thereby causing the cells in all to
contract. This is probably the hypothesis that best accords with the
observed facts, although some strong objections may be urged against
this view. The elasticity of their outer cells, which comes into
activity as soon as those on the inner side cease contracting with
prepotent force, leads largely to the re-expansion of the tentacles,
but there is reason to suspect that fluid is continually and slowly
attracted into the outer cells during the act of re-expansion, thus
augmenting their tension.

With respect to the structure, movements, constitution and habits of
_Dionæa muscipula_ and _Drosera rotundifolia_, as well as kindred
species, little has been made out by patient study and investigation
in comparison with what remains unexplained and unknown. Many of
their movements, especially of Dionæa and Drosera, seem so sensible
and intelligent that the reflecting mind of man can hardly hesitate
to assign them high positions in organic nature and the possession,
even though in a very small degree, of that consciousness with which
animal life is endowed. That man is psychically related to all life
is the belief of millions in the old world, and the hope of millions
in the new. In this thought is the escape from materialism, that
threat of the ignorant and unbelieving. Higher conceptions of beauty
and greatness are now being entertained by the multitudes, and we
begin to feel that the next great step is being taken when we shall
become, instead of poor trembling denizens of a perishable world, proud
and conscious citizens of an imperishable universe. That we of the
upper ranks of God’s creation alone possess an inner life which shall
transcend all change is no longer a general belief, but there is a
growing hope that all nature shares it, and that love is its expression
and its method. All existence is a unit. Life, law and love are divine.
Man, looking calmly about him, cannot set himself apart as something
essentially different from nature, but must recognize himself as a
part, and include love in the universal scheme of development. All
other expressions of life must share with him in the divine love and
progress. His dogmas, founded on mistaken traditions, have given way to
science, and he cannot but believe that love is in and of the soul, and
that all life has some sort of development of soul. Because plant-life
has no brain, and therefore has no intelligence, no mind, no soul, is
preposterous to contemplate. Who can positively affirm that brain alone
is the seat of conscious intelligence? None but He alone, the Giver of
all life, who sits enthroned and exalted in the everlasting heavens.

SLIME-ANIMALS.

Possibly the simplest of life’s children are the singularly unique and
structureless little Finger Slimes, which live not only in the sea but
also in puddles and pools, and in the gutters of our streets and of
our house-tops. Anywhere that stagnant water abounds these tiny drops
of slime will grow up and make it their home. Sometimes few and far
between, and sometimes in such immense crowds that the entire pond
would seem, if they could be seen with the unaided vision, literally
alive with them, they live, and multiply and die under our very feet.

Nothing can be less animal-like than one of these shapeless masses
of pure protoplasm, yet under a microscope of strong power it may be
seen moving lazily along by pulling out a thick finger of slime and
then letting all the rest of its body flow after it. When coming into
contact with food it may be said to flow over it, dissolving the soft
parts and sending out the hard, indigestible refuse anywhere, no matter
where, for its body is devoid of skin, being merely one general mass of
homogeneous slime.

But what can these little slime specks tell us about the wonderful
powers of life? Nothing at all, it would seem, for in these tiny
creatures life has nothing better to work with than a mere drop of
living matter, which is all alike throughout, so that if broken into
a hundred pieces every piece would be as much a living being as the
whole. And yet by means of the wonderful gift of life, with which
the all-wise Omnipotence has endowed it, this slime-drop lives, and
breathes, and eats, and increases, shrinks away when you touch it,
feels for its food, and moves from place to place, changing its shape
to form limbs and feeling-threads, which are let into the general
organism when they have served the purpose of their existing, only to
be succeeded by others as short-lived as themselves when necessity
requires their development.

So small are these creatures that the largest specimen will be found
to be smaller than the smallest pin’s head. Examine how we will, there
will be found no mouth, no stomach, no muscles, no nerves, no parts of
any kind. The animal looks merely like a minute drop of gum with fine
grains diffused throughout, floating in the water, some times with
outstretched arms, and at other times as a simple drop. An analysis
of the matter of which it is composed shows it to be much the same as
a speck of white-of-egg. Yet it is alive, for it breathes. Kept in a
drop of water, it uses up the oxygen it contains, and renders the water
foul by the carbonic acid it breathes out. The arms, so necessary in
the procurement of food, can be drawn in and thrown out when and where
the animal chooses, showing that some option is undoubtedly exercised
in the matter. Minute jelly-plants, that live in the water, and even
higher animals than itself, constitute its food. The presence of an
animal with a shell does not deter it from attack, for it is just as
able to deal with it as with the softer, shell-less kinds, sucking
their jelly-like contents, and discarding the empty, innutritious
shells.

Quite as interesting among the Moners, to which the Finger Slime
belongs, is the _Protomyxa aurantiaca_, a shapeless bit of transparent
matter, containing merely circulating granules. Locomotion is effected
by extending the body into pseudopodia, or false feet, and contracting
them. Its movement is slow and gliding. When at rest it appears as a
mere lump of jelly, but its whole demeanor changes when in the presence
of a living animal suited for food. Fine threads immediately begin to
shoot out from all sides, which fuse about the unsuspecting prey, while
all the little grains in the slime course to and fro. For five or six
hours the little fellow hugs closely round the prey until it has become
thoroughly absorbed, at least the nutritious parts, into its body-mass,
when it draws itself away, or back into its original place, leaving by
its side the skeleton of its late victim. Without eyes or ears or parts
of any kind it knows how to find its food; without muscles or limbs it
is able to seize it; without a mouth it can suck out its living body,
and without a stomach it can digest the food in the midst of its own
slime, and cast out the parts for which it has no use.

[Illustration: PROTOMYXA FEEDING.]

When Protomyxa has become a burden to itself it divides itself by a
simple process of fission, each part being complete in itself, or it
assumes a thick covering, becoming encysted, as it is termed. In a
little while the enclosed mass divides into spheres, the cell-wall
bursts, and the little spheres, which have now taken on a sort of
tadpole shape, float out upon the water, where they soon assume the
parent-form.

Like all living things, these Moners have a desire for food, which
their protoplasm first appropriates, then converts into available
material. They thus grow and increase in size, but when they become
too large to be comfortable they usually split into two, in obedience
to the law of their being, and each half goes its own way as a living
animal. This is the earliest form of parentage, the simplest form
of reproduction. Thus yielding to this necessity of a separation of
one into more than one, these Moners live on forever, or as long as
the earth continues to support life, thus becoming immortal in the
scientific sense in which the term is used to devote a continuance of
the physical life on earth. They only and their nearest relatives, as
simple in structure as themselves, achieve this stupendous result, for
in such a division of their entire substance they know no loss, no
death of any part, violence only being able to sunder them from life.
They resolve themselves into their own offspring, and nothing perishes.

PRIMITIVE LASSO-THROWERS.

Every one knows that the long cord or thong, called the lasso, is the
peculiar weapon of the South American hunter. Almost from his earliest
childhood the young Gaucho learns to amuse himself with it, and as soon
as he is able to walk takes great pleasure in catching young birds and
other animals around his father’s hut, hurling the long lash with such
dexterity that the noose drops over their bodies and brings them to his
feet. Did we wish to select from among all the denizens of life the
most brilliant, graceful, and sylph-like, whose very life-histories
read more like the romance of poetry than sober reality, we would
choose those which might be appropriately designated the lasso-throwers.

Now among animals, as is only too well known, any weapons which they
could be called upon to use must develop in their own bodies, and
therefore it could hardly be suspected that a simple jelly-animal could
be provided with a lasso ready grown in its own flesh. Yet it is so,
for in that class of animals, which ranks just above the sponges, we
discover a weapon of this kind as simple and as deadly, and far more
wonderful in its action than any used by man.

In fresh-water ponds, attached by its base to the under surfaces of
aquatic plants, may be found a very small animal, just large enough to
be seen without the aid of a lens, usually pale green, but sometimes
of a brown color. This is our common hydra, technically called _Hydra
fusca_. It is nothing more than a tube or sac, with a sucker at one end
to hold on with, and a mouth at the other, surrounded with from five
to eight hollow tentacles or feelers, which opens into a central cavity
or stomach. Firm and muscular are the walls of the sac, so that the
little creature, which is not fixed permanently to whatever it is found
clinging to, may stretch itself out or draw back as its own volition
dictates, or move slowly along by means of its sucker, or float easily
or contentedly upon the water. But the most remarkable, as well as the
most interesting thing about this odd creature is the power which it
possesses of overcoming animals more powerful and active than itself.

[Illustration: FRESH-WATER HYDRA MOORED AND SEARCHING FOR PREY.]

Groping about with its flexible arms, which are closely invested with
fine jelly-hairs, with which it seemingly feels, or attached to some
leaf or bit of floating stick, its tentacles reaching out in all
directions, the Hydra instantly paralyzes any minute insects, young
snail or infusorian that touches its feelers, and complacently closing
its arms over the helpless victim, carefully tucks it away, so to
speak, into its stomach, where it is speedily digested. This power of
paralyzing and thus readily capturing active living creatures is due to
the presence in the skin of the tentacles and body of what are called
lasso-cells, or nettling-organs, which are minute, transparent cells,
so small that two hundred of the largest would occupy but the distance
of an inch, each being armed with a long barbed thread coiled up within
its walls. This delicate thread, which is often from twenty to forty
times the length of the cell, lies bathed in a poisonous fluid, and
only waits for the cell-walls to burst, which they do when the Hydra
touches an animal swimming near it, when thousands of these little
barbed cords dart into the victim, quickly paralyzing it and rendering
it an easy prey to its captor. All Cœlenterates, such as jelly-fishes
and coral polyps, possess these nettling-organs.

Thus we see where the Hydra’s strength lies. He has no need to
struggle, for his victim, penetrated by a multitude of darts, and
made powerless by the poison instilled, becomes as manageable as an
equal bulk of inert matter. It behooves the little creature to take
things quietly, for a cell once burst cannot be used again, and he is
therefore compelled to wait until a new one is grown to take the place
of the one that has become exhausted. So he patiently bides his time
till his victim is half-conquered, when he draws him gently into his
body. He lives and catches his food, as must be apparent, without the
necessity of moving very far from the place where he had his birth.

All the summer through the Hydra puts out buds from its side, which,
when their tentacles have grown, drop from the parent-body, and settle
down in life for themselves. But when winter comes, and before all life
has become extinct, an egg appears near the base of the tubes of those
that are living, and these eggs lie dormant till the next spring, when
they are hatched, and a new generation of Hydras is produced. Budding,
which is but a process of natural self-division, is carried on to a
large extent, more individuals being produced in this way than from
eggs. These buds are at first a simple bulging out of the body-walls,
the bud enveloping a portion of the stomach, until it becomes
constricted and drops off, the tentacles meanwhile budding out from the
distal end, and a mouth-opening arising between them. In the Hydra,
the Actinia, and other polyps, and in truth in all the lower animals,
budding is simply due to an increase in the growth and multiplication
of cells at a special place on the outside of the body. As in the
vertebrates, man included, the Hydra arises from an egg which, after
fertilization, passes through two stages, the germ consisting at first
of two cell-layers, but the sexes are not separate as in the marine
Hydroids, which grow in colonies that may be either male or female.

Like some other animals of simple structure, the Hydra is capable of
reproducing to a most wonderful degree when cut into pieces. Divided
in two, each becomes a perfect Hydra, and even when sliced into any
number of thin rings each ring will grow out a crown of tentacles. You
may split them into longitudinal strips and each strip will eventually
become a well-shaped Hydra. Two individuals may be fastened together
by a horse-hair and in a short time they will have become like Siamese
twins, but there will never arise the slightest disagreement between
them. A Hydra turned inside out will readily adapt itself to the
change, and in a few days will be able to swallow and digest bits
of meat, its former stomach-lining having now taken upon itself the
condition of skin.

_Hydra fusca_ is our simplest lasso-thrower, and the only one to be
found in fresh waters in this country. Such a wonderful and deadly
weapon is his, that it is easy to understand how his numerous relatives
in the wide ocean have made good use of the weapon with which nature
has provided them, and secured, under all kinds of shapes and forms,
homes and resting-places throughout the vast waste of waters. From the
Arctic to the Tropics, and from the shallow seaside pools at low tide
to the fathomless abysses of the ocean, we meet the lasso-throwers.
Now in the form of huge jelly-fishes, covering the sea for miles and
miles, transparent domes by day and phosphorescing lights by night, and
now as tiny balls of jelly, glistening by millions in some quiet bay
and splintering into light upon the beach; or in the form of living
animal-trees waving their graceful arms over rocks in waters deep, or
creeping like delicate threads over shells and stones and seaweed on
the shore, where they often lose their identity and are mistaken for
plants. There is scarcely a nook or cranny in the bed of ocean where
these tree-like forms, associated with the beautiful sea-anemone, whose
brilliant crimson, green and purple are unmatched in color by gem and
flower, are not to be found.

All these beautiful creatures, as well as the living coral that nestles
in the bosom of the warm Mediterranean or the sea that lashes our
Southern shores, or that struggles boldly against Pacific’s waves,
are lasso-throwers. _Cœlenterata_, the “hollow-bodied animals,”
because of the large cavity within their bodies, is the name by which
they are known to science. They naturally fall into two families,
the _Hydrozoa_, or Water Animals, and the _Actinizoa_, or Ray-like
Animals, our little Hydra, about which so much has been written, being
representative of the former and the Anemones of the latter division.

FIVE-FINGERED JACK ON THE OYSTER.

Quite as infinite in number, variety and form is the life of the
sea as that of the land. But of all marine animals, however, there
is none more curious than the echinoderm, a name derived by science
from two Greek words, indicating an animal bristling with spines like
the hedgehog. These creatures are sometimes free, but quite as often
attached by a stem, flexible or otherwise, and radiate after the
fashion of a circle or star, or are of the form of a star, with more
or less elongated arms. They are covered with shell-like plates, which
they secrete for themselves, and are still further protected by spines
or scales.

Perhaps the most common of the echinoderms is the Star-fish, or
Five-fingered Jack, as it is called by sailors. Whoever has spent
any time on the seashore has doubtless made the acquaintance of
this animal, for it is readily distinguishable by its shape, its
upper surface being rough and tuberculous, and armed with spine-like
projections, while the under portion is soft, containing the essential
organs of life and locomotion.

When first seen stranded on the shore the Star-fish, by the
uninitiated, is thought to be a creature incapable of movement of
any kind. But this is far from being the case, for in its native
element it moves along the bottom of the sea with the greatest ease,
being provided with an apparatus specially adapted for the purpose.
Ordinarily its arms are kept upon the same level, but in passing over
obstacles that lay in its path, the animal has the power of raising
any one of its several arms. Elevations are ascended with the same
ease and facility as progression on plane surfaces is effected.
Perforating the arms, or rays, and issuing from apertures, will be
found large numbers of membranous tubes, which prove to be the feet
of the animal. Upon careful examination the latter will be found to
consist of two parts, a bladder-like portion, resident within the body,
and a tubular outlying projection, ending in a disk-shaped sucker, thus
showing the feet to be muscular cylinders, hollow in the centre, and
very extensible. In progression the animal extends a few of its feet,
attaches its suckers to the rocks or stones and then, by retracting its
feet, draws the body forward. Like that of the tortoise, its pace is
slow and sure. But the most singular thing about this singular animal
is its manner of overcoming obstructions, which it must certainly
perceive, judging from the preparations to surmount them which it makes
at the opportune moment.

In addition to organs of locomotion Star-fishes possess blood-vessels,
digestive and respiratory apparatus, and a nervous system of a very
low order, an inference to which its seeming capacity of enduring
vivisection without pain unmistakably leads.

Interesting as its manner of progression, even under the most trying
circumstances, must be, yet there is nothing in the life of this
lowly-organized animal that has half the charm to the true lover and
student of nature than the mother Star’s devotion to her young. Her
eggs she carries in little pouches placed at the base of the rays. When
emitted through an opening, which occasionally and unintentionally
occurs, the mother does not abandon them to the cruel charities of the
ocean world, but gathers them together, forming a kind of protecting
cover of them, very much like a hen brooding over her chickens. Her
actions bespeak an anxiety which could only be born of an affection, as
real and sympathetic as that which a human mother feels for the loss of
any of her offspring. No matter how often the eggs become accidentally
scattered, the mother does not grow weary of her charges and leave
them to themselves, but gathers them to the maternal fold with the same
tender, patient solicitude as characterized her first efforts. Confined
to a tank, when with ova, the mother Star has been known to traverse
the entire length of the vessel until she has found and recovered her
scattered treasures.

Reproduction by eggs is not the only means of generation in vogue. In
common with other sea animals the Star-fish has the strange capacity
of detaching one or more of its arms, each of the cast-off members
becoming in time a perfect creature of its own kind, while a new arm,
fully equipped to perform all necessary functions, will grow out in
place of the lost member. From twelve to fifteen weeks are required
to reproduce a lost ray, the animal meanwhile seeming not the least
discontented, but acting as utterly unconscious of any changes in its
anatomy.

As found upon the shore, Star-fishes appear dead when really they are
alive. Put one of these perfectly still creatures into fresh sea-water,
and in a short time it will probably be disporting itself as freely as
ever it did. But as the dead and the living, when stranded by the tide,
present nearly the same appearance, some certain test seems necessary
to distinguish them apart. If a Star-fish hangs loose and limp, it
is dead; but, however dead it may look, if on touching it there are
manifest a firmness and consistency in its substance, one may feel
reasonably sure that it is playing the ’possum and will revive when
placed in the water. Quite as certain a mode of ascertaining whether
your starry friend is living or dead, is to lay it upon its back, when,
if alive, a number of semi-transparent globular objects will be seen
to move, reaching this way and that, as though feeling for something
to lay hold of wherewith to restore it to its normal position. These
globular appendages are the _ambulacra_, or locomotory organs, seeking
to acquire this end. If, however, no movement is manifested, you can
wisely conclude that your animal is dead.

The Star-fish, not unlike all other animals of the sea, has an appetite
that is never satisfied. Dinner is always welcome. The procurement of
food seems its chief concern in life. It is a scavenger of no mean
importance, keeping up an incessant chase after all kinds of dead
animal matter, and thus largely contributing, it is probable, towards
the maintaining of the waters of the ocean in a state of purity. But
its feeding is not exclusively restricted to decaying matters. Any
species of mollusk, from the humble whelk, not more than five-eighths
of an inch in length, to the lordly oyster, so esteemed by epicures,
constitutes a dainty tidbit. No more inveterate ravager and brigand,
not even excepting man himself, have the oyster-beds to disturb
the equanimity and serenity of their existence than the audacious,
insinuating Star-fish.

With its five arms, and apparently without any other organ, this
comparatively insignificant little being accomplishes a work which man,
without the aid of extraneous appliances, is quite unable to execute.
It opens an oyster as deftly and effectually as an expert oysterman
would do, and that, too, without the habitual oyster-knife, and
swallows the slimy bivalve in the same manner as the lords of creation
do. Man, with all his genius and skill, were he deprived of all other
means of subsistence than the oyster, and having no implement with
which to open it, would be severely puzzled to get at the savory morsel
shut up in its obstinate valves, yet the Star-fish performs the task
seemingly without the least difficulty.

How the Star-fish manages the problem was at first a matter of
guess-work. For a long time it was confidently believed that the animal
waited for the moment when the oyster opened its shell to introduce one
of its arms into the opening. This much gained, the other four arms
were got in without much trouble, and the whole business ended with
the devouring of the inmate. This belief is no longer tenable. Careful
observation has revealed to us the true inwardness of the proceeding.
The oyster is seized between the arms of the Star-fish and held under
its mouth by the aid of its suckers. Thus secured, the Asterias, or
Star-fish, everts its stomach, and envelops the whole oyster in its
interior recesses, distilling a poisonous fluid, a secretion from its
mouth, which causes the oyster to open its shell, when the robber, as
it were, crawls in and takes its dessert. Incredible numbers of oysters
are destroyed by Star-fishes, but the oystermen fail to see that their
own barbaric ignorance is largely to blame. Star-fishes drawn up in
nets, rakes and dredges in immense quantities are tied into bundles,
but the cords are made so tight that the pile is cut in twain, the
result being that all the pieces, when afterwards thrown overboard,
become new and perfect Star-fishes.

[Illustration: STAR-FISH OPENING AN OYSTER.]

Not often has one the pleasure of meeting with these animals on the
New Jersey coast, but yet they are occasionally seen, more frequently,
perhaps, in the North. _Asterias berylinus_, the commoner form, is
a fairly large species, of a more or less greenish color, sometimes
waning to brown, and roughly covered with tubercles. Its five arms, at
the extremity of each of which is situated a single red-eye speck, are
somewhat irregularly arranged, and not rarely one is stumpy through
breakage or unequal development.

When a Star-fish is alarmed, or finds itself in strange quarters,
it will be seen to curl up the tips of its rays, and there under
the point of each ray will be found a thick red spot seated on the
extremity of a nerve, and having in it as many as from one hundred
to two hundred crystal lenses surrounded by red cells. With such a
highly-developed eye, which is far better than the jelly-fish enjoys,
it is no wonder that the Star-fish is so quick in discerning food,
or enrages the fisherman by the discovery of the bait which he had
intended for other animals, for it turns out that this stupid-looking
animal is more wide-awake than it is given credit for. Sometimes, as
in the beautifully delicate Star-fish, called the “Lingthorn,” a soft
lid, or feeler, hangs over the eye-spot, which gives to the creature a
curiously intelligent look, but in the case of our common form this lid
is notably absent.

From all that has been written it must be evident that our first
walking animal is by no means a poor or feeble creature. He has a chain
armor woven into his leathery skin, with sharp, pointed spines, and
snapping, beak-like claws to protect him; an excellent digestion and a
capacious mouth to feed his greedy stomach, and a fine array of nerves,
quick feeling and eyesight, and a wonderful apparatus for moving over
the ground. When it is added to all these possessions the ability to
close over the wound in the case of a lost ray and the growing of a new
one, we see that his powers of living satisfactorily are by no means
insignificant. But this curious walking apparatus of the Star-fish
is far from being perfect in all his relations. They do not all walk
by means of suckers any more than all sponge-animals build toilet
sponge, or all slime-animals make chambered shells. Sure, the Rosy
Feather-stars, for example, have no use for feet-tubes, as their lives
are generally spent upon the rocks or nestled in bunches of sea-weed.
Brittle-stars, as these are called, though closely related to the
Star-fishes, are not easily confounded with them, for their arms are
found to radiate from a clearly defined central disk, and there is no
prolongation of their stomachs and ovaries into their interiors. The
tube-feet pass out from the plates along the sides of the arms, instead
of from the under surface as in the Star-fishes proper, and probably
serve merely as a help for breathing, locomotion over the sands being
effected by their long flexible arms. Their home is chiefly among the
tangle and eel-grass, where their protecting covering affords them
security from their many enemies.

EARTH-WORMS IN HISTORY.

Earth-worms are found throughout the world. Though few in genera, and
not many in species, yet they make up in individual numbers, for it
has been estimated that they average about one hundred thousand to the
acre. Our American species have never been monographed, which renders
it impossible to judge of their probable number. Their castings may be
seen on commons, so as to cover almost entirely their surface, where
the soil is poor and the grass short and thin, and they are almost as
numerous in some of our parks where the grass grows well and the soil
appears rich. Even on the same piece of ground worms are much more
frequent in some places than in others, although no visible difference
in the nature of the soil is manifest. They abound in paved court-yards
contiguous to houses, and on the sidewalks in country towns, and
instances have been reported where they have burrowed through the
floors of very damp cellars.

Beneath large trees few castings can be found during certain parts
of the year, and this is apparently due to the moisture having been
sucked out of the ground by the innumerable roots of the trees, an
explanation which seems to be confirmed by the fact that such places
may be observed covered with castings after the heavy autumnal rains.
Although most coppices and woods support large numbers of worms, yet
in forests of certain kinds of tree-growths, where the ground beneath
is destitute of vegetation, not a casting is seen over wide reaches
of ground, even during the autumn. In mountainous districts worms are
mostly rare, it would seem, a circumstance which is perhaps owing to
the close proximity of the subjacent rocks, into which it is impossible
for them to burrow during the winter, so as to escape being frozen. But
there are some exceptions to this rule, for they have been found at
great altitudes in certain parts of the world, and especially is this
so in India, where they have been observed to be quite numerous upon
the mountains.

Though in one sense semi-aquatic animals, like the other members of the
great class of Annelids to which they belong, yet it cannot be denied
that earth-worms are terrestrial creatures. Their exposure to the dry
air of a room for a single night proves fatal to them, while on the
other hand they have been kept alive for nearly four months completely
submerged in water. During the summer, when the ground is dry, they
penetrate to a great depth and cease to work, just as they do in winter
when the ground is frozen. They are nocturnal in their habits, and
may be seen crawling about in large numbers at night, but generally
with their tails still inserted in their burrows. By the expansion of
this part of the body, and with the aid of the short reflexed bristles
with which they are armed inferiorly, they hold so securely that they
can seldom be withdrawn from the ground without being torn in pieces.
But during the day, except at the time of pairing, when those which
inhabit adjoining burrows expose the greater part of their bodies for
an hour or two in the early morning, they remain in their burrows.
Sick individuals, whose illness is caused by the parasitic larvæ of a
fly, must also be excepted, as they wander about during the day and
die on the surface. Astonishing numbers of dead worms may sometimes be
seen lying on the ground after a heavy rain succeeding dry weather, no
less than a half-hundred in a space of a few square yards, but these
are doubtless worms that were already sick, whose deaths were merely
hastened by the ground being flooded, for if they had been drowned
it is probable, from the facts already given, that they would have
perished in their burrows.

After there has been a heavy rain the film of mud or of very fine sand
to be seen over gravel-walks in the morning is often distinctly marked
with the tracks of worms. From May to August, inclusive, this has been
noticed when the months have been wet. Very few dead worms are anywhere
to be seen on these occasions, although the walks are marked with
innumerable tracks, five tracks often being counted crossing a space
of only an inch square, which could be traced either to or from the
mouths of the burrows in the gravel-walks for distances varying from
three to fifteen yards, but no two tracks being seen to lead to the
same burrow. It is not likely, from what is known of the sense-organs
of these animals, that a worm could find its way back to its burrow
after having once left it. They leave their burrows, it would seem, on
a voyage of discovery, and thus they find new sites for the exercise of
their powers. For hours together they may often be seen lying almost
motionless beneath the mouths of their burrows. But let the ejected
earth or rubbish over their burrows be suddenly removed and the end of
the worm’s body may be seen rapidly retreating.

This habit of lying near the surface leads to their destruction to an
immense extent, for, at certain seasons of the year, the robins and
blackbirds that visit our lawns in the country may be observed drawing
out of their holes an astonishing number of worms, which could not be
done unless they lay close to the surface. But what brings the worms
to the surface? This is a question whose answer cannot be positively
asserted. It is not probable that they behave in this manner for the
purpose of breathing fresh air, for it has been seen that they can live
a long time under water. That they are there for the sake of warmth,
especially in the morning, is a more reasonable supposition, which
seems to be confirmed by the fact that they often coat the mouths of
their burrows with leaves, apparently to prevent their bodies from
coming into contact with the cold, damp earth, and by the still other
fact that they completely close their burrows during the winter.

Some remarks about the structure of the earth-worm now appear apropos.
Its body consists of from one hundred to two hundred almost cylindrical
rings, each provided with minute bristles. The muscular system is well
developed, thus enabling these animals to crawl backwards as well as
forwards, and to retreat by the help of their affixed tails into their
burrows with extraordinary rapidity. Situated at the anterior end
of the body is the mouth. It is furnished with a little projection,
variously called the lobe or lip, which is used for prehension. Behind
the mouth, internally located, is a strong pharynx, which is pushed
forwards when the animal eats, corresponding, it is said, with the
protrudable trunk of other Annelids. The pharynx conducts to the
œsophagus, on each side of the lower part of which are placed three
pairs of large glands, called calciferous glands, whose function is
the secretion of carbonate of lime. These glands are very remarkable
organs, and their like is not to be found in any other animal. Their
use is connected in some way with the process of digestion. The
œsophagus, in most of the species, is enlarged into a crop in front of
the gizzard. This latter organ is lined with a smooth, thick chitinous
membrane, and is surrounded by weak, longitudinal, but powerful
transverse muscles, whose energetic action is most effectual in the
trituration of the food, for these worms possess no jaws, or teeth
of any kind. Grains of sand and small stones, from the one-twentieth
to the one-tenth of an inch in size, are found in their gizzards and
intestines, and these little stones, independently of those swallowed
while excavating their burrows, most probably serve, like millstones,
to triturate their food. The gizzard opens into the intestine--a most
remarkable structure, an intestine within an intestine--which runs in a
straight line to the vent at the posterior end of the body. But this
curious structure, as shown by Claparède, merely consists of a deep
longitudinal involution of the walls of the intestine, by which means
an extensive absorbent surface is secured.

Worms have a well-developed circulating system. Their breathing
is effected by the skin, and so they do not possess any special
respiratory apparatus. Each individual unites the two sexes in its
own body, but two individuals pair together. The nervous system is
fairly well developed, the two nearly confluent cerebral ganglia being
situated very close to the anterior extremity of the body.

Being destitute of eyes, we would naturally conclude that worms were
quite insensible to light; but from many experiments that have been
made by Darwin, Hofmeister and others, it is evident that light
affects them, but only by its intensity and duration. It is the
anterior extremity of the body, where the cerebral ganglia lie, that is
affected, for if this part is shaded and other parts of the body are
illuminated no effect will be produced. As these animals have no eyes,
it is probable that the light passes through their skins and excites in
some manner their cerebral ganglia. When worms are employed in dragging
leaves into their burrows or in eating them, and even during the brief
intervals of rest from their labors, they either do not perceive the
light or are regardless of it, and this is even the case when the light
is concentrated upon them through a large lens. Paired individuals will
remain for an hour or two together out of their burrows, fully exposed
to the morning light, but it appears, from what some writers have said,
that a light will occasionally cause paired individuals to separate.
When a worm is suddenly illuminated and dashes into its burrow, one
is led to look at the action as a reflex one, the irritation of the
cerebral ganglia apparently causing certain muscles to contract in an
inevitable manner, without the exercise of the will or consciousness
of the animal, as though it was an automaton. But the different effect
which a light produces on different occasions, and especially the fact
that a worm when in any way occupied, no matter what set of muscles
and ganglia may be brought into play, is often regardless of light,
are antagonistic to the view of the sudden withdrawal being a simple
reflex action. With the higher animals, when close attention to some
object leads to the disregard of the impressions which other objects
must be producing upon them, we ascribe this to their attention being
then absorbed, and attention necessarily implies the presence of mind.
Although worms cannot be said to possess the power of vision, yet their
sensitiveness to light enables them to discriminate between day and
night, and thus they escape the attacks of the many diurnal animals
that would prey upon them. They are less sensitive to a moderate
radiant heat than to a bright light, as repeated experiments have
conclusively shown; and their disinclination to leave their burrows
during a frost proves that they are sensitive to a low temperature.

Investigation fails to locate in worms any organ of hearing, from
which must be concluded that they are insensible to sounds. The shrill
notes of a metallic whistle sounded near them, and the deepest and
loudest tones of a bassoon, failed to awaken the least notice. Although
indifferent to modulations in the air, audible to human ears, yet
they are extremely sensitive to vibrations in any solid object. Even
the light and delicate tread of a robin affrights and sends them deep
into their burrows. It has been said that if the ground is beaten,
or otherwise made to tremble, that worms believe they are pursued by
a mole and leave their burrows, but this does not stand the test of
experiment, for the writer has frequently beaten the ground in many
places where these creatures abounded, but not one emerged. A worm’s
entire body is sensitive to contact, the slightest puff of air from the
mouth causing an instant retreat. When a worm first comes out of its
burrow it generally moves the much-extended anterior extremity of its
body from side to side in all directions, apparently as an object of
touch, and there is good reason to believe that they are thus enabled
to gain a general knowledge of the form of an object. Touch, including
in this term the perception of a vibration, seems much the most highly
developed of all their senses. The sense of smell is quite feeble, and
is apparently confined to the perception of certain odors. They are
quite indifferent to the human breath, even when tainted by tobacco,
or to a pellet of cotton-wool with a few drops of Millefleur’s perfume
when held by pincers and moved about within a few inches of them. The
perception of such an unnatural odor would be of no service to them.
Now, as such timid creatures would almost certainly exhibit some signs
of any new impression, we may reasonably conclude that they did not
perceive these odors. But when cabbage leaves and pieces of onion were
employed, both of which are devoured with much relish by worms, the
result was different. These, with bits of fresh raw meat, have been
buried in pots beneath one-fourth of an inch of common garden soil, or
sometimes laid on pieces of tin foil in the earth, the ground being
pressed down slightly, so as not to prevent the emission of any odor,
and yet they were always discovered by the worms that were placed
in the pots, and removed after varying periods of time. These facts
indicate that worms possess some power of smell, and that they discover
by this means odoriferous and much-coveted kinds of food.

That all animals which feed on various substances possess the sense of
taste, is a wise presumption. This is certainly the case with worms.
Cabbage leaves are much liked by worms, and it would seem that they
are able to distinguish between the different varieties, but this may
perhaps be owing to differences in their texture. When leaves of the
cabbage, horse-radish and onion were given together, they manifestly
preferred the last to the others. Celery is preferred to the leaves of
the cabbage, lime-tree, ampelopsis and parsnip, and the leaves of the
wild cherry and carrots, especially the latter, to all the others.
That the worms have a preference for one taste over another, is still
further shown from what follows. Pieces of the leaves of cabbage,
turnip, horse-radish and onion have been fed to the worms, mingled with
the leaves of an Artemisia and of the culinary sage, thyme and mint,
differing in no material degree in texture from the foregoing four, yet
quite as strong in taste, but the latter were quite neglected excepting
those of the mint, which were slightly nibbled, but the others were all
attacked and had to be renewed.

There is little to be noted about the mental qualities of worms. They
have been seen to be timid creatures. Their eagerness for certain
kinds of food manifestly shows that they must enjoy the pleasure of
eating. So strong is their sexual passion that they overcome for a time
their dread of light. They seem to have a trace of social feeling, for
they are not disturbed by crawling over each other’s bodies, and they
sometimes lie in contact. Although remarkably deficient in the several
sense-organs, yet this does not necessarily preclude intelligence, for
it has been shown that when their attention is engaged they neglect
impressions to which they would otherwise have attended, and attention,
as is well known, indicates the presence of a mind of some kind. A few
actions are performed instinctively, that is, all the individuals,
including the young, perform each action in nearly the same manner.
The various species of Perichæta eject their castings so as to
construct towers, and the burrows of the Common Earth-worm--_Lumbricus
terrestris_--are smoothly lined with fine earth and often with little
stones, and the mouth with leaves. One of their strongest instincts is
the plugging up of the mouths of their burrows with various objects,
the very young worms acting in a similar manner. But some degree of
intelligence is manifested, as will subsequently appear.

Almost everything is eaten by worms. They swallow enormous quantities
of earth, from which they extract any digestible matter it may
contain. Large numbers of half-decayed leaves of all kinds, excepting
a few that are too tough and unpleasant to the taste, and likewise
petioles, peduncles, and decayed flowers. Fresh leaves are consumed
as well. Particles of sugar, licorice and starch, and bits of raw and
roasted meat, and preferably raw fat, are eaten when they come into
their possession, but the last article with a better relish than any
other substance given to them. They are cannibals to a certain extent,
and have been known to eat the dead bodies of their own companions.

The digestive fluid of worms, according to León Frédéricq, is analogous
in nature to the pancreatic secretion of the higher animals, and this
conclusion agrees perfectly with the kinds of food which they consume.
Pancreatic juice emulsifies fat, dissolves fibrin, and worms greedily
devour fat and eat raw meat. It converts starch into grape-sugar with
wonderful rapidity, and the digestive fluid of worms acts upon the
starch of leaves. But worms live chiefly on half-decayed leaves, and
these would be useless to them unless they could digest the cellulose
forming the cell-walls, for all other nutritious substances, as is well
known, are almost completely withdrawn from leaves shortly before they
fall off. It has been ascertained that cellulose, though very little
or not at all attacked by the gastric juice of the higher animals, is
acted on by that from the pancreas, and so worms eat the leaves as much
for the cellulose as for the starch they contain. The half-decayed or
fresh leaves which are intended for food are dragged into the mouths
of their burrows to a depth of from one to three inches, and are then
moistened with a secreted fluid, which has been assumed to hasten their
decay, but which, from its alkaline nature, and from its acting both
on the starch-granules and on the protoplasmic contents of the cells,
is not of the nature of saliva, but a pancreatic secretion, and of
the same kind as is found in the intestines of worms. As the leaves
which are dragged into the burrows are often dry and shrivelled, it
is indispensable for the unarmed mouths of worms that they should
first be moistened and softened, their disintegration being thereby the
more readily effected. Fresh leaves, however soft and tender they may
be, are similarly treated, probably from habit. Thus the leaves are
partially digested before they are taken into the alimentary canal, an
instance of extra-stomachal digestion, whose nearest analogy is to be
found in such plants as Dionæa and Drosera, for in them animal matter
is digested and converted into peptone, not within a stomach, but on
the surfaces of the leaves.

But no portion of the economy of worms has been more the subject of
speculation than the calciferous glands. About as many theories have
been advanced on their utility as there have been observers. Judging
from their size and from their rich supply of blood-vessels, they must
be of vast importance to these animals. They consist of three pairs,
which in the Common Earth-worm debouch into the alimentary canal in
front of the gizzard, but posteriorly to it, in some genera. The two
posterior pairs are formed by lamellæ, diverticula from the œsophagus,
which are coated with a pulpy cellular layer, with the outer cells
lying free in infinite numbers. If one of these glands is punctured
and squeezed, a quantity of white, pulpy matter exudes, consisting of
these free cells, which are minute bodies, varying in diameter from
two to six millimetres. They contain in their centres a small quantity
of excessively fine granular matter, that looks so like oil globules
that many scientists are deceived by its appearance. When treated with
acetic acid they quickly dissolve with effervescence. An addition of
oxalate of ammonia to the solution throws down a white precipitate,
showing that the cells contain carbonate of lime. The two anterior
glands differ a little in shape from the four posterior ones by being
more oval, and also conspicuously in generally containing several
small, or two or three larger, or a single very large concretion of
carbonate of lime, as much as one and one-half millimetres in diameter.
With respect to the function of the calciferous glands, it is likely
that they primarily serve as organs of excretion, and secondarily as
an aid to digestion. Worms consume many fallen leaves. It is known
that lime goes on accumulating in leaves until they drop off the
parent-plant, instead of being re-absorbed into the stem or roots,
like various other organic and inorganic substances, and worms would
therefore be liable to become charged with this earth, unless there
was some special apparatus for its excretion, and for this purpose the
calciferous glands are ably adapted. On the other hand, the carbonate
of lime, which is excreted by the glands, aids the digestive process
under ordinary circumstances. Leaves during their decay generate an
abundance of various kinds of acids, which have been grouped together
under the term of humus acids. These half-decayed leaves, which are
swallowed by worms in large quantities, would, therefore, after having
been moistened and triturated in the alimentary canal, be apt to
produce such acids, and in the case of several worms, whose alimentary
canals were examined, their contents were plainly shown by litmus
paper to be decidedly acid. This acidity cannot be attributed to the
nature of the digestive fluid, for pancreatic juice is alkaline,
and so also is the secretion which is poured out of the mouths of
worms for the preparation of the leaves for consumption. With worms
not only the contents of the intestines, but their ejected matter
or the castings are generally acid. The digestive fluid of worms
resembles in its action, as already stated, the pancreatic secretion
of the higher animals, and in these latter pancreatic digestion is
necessarily alkaline, and the action will not take place unless some
alkali be present; and the activity of an alkaline juice is arrested
by acidification, and hindered by neutralization. Therefore is seems
probable that innumerable calciferous cells, which are emptied from
the four posterior glands in the alimentary canal, serve to neutralize
more or less completely the acids generated there by the half-decayed
leaves. These cells, as has been seen, are instantly dissolved by a
small quantity of acetic acid, and as they do not always suffice to
render of no effect the contents of the upper part of the alimentary
canal, it is probable that the lime is aggregated into concretions,
in the anterior pair of glands, in order that some may be conveyed to
the posterior parts of the intestine, where these concretions would
be rolled about among the acid contents. The concretions found in the
intestines and in the castings often present a worn appearance, but
whether due to attrition or chemical corrosion it is impossible to
say. That they are formed for the sake of acting as mill stones, as
Claparède believed, and of thus assisting in the trituration of food,
is not at all likely, as this object is already attained by the stones
that are present in the gizzards and intestines.

In dragging leaves into their burrows worms generally seize the thin
edge of a leaf with their mouths, between the projecting upper and
lower lip, the thick and strong pharynx at the same time being pushed
forwards within their bodies, so as to afford a _point de resistance_
for the upper lip; but in the case of broad and flat objects the
pointed anterior extremity of the body, after being brought into
contact with an object of this kind, is drawn within the adjoining
rings, so that it becomes truncated and as thick as the rest of the
body. This part is then seen to swell a little, seemingly from the
pharynx being pushed a little forwards. By a slight withdrawal of
the pharynx, or by its expansion, a vacuum is produced beneath the
truncated, slimy end of the body whilst in contact with the object,
and by this means the two adhere firmly together. Worms can attach
themselves to an object in the same manner under the water.

[Illustration: COMMON EARTH-WORMS.

Out on a Foraging Excursion.]

As worms have no teeth, and their mouths consist of very soft tissue,
it may be presumed that they consume by means of suction of the edges
and parenchyma of fresh leaves after they have been softened by the
digestive fluid. They cannot attack such strong leaves as those of
sea-kale or large and thick leaves of ivy. They not only seize leaves
and other objects for purposes of food, but for plugging up the mouths
of their burrows. Flower-peduncles, decayed twigs of trees, bits of
paper, feathers, tufts of wool and horse-hair are some of the many
things other than leaves that are dragged into their burrows for this
purpose. Many hundred leaves of the pine-tree have been found drawn by
their bases into burrows. Where fallen leaves are abundant, especially
ordinary dicotyledonous leaves, many more than can be used are
collected over the mouth of a burrow, so that a small pile of unused
leaves is left like a roof over those which have been partly dragged
in. A leaf in being dragged a little way into a cylindrical burrow
necessarily becomes much folded or crumpled, and when another is drawn
in, this is done exteriorly to the first, and so on with succeeding
leaves, till finally they all become closely folded and pressed
together. Sometimes the mouth of a burrow is enlarged, or a fresh one
is made close by, so that a larger number of leaves may be drawn in.
Generally the interstices between the drawn-in leaves are filled with
moist, viscid earth ejected from their bodies, thus rendering them
doubly secure. Hundreds of such plugged burrows may be seen during the
autumnal and early winter months.

When leaves, petioles, sticks, etc., cannot be obtained for the mouths
of their burrows, heaps of stones, smooth, rounded pebbles, are
utilized for protection. When the stones are removed and the surface
of the ground is cleared for some inches round the burrow, the worms
may be seen with their tails fixed in their burrows dragging the
stones inward by the aid of their mouths, stones weighing as much as
two ounces often being found in the little heaps, which goes to show
how strong these apparently weak creatures are. Work of this kind
is usually performed during the night, although objects have been
occasionally known to be drawn into the burrows during the day. What
advantage worms derive from plugging up the mouths of their burrows,
or from piling stones over them, cannot be satisfactorily answered.
They do not act in this manner when they eject much earth from their
burrows, for then their castings serve to cover the mouth. Perhaps the
plugs serve to protect them from the attacks of scolopenders, their
most inveterate enemies, or to enable them to remain with safety with
their heads close to the mouths of their burrows, which they like so
well to do, but which, unless protected, costs many a fellow its life.
Besides, may not the plugs check the free ingress of the lowest stratum
of air, when chilled by radiation at night, from the surrounding ground
and herbage? The last view of the matter seems especially well taken,
because worms kept in pots where there is fire, having no cold air
with which to contend, plug up their burrows in a slovenly manner, and
because they often coat the upper part of their burrows with leaves,
apparently to prevent their bodies from coming into contact with the
cold, damp earth. But the plugging-up process may undoubtedly serve
for all these purposes. Whatever the motive may be, it seems that
worms much dislike leaving the mouths of their burrows open, yet,
nevertheless, they will reopen them at night, whether or not they are
able afterwards to close them.

Considerable intelligence is shown by worms in their manner of plugging
up their burrows. If man had to plug up a cylindrical hole with such
objects as leaves, petioles or twigs, he would push them in by their
pointed ends, but if these were thin relatively to the size of the
hole, he would probably insert some by their broader ends. Intelligence
would certainly be his guide in such a case. But how worms would drag
leaves into their burrows, whether by their tips, bases, or middle
parts, has been a matter of interest to many. Darwin, who experimented
upon the subject, found it especially desirable to experiment with
plants not native to his country, for he conceived that although the
habit of dragging leaves into their burrows is undoubtedly instinctive
with worms, yet instinct could not teach them how to act in the case of
leaves about which their progenitors knew nothing. Did they act solely
through instinct, or an unvarying inherited impulse, they would draw
all kinds of leaves into their burrows in the same manner. Having no
such definite instinct, chance might be expected to determine whether
the tip, base, or middle might be seized. If the worm in each case
first tries many different methods, and follows that alone which proves
possible or the most easy, then both instinct and chance are ruled out
of the solution of the question. But to act in this manner, and to try
different methods, makes what in man would be called intelligent action.

Three species of pine-leaves are mentioned by Darwin as being regularly
drawn into the mouths of worm-burrows on the gravel-walk in his garden.
These leaves consist of two needles, which are united to a common base,
and it is by this point that they are almost invariably drawn into
the burrows. As the sharply-pointed needles diverge somewhat, and
as several are drawn into the same burrow, each tuft forms a perfect
_chevaux-de-frise_. Many tufts were pulled up in the evening, but
by the ensuing morning fresh leaves had taken their places, and the
burrows again well protected. Impossible it would be to drag these
leaves to any depth into the burrows, except by their bases, as a
worm cannot seize hold of the two leaves at the same time, and if one
alone were seized by the apex, the other would be pressed against the
ground and resist the entry of the one that was seized. That the worms
should do their work well, it was very essential that they drag the
pine-leaves into their burrows by their bases, that is, where the two
needles are conjoined. But how they are guided in this work was at
first perplexing. The difficulty, however, was soon settled. With the
assistance of his son Francis, the elder Darwin set to work to observe
worms in confinement during several nights by the aid of a dim light,
while they dragged the leaves of the aforementioned kinds into their
burrows. They were seen to move the anterior extremities of their
bodies about the leaves, and on several occasions when they touched
the sharp end of the needle they suddenly withdrew as though they had
been pricked, but it is doubtful that they were hurt, for they are
indifferent to sharp objects, being known to swallow rose-thorns and
small splinters of glass. It may be doubted whether the sharp end of
the needle serves to tell them that is the wrong end to seize, for the
points of many were cut off for the length of an inch, and these leaves
were always drawn in by their bases and not by the cut-off ends. The
worms, it seemed, almost instantly perceived as soon as they had seized
a leaf in the proper manner. Many leaves were cemented together at the
top, or tied together by fine thread, and these in the majority of
instances were dragged in by their bases, which leads to the conclusion
that there must be something attractive to worms in the base of
pine-leaves, notwithstanding that few ordinary leaves are drawn in by
their base or footstalk. Leaves of other plants, and also the petioles
of some compound plants, as well as triangular bits of paper, dry and
damp, were experimented with, and the manner of seizing the objects and
bearing them into their burrows were as amusing as they were novel and
interesting. The leaves and stems used were such as the worms had not
been accustomed to in their respective haunts.

When the several cases experimented on are considered, one can hardly
escape from the conclusion that some degree of intelligence is shown
by worms in plugging up their burrows. Each particular object is
seized in too uniform a manner, and from causes which we can generally
understand, for the result to be attributed to mere chance. That every
object has not been drawn in by its pointed end may be accounted for
by labor having been saved by some being carried in by their broader
ends. There is no doubt that worms are governed by instinct in plugging
up their burrows, and it might be expected that they would have been
taught in every particular instance how to act independently of
intelligence. It is very difficult to judge when intelligence comes
into play. The actions of animals, appearing due to intelligence,
may be performed through inherited habit without any intelligence,
although aboriginally acquired, or the habit may be acquired through
the preservation and inheritance of some other action, and in the
latter case the new habit will have been acquired independently of
intelligence throughout the entire course of its development. There is
no _à priori_ improbability in worms having acquired special instincts
through either of these two latter means. Nevertheless it is incredible
that instincts should have been developed in reference to objects, such
as the leaves and petioles of foreign plants, wholly unknown to the
progenitors of the worms which have acted in the manner just described.
Nor are their actions so unvarying or inevitable as are most true
instincts.

As worms are not controlled by special instincts in each particular
case, though possessing a general instinct to plug up their burrows,
and as chance is excluded, the next most probable conclusion is that
they try in many ways to draw in objects and finally succeed in some
one way. It is surprising, however, that an animal so low in the scale
as a worm should have the capacity to act in this way, as many higher
animals have no such capacity, the instincts of the latter often being
followed in a senseless or purposeless manner.

We can safely infer intelligence, as Mr. Romanes, who has specially
studied animals, says, only when we see an individual profiting by his
own experiences. That worms are able to judge either before or after
having drawn an object close to the mouths of their burrows how best
to drag it in, shows that they must have acquired some notion of its
general shape. This they probably acquire by touching it in many places
with the anterior extremity of their bodies, which serves them as a
tactile organ. Man, even when born blind and deaf, shows how perfect
the sense of touch may become, and if worms, which also come into being
in the same condition, have the power of acquiring some notion, however
rude, of the shape of an object and their burrows, they deserve, it
must seem to every sensible mind, to be called intelligent creatures,
for they act in such a case in nearly the same manner as a man would
under similar circumstances. That worms, which stand so low in the
scale of organization, should possess some degree of intelligence,
will doubtless strike everyone as very improbable. It may be doubted,
however, whether we know enough about the nervous system of the lower
animals to justify our natural distrust of such a conclusion. With
regard to the small size of the cerebral ganglia, we would do well
to remember what a mass of inherited knowledge, with some power of
adapting means to an end, is crowded into the minute brain of a worker
ant.

Two ways are adopted by worms in excavating their burrows. Either the
earth is pushed away on all sides or it is swallowed by the animal.
In the former case the worm inserts the stretched-out and attenuated
anterior extremity of its body into any little crevice or hole, and the
pharynx is pushed forward into this part, which consequently swells
and pushes away the earth on all sides, the anterior extremity thus
acting as a wedge. When placed in loose mould a worm will bury itself
in between two and three minutes, but in earth that is moderately
pressed down it often requires as many as fifteen minutes for its
disappearance. But whenever a worm burrows to a depth of several feet
in undisturbed compact ground, it must form its passage by swallowing
the earth, for it is impossible that the ground could yield on all
sides to the pressure of the pharynx when pushed forward within the
worm’s body. Great depths are reached only during continued dry weather
and severe cold, the burrows sometimes attaining to a depth of from
seven to eight feet. The burrows run down perpendicularly, or, more
commonly, obliquely, and are sometimes said to branch. Generally, or
invariably as I think, they are lined with fine, dark-colored earth
voided by the worm, so that at first they must be made a little wider
than their ultimate diameter. Little globular pellets of voided earth,
still soft and viscid, often dot the walls of fresh burrows, and these
are spread out on all sides by the worm as it travels up or down its
burrow, the lining thus formed becoming very compact and smooth when
nearly dry and closely fitting the worm’s body. Excellent points of
support are thus afforded for the minute reflexed bristles which
project in rows on all sides from the body, thus rendering the burrow
well adapted for the rapid movement of the animal. The lining appears
also to strengthen the walls, and perhaps saves the worm’s body from
being scratched, which would assuredly be the case when the burrows,
as is occasionally observed, pass through a layer of sifted coal
cinders. The burrows are thus seen to be not mere excavations, but
may be compared with tunnels lined with cement. Those which run far
down into the ground generally, or at least frequently, terminate in
little chambers, where one or several worms pass the winter rolled up
into a ball. Small pebbles and seeds as large as grains of mustard are
carried down from the surface by being swallowed or within the mouths
of worms, as well as bits of glass and tile, whose only use in their
winter-quarters seems to be the prevention of their closely coiled-up
bodies from coming into contiguity with the surrounding cold soil, for
such contact would perhaps interfere with their respiration, which is
effected by the skin alone.

After swallowing earth, whether for making its burrow or for food, the
earth-worm soon comes to the surface to empty its body. The rejected
matter is thoroughly mixed with the intestinal secretions, and is thus
rendered viscid. After becoming dried, it sets hard. When in a very
liquid state the earth is thrown out in little spurts, and when not so
liquid by a slow peristaltic movement of the intestine. It is not cast
indifferently on any side, but first on one and then on another, the
tail being used almost like a trowel. The little heap being formed the
worm seemingly avoids, for the sake of safety, the use of its tail,
the earthy matter being forced up through the previously deposited
soft mass. The mouth of the same burrow is used for this purpose for a
considerable time. When a worm comes to the surface to eject earth, the
tail protrudes, but when it collects leaves its head must protrude, and
thus worms must have the power of performing the difficult feat, as it
seems to us, of turning round in their closely-fitting burrows. Worms
do not always eject their castings upon the surface of the ground,
for when burrowing in newly turned-up earth, or between the stems of
banked-up plants, they deposit their castings in such places, and even
hollows beneath large stems lying on the surface of the ground are
filled up with their ejections. Old burrows collapse in time. The fine
earth voided by worms, if spread out uniformly, would form in many
places a layer of one-fifth of an inch in thickness. But this large
amount is not deposited within the old unused burrows. If the burrows
did not collapse, the whole ground would be first thickly riddled with
holes to the depth of ten inches or more, which in fifty years would
grow into a hollow, unsupported place ten inches deep.

Hardly any animal is more universally distributed than worms. The
earth-worm is found in all parts of the world, and some of the genera
have an enormous range. They inhabit the most isolated islands,
abounding in Iceland, and also being known to exist in the West Indies,
St. Helena, Madagascar, New Caledonia and Tahiti. Worms from Kergulen
Land in the Antarctic regions have been described by Ray Lankester,
and Darwin has reported them as being found in the Falkland Islands.
How they reach such isolated islands is quite unknown. They are easily
killed by salt water, and it does not seem likely that young worms or
their egg-capsules could be carried in earth adhering to the feet or
beaks of land-birds, especially to Kergulen Land, for it is not now
inhabited by any terrestrial bird.

We have seen that worms are found in nearly every part of the globe,
that they are very numerous, as many as 348,480 having been found in an
acre of rich ground in New Zealand, and that by the peculiar economy
of their nature they are fitted to accomplish a great deal of good
in the earth. They have played a more important part in the history
of the world than most persons would at first suppose. In many parts
of England, according to Darwin, a weight of more than ten tons of
dry earth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the
surface in each acre of land, so that the entire superficial bed of
vegetable mould passes through their bodies in the course of every few
years; and in most parts of the forests and pasture-lands of Southern
Brazil, where several species of earth-worms abound, the whole soil to
a depth of a quarter of a metre looks as though it had passed through
the intestines of worms, even where scarcely any castings are to be
observed upon the surface. The upper crust is continually being eaten
and ejected by them, thus aiding the fertility of the soil, as well as
conveying water and air to the interior by the myriads of burrows which
they drill. The vast quantities of leaves that they drag into their
holes tend also to enrich the ground. Nor does their good end here.
They cover up seeds, undermine rocks, burying them up, and to their
labors is due the preservation of many ruins and ancient works of art.
Numerous old-time Roman villas have been discovered beneath the ground
in England, whose entombments were undoubtedly caused by the worms that
undermined them and deposited their castings upon the floors, till
finally, aided by other causes, they disappeared from sight.

When a wide, turf-covered expanse of earth is beheld, we would do well
to remember that its smoothness, upon which so much of its beauty
depends, is largely due to all the inequalities having been slowly
levelled by worms. That all the surface-mould of any such expanse has
passed, and will again pass, every few years through the bodies of
worms is a marvellous reflection, and one which should not be lightly
dismissed from the mind. The most ancient, as well as one of the most
valuable of man’s inventions, is the plough. But long before man
existed the land was in fact regularly ploughed, and still continues
to be ploughed, by earth-worms. No other animal has played such a part
in history as have these lowly-organized creatures. True it is that
corals, which are still lower in the scale of animals, have performed
more conspicuous work in the innumerable reefs and islands they have
built in the great oceans, but their work is confined to the tropical
zones, while that of the earth-worm is well-nigh universal. Verily it
is by the little things in life that the Creator has erected the most
stupendous monuments to show forth His infinite power and wisdom.

FIDDLER- AND HERMIT-CRABS.

Among our first acquaintances of the sea-shore are sure to be a number
of merry little sprites which do not seem to have yet mastered the
lesson of walking straight ahead. Their movements will be seen to be
in a direction at right angles to that towards which the head points.
It is a very interesting sight to watch these apparently one-sided
creatures hurrying off in their lateral progression towards their
burrows in the sand or mud, or in quest of food. Pass them, and you
will be surprised to see how quickly some of them will reverse their
motion, seemingly without so much as pausing to glance at their
pursuer, their machinery appearing to have given out at one end, thus
compelling them to reverse and travel back over their old courses.

These little Fiddler- or Calling-crabs, as they are termed, are the
most pronounced offenders against the commonly accepted rule of proper
walking. Scattered all over the salt marshes and mud-flats, at about
high-water mark, may be noted their burrows, which are about as large
as a thrust made by an umbrella point, and from which can be frequently
seen the little animal peeping forth, preparatory to making a sally.
At another part of the flat, where the noise of your footsteps has not
given signals of danger, hundreds of crabblings are busy with their
out-door occupations. Draw near to them, and away they scamper to their
dwellings, males and females intermingled promiscuously, the former
recognizable by the undue development of one of the claws, which is
carried transversely in front of the head. When the animal is provoked,
this claw is brandished in a somewhat menacing manner, which has been
likened by some to the pulling of a violin bow, and by others to the
action of beckoning or calling, and hence the names which have been
applied to these eccentric creatures.

Have you a desire for a more intimate knowledge of the animal, take him
up by the big claw, and you can now examine him without the least fear
of incurring the proofs of his displeasure. Two bead-like, compound
eyes, supported on long stalks, which can be readily withdrawn into the
protecting shield of the carapace, will be observed. From the manner
of this support, which allows of vision in almost every direction, the
name of stalk-eyed crustaceans has been given to the group in which
this structure is found. The two pairs of feelers, which you see in
front of the eyes, are known as antennæ and antennules. They are of
peculiar interest, for, aside from acting as feelers, they subserve
the functions of smelling and hearing, the auditory apparatus being
lodged in the base of the smaller pair. There are ten feet, and this
is a character of importance, as it is a feature distinctive of the
ten-footed, or decapod, crustaceans. At first sight it appears that the
animal is devoid of a tail, but if you turn him over upon his back you
will find a very short one tucked safely under the body. A comparison
of our study of this crab with that of the lobster or cray-fish will
show that the tail, or, more properly, the abdomen, is stretched out
beyond the body proper, and that the elongation is in proportion to the
length of the animal. Two distinct groups of ten-legged, stalk-eyed
crustaceans are thus recognized, namely: the short-tailed forms, or
crabs, and the opposite, or long-tailed forms, to which the lobster and
shrimp belong, the hermit-crabs constituting an intermediate type.

Two species of the Fiddler, considerably resembling each other in
color and ornamentation, are to be found upon our Atlantic Coast. The
more common form, _Gelasimus vocator_, has a smooth, shining carapace,
while that of _Gelasimus minax_ is finely granulated and in part
tuberculated, the back of both appearing impressed with a figure very
similar to the letter H. The latter, which appears to be a vegetable
feeder, is the larger, its burrows not infrequently measuring one and a
half inches in diameter. Estuarine regions, in close proximity to fresh
water, rather than the tidal flats, are its habitat, and, in truth, it
seems to be able to get along for weeks, and even months, without any
absolute need of salt water.

[Illustration: FIDDLER-CRABS.

Two Males Fighting for a Female.]

In the excavation of their homes the Fiddlers throw up the pellets of
moist earth by means of their anterior walking legs, depositing their
burden usually at some little distance from the mouth of the burrow.
As winter approaches, the domiciliary apertures are closed up, and the
famine of winter is spent in a state of torpidity.

With the advent of spring they come forth from their brumal retreats,
and soon concern themselves with the duties incident to the propagation
of their kind. Two males are often observed contending in the fiercest
manner for the possession of a female. They strike with the formidable
claw most powerful blows, and I have often seen an opponent so
completely claw-locked as to be unutterly unable to make any determined
resistance. These contests last a long while, and finally conclude
with the complete vanquishment of one or the other of the fighting
parties, one or both sustaining at times some severe injury as the loss
of an eye-peduncle or the joint of a limb. All the while the battle
is waging, the female is a silent, passive spectator, and generally
allies herself with the successful competitor for her affections. Even
during the summer season, when the cares of brood-raising no longer
command and enslave the attention of the female, these combats are
still indulged in by the males, growing out of, as it would seem, the
lingering smarts of old animosities festering in the memory. While
these carcinological lords of the sea-side are eminently fitted for
the sparring business, the whole physiognomy of their smaller, weaker
partners bespeaks a life in which broils can have no part, a life
devoted to peaceful and domestic pursuits.

Differing widely in structure and habits from the Calling-crabs,
and affecting watery situations near the shore, are to be found the
Hermit-crabs. These sprightly little animals, which are usually of
small size, and have truly habits of their own, that stamp them at
once as being original and distinctive, are a source of never-failing
delight to the student of nature. They derive their name, as is well
known, from the seclusion into which they cast themselves as the
inhabitants of the shells of other animals, but it is probably not
generally known, however, that the rights of tenantry are oftentimes
exercised in the most arbitrary manner. Not always satisfied with
a dead shell, the Hermit-crab has been seen to raid upon a living
possessor and attempt to drag him from his home, in which operation the
assailant is often assisted by a number of his fellows, each bearing
with him his castle as defensive armor. True, the attack is probably
made in many instances for the purpose of getting possession of the
enemy as well as his belongings, and, however this may be, forcible
possession is by them considered no misdemeanor.

The body of the Hermit-crab, in the greater number of species, is
unprovided with a carapace, and, being soft and liable to injury,
the animal is compelled to seek shelter usually in a snail-shell,
winding himself about the coils, to the inner extremity of which he
attaches himself by his modified posterior feet. So securely is he
now intrenched that it is only with difficulty he can be withdrawn,
retracting himself as he does further and further within cover of the
shell. A sudden fracture of the apex of the shell, under which appears
to be the most delicate part of the animal’s body, will generally
effect a speedy dislodgment, the frightened Crab dropping from the
aperture.

With his progressive development in size the Hermit requires frequent
changes of abode. His methods in securing a new habitation are among
the most interesting of his life. He is very circumspect in his
movements, and will make several reconnoissances before he is fully
satisfied with the conditions of his prospective home, retiring after
each visit to the old shell.

CRAB WAITING FOR FOOD UNDER A ROCK.

From a photograph taken through water.]

Like many bipeds, he has his first of May, and so he goes
house-hunting. He finds a shell. Will it do? He examines it within,
feelingly if not courteously, to see whether it is to let. Satisfied on
this point, he turns it over, then turns it round, to know if it will
suit, the weight of the house being quite an item in the reckoning to
one who is to carry it upon his back. All things being right, his mind
is made up to move, and quickly, too, at that, lest he miss his chance
through some more active fellow house-hunter who is on the alert. Out
comes the body from the old house, and pop it goes into the new. The
resolution to move, the surrender of the old house, and the occupancy
of the new, were all effected within a fraction of a second of time.

[Illustration: WARTY HERMIT-CRABS.

One at Home, the Other House-Hunting.]

But the matter does not always go on pleasantly. Two house-hunters may
find the same tenement. Should they both desire it, then comes the tug
of war. Dwell together they neither can nor will. Recourse is had to
battle, in which the stronger proves his claim right by the rule of
might. In these encounters terrible mutilations quite often occur.

As an offset to all this bad feeling and bloodshed, it is a sad sight
to see the little Hermit when his time comes to die. However droll
his career may have been, he is now very grave, for he knows he must
part with life and all its joys and pleasures. Who can explain the
strange fact? The poor little fellow comes out of his house to die.
Yes, to die. To us humans home is the only fit place to die in, but
to Eupagurus it has no attractions at this solemn time. Poor fellow!
With a sad look and a melancholy movement he quits of his own will the
house for which he fought so well. Those feelers that often stood out
so provokingly, and that were quite as often poked into everybody’s
business, now lie prone and harmless; the eyes have lost their
pertness, and dead, stone dead, the houseless Hermit lies upon that
moss-covered rock.

There are two species of Hermit-crab occurring on our coast, which
are readily distinguishable from each other by their size and the
difference in the shape of the big claw. _Eupagurus pollicaris_, the
Warty Hermit, is the larger species. He inhabits the shells of the big
Naticas and the Fulgurs, and can be easily recognized by his coarse,
broad claws, which close up in great part the aperture of the shell
which he occupies. In the more common form, _Eupagurus longicarpus_,
which seldom attains a length exceeding an inch, the legs are all much
elongated, giving the animal a very slender appearance.

FUNNEL-WEB BUILDER.

Simple nests and tubes are all the majority of spiders construct for
their homes. The larger and better known webs for catching insects are
made by comparatively few species. He who is astir in the grass-fields
on damp summer mornings, will everywhere see innumerous flat webs, from
an inch or two to a foot in diameter, which weather-wise folks consider
prognostic of a fair day. These webs may always be found upon the grass
at the proper season, but only become visible from a distance when
the dew is upon them, making the earth appear as covered by an almost
continuous carpet of silk.

By far the greater number of these nests is of the form which is termed
funnel-webs, which consist of a concave sheet of silk, constituted of
strong threads, crossed by finer ones, which the author spins with the
long hind-spinnerets, swinging them from side to side, and laying down
a band of threads at each stroke, the many hundred threads extending in
all directions to the supporting spears of grass. The web is so close
and tight that the footsteps of the spider can be distinctly heard by
the attentive, listening ear as she runs hither and thither over its
scarcely bending surface. At one side of the web is a tube, leading
down among the grass-stems, which serves as a hiding-place for the
owner of the web. Here, at the top, and just out of sight, the spider
ordinarily stands, waiting for something to light upon the web, when
she eagerly rushes out, seizing the prey unluckily caught and carrying
it into her tube to eat. If too formidable an insect comes upon the
web, she turns herself round, beating a precipitate retreat out of the
lower end of her funnel and soon is lost beneath the mesh of enveloping
and interlacing grasses.

Where favorably located, these webs remain through the entire season,
and are enlarged, as the spider grows, by additions on the outer edges,
and are supported by threads running up into the neighboring plants.
Sometimes the webs are built in close proximity to a stone partially
imbedded in the earth, the bottom of the funnel opening slightly
underneath the stone, which secures to the spider a convenient harbor
in case of threatening danger.

Agalenidæ, as our funnel-web weavers are called, are long-legged, brown
spiders, in which the head part of the cephalo-thorax is higher than
the thoracic part, and distinctly separated from it by grooves or marks
at the sides. The eyes are usually in two rows, but in Agalena the
middle eyes of both rows are much higher than the others. The feet have
three claws, and the posterior pairs of spinnerets are two-jointed and
usually longer than the others. _Agalena nævia_, the technical name of
our Common Grass Spider, abounds in all parts of the United States, but
its very commonness is the principal reason why it is so little known
except by the trained naturalist, its very familiarity leading the
average man and woman to look upon it with contempt.

[Illustration: AGALENA AND HER FUNNEL-WEB.

House-Fly, Caught in the Toils, Becomes a Victim.]

Persons unfamiliar with spiders find it difficult to distinguish the
young from the old, and male from female. This is caused, in part, by
the great differences between different ages and sexes of the same
spider, on account of which they are supposed to belong to distinct
species. The adult males and females, however, are easily distinguished
from each other, and from the young, by the complete development of
organs peculiar to each sex, the palpal organs on the ends of the palpi
in the males, and the epigynum, a hard swollen place just in front
of the opening of the ovaries in the females. Usually the males are
smaller than their partners, and have, in proportion to their size,
smaller abdomens and longer legs. They are generally darker colored,
especially on the head and front part of the body, and markings which
are distinct in the female coalesce and become darker in the male. In
most species these differences are not very great, but in some, Argiope
and Nephila for examples, where the males are about one-tenth as large
as the females, one would hardly suppose, without other evidence, that
the males and females had any relationship to each other. The palpal
organs and the epigynum are sexual characters which do not attain their
functional value until after the last moult has been effected.

Spiders are naturally very selfish creatures. Their chief concern in
life seems to be the gratification of their desires for food. They are
eminently unsocial, the sexes preferring to live solitary lives. It is
only when actuated by amatory influences that the females will tolerate
their weaker lords, and in some instances it is only by stratagem
and agility that the latter are able to accomplish the fulfilment of
the law of their being, the females by their ugly, vicious tempers
resisting to the utmost. In the case of Agalena the male is the
stronger of the two. He, at the proper time, when the reproductive
cells are matured, takes the female in his powerful mandibles, lays
her gently on one side, and inserts one of his palpi, whose little
sacs had previously been filled with the fecundating discharge, into
the epigynum underneath. After a time, necessarily brief, he rises on
tiptoe, turns her around and over, so that she comfortably lies on the
other side, her head being in the opposite direction, and inserts the
other palpus. All through the operation the female lies as though she
was dead. The ends of nature being served, the sexes separate, the male
returning to the solitary life he previously led, while the female
busies herself in providing for the duties of maternity.

The eggs becoming mature, the latter proceeds to make a little web
and lays them in it, practising the utmost care. She now covers them
over with silk, which she weaves into a cocoon, where the young remain
some time after they are hatched. Seldom is the laying seen, for it
generally happens in the night-time, or in retired places. Often, in
confinement, the spider refuses to lay at all. An egg of a spider, like
that of any other animal, is a cell which separates from the body of
the female, and subsequently unites with one or more cells that have
separated from the body of the male. This process of union, termed
fertilization, doubtless takes place when the eggs have attained their
full size and are about to be laid. After being laid and hardened it is
a very easy matter to watch their development. All that is necessary
to be done is to cover the egg to be examined with oil, alcohol or any
liquid that will wet it, for this tends to make the shell transparent.
Eggs laid in summer are ready to hatch in a fortnight, while those
laid in autumn develop slowly all through the winter. A day or two are
occupied in hatching. When the time has arrived the shell, or more
properly the skin, cracks along the lines between the legs, and comes
off in rags, and the spider slowly stretches itself and creeps about.
Pale and soft it appears, and devoid of hairs or spines, but its feet
are armed with small claws. In two or three days it gets rid of another
skin, and begins to assume a spider-like appearance, the eyes becoming
dark-colored, the thoracic marks growing more distinct, and a dark
stripe appearing across the edge of each segment of the abdomen. The
hairs are now long, but few in number, and arranged in rows across the
abdomen and along the middle of the thorax. Before the next moult they
usually forsake the cocoon, and live together for a short time in a web
spun in common. Where larger broods of young spiders live together,
they soon show cannibal-like qualities, and if kept in confinement one
or two out of a cocoon-full may be raised without recourse to any other
food.

As spiders grow larger, they must moult from time to time. This is an
interesting process. The spider hangs herself by a thread from the
spinnerets to the centre of the web. In a short time the skin cracks
around the thorax, just over the first joints of the legs, and the
top part falls forward, being held only at the front edge. The skin
of the abdomen now breaks irregularly along the sides and back, and
shrinks together in a bunch, leaving the spider suspended only by a
short thread from the spinnerets, her legs still being trammelled by
the old skin. Fifteen minutes of violent exertion releases her from the
encumbrance, when she drops down, hanging by her spinnerets like a wet
rag. She can do nothing in this condition, not even draw her legs away
from an approaching hand. In ten or twelve minutes the legs show signs
of strengthening, and she is able to draw them gradually towards her. A
few up-and-down movements, and she manages to get into the web again.

That which, more than anything else, discriminates spiders from other
animals is their habit of spinning webs. Some of the mites spin
irregular threads upon plants, or cocoons for their eggs, and many
insects cocoons in which to undergo their changes from larva to imago,
but in the spiders the spinning-organs are much more complicated, and
used for a greater variety of purposes, for making egg-cocoons, silk
linings to their nests, and nets for catching insects. The spider’s
thread differs from that of insects, in being constituted of a great
number of finer threads laid together, while soft enough to coalesce
into one. Each spinneret is provided with a number of little tubes,
which convey the viscid liquid that forms the thread from glands in the
spider’s body. In Agalena the two hinder spinnerets are long, and have
spinning-tubes along the under side of the last joint.

When about to produce a thread the spider presses the spinnerets
against some object and forces out from each tube enough of the
secretion to adhere to it, when the spinnerets are moved away, drawing
the viscid liquid out, which hardens at once into threads for each
tube. A band of threads is formed when the spinnerets are kept apart,
but when closed together the fine threads unite into one or more large
ones. Commonly the spinning is aided by the hinder feet, which guide
the thread, keeping it clear of surrounding objects, and even pulling
it from the spinnerets.

Spiders are best known and hated as animals that bite. Their
biting-apparatus, the mandibles, are located in front of the head.
Partly in the basal joints of these organs and partly in the head, the
poison-glands are seated, from which is discharged through a tube the
venom, which makes spiders so much to be feared. This tube opens at the
point of the claw of the mandible. When the apparatus is not in use
the claws are closed up against the parts between the rows of teeth;
but when the jaws are opened to bite the claws are turned outward, so
that their points can be made to penetrate anything that comes between
the jaws. The ordinary function of the mandibles is the killing and
crushing of insects, so that the soft parts can be eaten by the spider,
and in this preparation they are substantially aided by the maxillæ.
Spiders will sometimes chew an insect for hours, until it becomes a
mere ball of skin, only swallowing such bits as may happen to be sucked
in with the blood. Let alone and unmolested, they bite nothing except
insects that are useful for food. But when attacked and cornered,
all species open their jaws and bite if they can, their ability to
do so depending upon their size and the strength of their jaws.
Notwithstanding the large number of pimples and stings ascribed to
spiders, undoubted cases of their biting the human skin are exceedingly
rare, and the stories of death, insanity and lameness from spider-bites
are probably all untrue. Many experiments have been made to test the
effect of the bites of spiders on animals. Insects succumb most readily
to their bites, some sooner than others, but birds, except when bitten
by the larger Mygale, recover after the lapse of a few hours. The
effect upon man, even when the bite is deep enough to draw blood, is
like the pricks of a needle, attended by little or no inflammation or
pain. Even in cases where death among insects and birds ensues it is
claimed by the authorities, men as eminent as Blackwall, Moggridge and
Dufour, that the secretion from spiders’ jaws is not poisonous, but
that the animals die, when bitten, from loss of blood and mechanical
injury.

Such is the prejudice against the spider, that its presence, no matter
where found, whether in the open field or in a corner of the house,
is an inducement for its inveterate enemy, man, to sweep it to the
ground or floor and crush its frail life out with one blow of the foot.
Few know, or care to know, it would seem, the good it does for man.
He owes to it, in a large measure, the protection of his crops, and
no little of the comfort he enjoys in life. Spiders are carnivorous
creatures, and destroy vast number of insects, many of which are man’s
worst enemies. They merit, and deservingly, too, his kindness and
protection for the benefits they confer.

Tarantulas have been supposed to produce epilepsy by their bites,
which could only be relieved by music of certain kinds. Such stories,
and they have been widely circulated and believed, are the veriest
nonsense, for tarantula-bites produce no such effects nowadays. These
spiders, which live in holes in sand, out of which they reach after
passing insects, are no more savage in their habits than other spiders,
for Dufour, a celebrated French naturalist, once kept one that soon
learned to take flies from his fingers without manifesting the least
disposition to bite. Different species quickly learn, when treated
with kindness, to regard man as their friend. I have seen Agalena take
food from the hand out of a pair of forceps, or water from a brush,
and even to reach on tiptoe after it from the mouth of a bottle placed
for her accommodation. Though naturally timid and shy, and prone
to flee to her funnel on man’s approach, yet she has been known to
permit the most unexpected familiarities without fear or resentment.
Many a female has taken from my hand the proffered fly, and submitted
to the gentle caresses of my finger down the back and abdomen with
the most pleasurable satisfaction. They have come at the sound of my
voice, dancing upon their sheeted web like one gone mad, so perfectly
carried away with delight. An interesting experience of last summer
during a brief stay in the country seems apropos at this time. While
sauntering carelessly along a forest-road I came unexpectedly upon a
rustic bridge, with a railing on one side, which overspanned a small
water-course. Leaning for rest and support against the railing, soon
my attention was arrested by a huge female spider, which I recognized
as _Epeira domiciliorum_. She was evidently in quest of something,
as I was led to suspect from her seemingly thoughtful and deliberate
movements. I watched her closely and criticisingly for a long while,
and in one of her contemplative moods, when she stood perfectly
motionless and fixed as it were to the railing, I reached out my
finger rather impulsively and began stroking her along the abdomen,
a familiarity which she did not resent, and which seemed to give her
the most intense delight. When the caressing had ceased, she would
turn round and confront her newly-made acquaintance, but the lifting
of the finger was always the signal for her to assume an attitude of
the most perfect quiescence. That she enjoyed these little attentions
there cannot be a shadow of doubt, or actions are no use in the
interpretation of feeling. Had they been painful, she would have sought
relief in flight, or in the manifestation of an untoward disposition
towards her unintentional persecutor.

BOOK-LOVERS.

Living in chinks and crannies of ranges in our homes, and occasionally
in bookcases and closets where glutinous and sugary matters abound,
but which has probably not been met with elsewhere, is a strange but
beautiful little creature which, as far as can be determined, goes
through the brief round of its existence without a name to distinguish
it from its fellows.

Few entomologists have given any special attention to its family
relationships. The possession of certain bristle-like appendages which
terminate the abdomen, and which are no doubt comparable with the
abdominal legs of the Myriopods, or Thousand Legs, classes it with the
Bristle-tails, or Lepismas. In general form, a likeness to the larva
of Perla, a net-veined neuropterous insect, is manifest, or to the
narrow-bodied species of Blattariæ, or Cockroaches, when divested of
wings.

_Lepisma saccharina_, of Europe, which is indistinguishable from our
ordinary American form, is far from uncommon in old, damp houses. Its
structure is less complicated than the heat-loving species to which I
have alluded, and there are likewise differences of habits which show
themselves to the close investigator of natural phenomena.

Not unlike the cockroaches, which our little denizen of the hearth
somewhat vaguely resembles in form, it affects hot, dry localities, and
is always astir at nights in quest of its fare, for it disdains the
light of the day and the consequent publicity of its deeds of shame and
plunder.

Many a housewife in the discharge of duty has unearthed, so to speak,
the miscreant from its hidden retreat, and sought by foot or hand to
crush the life that dares obtrude its uncleanly presence in her larder,
but the cunning, swift-footed Lepisma darts off, like a streak of
light, to some near-by crack or breach, where it manages to hide from
threatening danger. The bodies of these nimble, silent-moving creatures
being coated in a suit of shining mail, which the arrangement of the
scales so very much resembles, they have a weird and ghostly look.
This appearance, and the swiftness of their movement, which the eye
can hardly trace, have led the vivid mind of man, in country town and
village, to dub them “silver witches.”

So fleet of foot are they, and so like a wave of blurred light they
cross the vision, that it is vain to try to figure what they are in
shape and look. In death they yield their all of earth to prying
science. Their body’s form is narrow, flattened; their legs in pairs of
threes, each of six joints consisting, the basal joints broad, flat,
triangular, the tarsal large, in number two, and armed at end with pair
of claws incurved. The three thoracic segments are very like in size,
and eight abdominals, of similar length and width. So weak it seems
the rather long abdomen is, that two pairs or six of bristles, simple,
unjointed, and freely movable, serve as support, and also, as in other
groups of insects, as organs locomotive.

The mode of antenna-insertion--and the same prevails in the entire
family--is much like that of the Myriopods, the front of the head
being flattened and concealing, as in the Centipedes, the base of the
antennæ. Indeed, the head of any of the Bristle-tails, as seen from
above, bears a general resemblance in some of its features to that of
the Centipede and its allies, and so, in a less degree, does the head
of the larvæ of certain beetles and neuropters. The eyes are compound,
the individual facets constituting a sort of heap. The mouth-parts are
readily compared with those of the larva of Perla, the rather large,
stout mandibles being hid at their tips by the upper lip, which moves
freely up and down when the creature opens its mouth. In length the
mandible is three times its breadth, and furnished with three sharp
teeth on the outer edge, and with a broad cutting margin within,
and still further inwards with a number of straggling small spines.
The lower lip is broad and stout, with a distinct medium suture,
which indicates a former separation in embryonic life into a pair of
appendages. Its palpi are three-jointed, the joints being broad, and
directed backwards in life, and not forwards, as in the higher insecta.

[Illustration: LEPISMAS AT WORK.

How Books are Destroyed.]

Perhaps not more than a half-dozen species of Lepisma are known to
exist in this country. Our commonest form is very abundant in the
Middle States under stones and leaves in forests, and northward in
damp houses, where it has much of the habits of the cockroach, eating
clothes, tapestry, silken trimmings of furniture, and doing great
mischief to libraries by devouring the paste and mutilating the leaves
and covers of books. Our heat-loving form, which is apparently allied
to the _Lepisma thermophila_ of Europe, and which may be an imported
species, is quite as destructive as its nearest of kin _Lepisma
saccharina_. It does not confine its ravages to closets and pantries,
and feed upon sugar and cake and pastry, but has latterly taken to
bookcases, where it leads an easy, comfortable life, without fear of
molestation.

So delicately constructed are the Lepismas, and so seemingly feeble
the breath of life which animates their frail houses of clay, that
nature has endowed them with qualities of mind and body which eminently
fit them for the part they have to play in the world. She has made
them lovers of darkness rather than light, endowed them with keenness
of vision and hearing truly wonderful, and given them a celerity of
movement which enables them to outstrip in speed the fleetest of their
insect-enemies, and even to baffle the well-directed efforts of man
for their destruction. The silver-coated armor with which they are
invested is so glossy and smooth that they can slip into a crevice in
the wall or floor with the utmost ease and facility. From their actions
it would seem that they were always on the alert, for when peril is
imminent they do not run aimlessly about for a place of security, but
know just where to find it with the least possible expenditure of time
and physical strength. Every nook and cranny of their appropriated
domain is as well known to these very humble of God’s creatures as some
forest-tract of country to one skilled in wood-craft. Never have I
studied the behavior of Lepisma that I have not been deeply impressed
with the intelligence of its actions. There have always been displayed
a purpose and an aim, which showed as plainly as could be that no blind
instinct was the cause of a conduct so rational and human-like.

YOU-EE-UP.

Hardly a person living in a sandy country district can be found who
has not seen or heard of the queer little insect called You-ee-up, a
name which the books do not give, and of which writers on entomological
subjects seem to be ignorant. The learned call him Myrmeleon, or
Ant-lion, and very appropriately too, because, like the great king of
beasts, he never attacks his prey in the open field, but by stratagem
while lying in wait in some hidden retreat or secret covert.

Should you chance, on a warm summer day, where sunny slopes abound on
the outskirts of a woods, or by the side of a frequented path or road,
look carefully about and soon will you descry a small funnel-like
opening, scarce two inches in depth and in width, upon a bare patch of
sand in the midst of an ocean of verdure. This little cavity is the
intentional work of the larva of the Ant-lion. A very close scrutiny
will show, by the presence of a pair of fierce jaws, the Ant-lion at
home.

Would you know the ingenious builder? Lift him out tenderly from his
burrow of sand, and when you have placed him upon the palm of your wide
open hand, note with the most careful exactness the peculiar make-up of
his structure, so that in the future you may have little difficulty in
recognizing him should you again meet.

His short, flat head, armed with powerful mandibles, heavy-set chest,
and large, soft, fleshy abdomen, amply protected on the sides with
stiff, bristly hairs, added to his compact, robust form, the forward
projection of his front and middle legs, and the backward prolongation
of the stronger and less movable hind ones, which eminently adapts
them to a backward manner of walking, are characters which so deeply
impress, that we cannot fail to call up, when occasion demands, the
possessor of so wonderful a mechanism.

[Illustration: YOU-EE-UP IN HIS DEN.

As He Appears in Youth and Old Age.]

Now that you have become familiar with the odd creature in form and in
mien, set him once more upon his proud realm of sand, and seat yourself
on the bank close by to watch and enjoy his curious behavior. In a
minute or two his fears will have subsided, and he in control again of
his accustomed indifference. See, he moves. Round and round he turns in
the loose grey sand, burying himself deeper and deeper, and throwing
the grains out from the hole he has made by his twistings, using his
short, flat head for a shovel. The sand, as it is thrown over the side
of the burrow, forms quite a margin, and when all is completed the
Ant-lion sinks himself deep into the bottom of the trap he has digged,
leaving only the tips of his mandibles in sight, which are extended and
ready to seize any insect that is so luckless as to fall into their
reach.

The unfortunate ant that ventures too close to the margin sets the sand
off rolling, and it immediately begins to struggle against falling
down, but the Ant-lion throws a few shovelfuls of sand against it, and
it soon comes tumbling down to the bottom of the funnel, when it is
instantly seized between the sharp mandibles in waiting, which, being
perforated by slender tubes, enable their blood-thirsty owner to suck
out its juices.

Country children, and adults as well, manifest a deep interest in
these strange beings. They call them, as has been intimated before,
You-ee-ups. How the name originated, and when, I do not pretend to
know, nor have I been able upon inquiry to find out from the oldest
inhabitants of the regions they affect. Old men and old women in the
seventies and eighties knew these insects by this name when they were
children, and I have been informed that they were always so spoken of
by _their_ fathers and mothers.

Even the insects themselves are believed to know the odd name by which
they are designated. So fixed is the belief in the minds of the many
that, to contradict it, is sure to subject the person so rash and
presumptuous to the grossest abuse from the friends of the strange
little creature. They have seen him in his sandy retreat, and have
called him by name, and he has never been known to decline a response.
“You-ee-up, you-ee-up,” cries one, with his mouth just over the
opening, and up comes the strange “crittur” as obedient as a lackey.
“You-ee-down, you-ee-down,” says the same childish voice, and down he
goes to his den to await, as is thought, the giving of further orders.

That the Ant-lion does seem to respond when called, cannot be denied,
for I have tried the experiment myself, and others have tried it in
my presence, and always with the same successful results. But people
go through the world not only with their eyes closed and their ears
sealed, but also with their minds forever locked against thinking,
lest, by thinking, they might do themselves serious injury. Had but
a little of thinking been done, or some common sense exercised, the
solution of the insect’s strange actions could have been reached
without any great difficulty.

Let me briefly explain. One cannot talk, as is well known, without some
motion being imparted to the outlying air. This moving air impinging
upon the loosely arranged sand piled up around the margin of the tiny
pitfall, dislodges some particles, and these, falling into the jaws
of the hidden Ant-lion, bring him to the surface, for he ascribes
the commotion to some ill-fated ant, or other such insect, that has,
in its anxious searching for food, tumbled unconsciously into his
artfully-laid trap. In a moment the mistake is discovered, and, with
all possible dispatch, he backs himself down into his den to await
further developments. His appearance on the occasion is greeted by
“you-ee-down, you-ee-down,” and as he goes down apparently in obedience
to the order, but really because it is a matter of business so to
do, it is claimed by the unlearned and unwise that his movements are
responsive to the command of the person by whom he is addressed.

Two years of larval life, and the subject of our sketch is lost to
the sight of the rural folks. A new life, where feeding is no longer
necessary, awaits him, but one in which the most radical changes must
occur if he is to fulfil the existence which nature designed in her
grand scheme of creation. From a silk-gland, which, unlike those of the
butterflies and moths, is situated at the end of the body, he spins
a cocoon, but there being so little of silk to spare, he needs must
supply the deficiency by the utilization of a quantity of sand, which
he glues into the walls of his house. Here he dwells a comparatively
inactive pupa for three brief weeks, retaining his large, powerful
mandibles to the last, which he uses in cutting his way out of the
cocoon, when he is ready to emerge as a winged neuropter. In the
adult form he resembles the dragon-flies in flight, flapping wildly
and irregularly about, as if his muscles were too weak to wield his
great stretch of wings. But in repose his alar appendages are folded
above each other, forming an acute-angled roof above the long, slender
abdomen. The antennæ or feelers are short, stout and club-shaped, and
the wings long, narrow and densely veined.

_Myrmeleon obsoletus_, a name given to this insect by Thomas Say, a
naturalist of repute, who lived in Philadelphia in the early half of
the present century, is by no means a rare species, if search is made
in the proper places. In the cut the larva is found to the right of
the burrow, while deep in the bottom, with the jaws only in view, is
another, prepared to receive the small ant just above should it lose
its foothold and tumble into the trap. On the wing, a little in the
background of the picture, may be seen the adult insect, represented in
hawking for prey over a meadowy expanse of country.

TOWER-BUILDING CICADA.

Closely allied to the bugs is a group of remarkable insects to which
naturalists now apply the name of Cicada, but which are generally,
though improperly, designated Locust by the common people. They are
readily distinguished by their broad heads, large prominent eyes,
with three eyelets triangularly placed between them, and delicately
transparent, veined wing-covers and wings. The abdomen is short and
pointed, and the legs are short, the anterior femora being much
thickened and toothed beneath. The hinder extremity of the body of
the female is conical, and the under-side has a longitudinal channel
for the reception of the ovipositor, or piercer, which is furthermore
protected by four short-grooved pieces which are immovably fixed to the
sides of the channel. The piercer itself consists of two outer parts
grooved on the inside and slightly enlarged and angular at the tips,
which are externally beset with small saw-like teeth, and a central
spear-pointed borer which plays between the other two, thus combining
the advantages of an awl and a double-edged saw, or rather of two
key-hole saws cutting opposite to each other. A hard, horny substance,
called chitine, the same as exists in the stings of bees and wasps, is
the material of its composition. It would be impossible to conceive
of anything more exactly fitted for its required uses than is this
beautiful complicated instrument.

But the most peculiar characteristic of this family, however, consists
in the structure of the mechanism by which the males make the trilling
sound for which they have been so long famous. In the male of the
Seventeen-year Cicada the musical instrument consists of two stretched
membranes, one on each side of the body, which are plainly to be
seen immediately behind the wings. These membranes are gathered into
numerous fine plaits, and are played upon by muscles or cords fastened
to their under surfaces. When these muscles contract and relax, which
they do with great rapidity, the drum-heads, which the membranes
resemble, are alternately tightened and loosened, the effect of this
alternate tension and relaxation being the production of a rattling
sound very much like that caused by a succession of quick pressures
upon a slightly complex and elastic piece of tin-plate. Certain
cavities within the body of the insect, which may be seen on raising
two large valves beneath the abdomen, and which are separated from
each other by thin transparent partitions of the brilliancy of mica or
highly polished glass, tend to increase the intensity of the sound.

In the winged state _Cicada septendecim_, as the subject of our
sketch was named by the immortal Linnæus, is of a black color, with
transparent wings and wing-covers, the thick anterior edge and veins of
which being orange-red. Near the tips of the latter there is a dusky
zig-zag line which resembles in shape the letter W. The eyes, when
living, are also red, while the legs are a dull orange, which color is
conspicuous along the edges of the rings of the body. The wings expand
from two and a half to three and a quarter inches.

[Illustration: SEVENTEEN-YEAR CICADA.

Adult, Chrysalis-Case, Pupa, Entrances to Burrows and Egg-Nests.]

About the middle of June the perfect insects make their appearance, and
as they generally come in large numbers they do a great deal of damage.
In some localities they congregate to such an extent upon the trees as
to bend and even to break down the limbs by their weight. The din of
their discordant drums resounds in the woods and orchards from morning
to evening. As their life is of rather short duration, not lasting for
a longer period than a month, they soon begin to pair, and it is not
long afterwards that the females may be seen preparing nests for the
reception of their eggs. Branches of moderate size are selected for
this purpose. Their manner of perforation is curious and interesting.
Clasping the branch on both sides with their legs, and bending the
ovipositor at an angle of forty-five degrees, they repeatedly thrust it
into the bark and wood in the direction of the fibres, at the same time
setting the lateral saws at work, thereby detaching little splinters
of wood at one end, which are intended to serve as a kind of fibrous
cover for the nest. The hole is bored obliquely to the pith, and by a
repetition of the same operation is gradually enlarged until is formed
a longitudinal fissure of sufficient extent to receive from ten to
twenty eggs. The side-pieces of the piercer act as a groove to convey
the eggs to the nest, where they are deposited in pairs, but separated
from each other by a narrow strip of wood. When two eggs have been
thus placed, the piercer is withdrawn for a moment, and then inserted
till two more eggs are dropped in a line with the first, and thus the
operation is repeated until the fissure has been filled, when the
insect removes to a little distance and commences to make another nest
to contain two more rows of eggs. It takes about fifteen minutes to
prepare a groove and fill it with eggs. As many as twenty grooves are
sometimes made in a branch by a single insect, and when the limb has
been sufficiently stocked she goes from it to another, or from tree to
tree, until she has got rid of her complement of from five hundred to
seven hundred eggs. So weak does she at length become, in her continued
endeavor to provide for the succession of her race, as to fall, in an
attempt to fly, an almost lifeless lump to the earth, where her spirit
soon goes out never more to enliven its frail house of clay.

Although Cicadas abound most upon the oaks, yet there seem to be no
trees or shrubs that are exempt from their attacks, unless it be the
various species of pines and firs. The punctured limbs languish and
die soon after the eggs are laid, and as often happens are broken off
by the winds; but when this is the case the eggs never hatch, for
the moisture of the living branch seems necessary for their proper
development.

The eggs are one-twelfth of an inch in length, and one-sixteenth of
an inch through the middle, but taper to an obtuse point at each end.
They are of a pearl-white color. The shell is so thin and delicate that
the form of the inclosed insect can be seen before the egg is hatched.
One writer claims that fifty-two days, and others that fourteen days,
constitute the period required for the hatching of the egg.

When it bursts the shell the young insect is one-sixteenth of an inch
long, and is of a yellowish-white color, excepting the eyes and
the claws of the fore-legs, which are reddish. It is clothed with
small hairs. In form it is grub-like, larger proportionally than the
parent, and provided with six legs, the first pair being very large,
shaped like lobster-claws, and armed beneath with strong spines.
Little prominences take the place of wings, and under the breast is
a long beak for suction. Its movements, after leaving the egg, are
very lively, and nearly as quick as some of the ants. But after a few
moments their instincts prompt them to reach the ground. They do not
attain this end by descending the body of the tree, nor by casting
themselves off precipitately, but, running to the side of the limb,
deliberately loosen their hold and drop to the ground, making the
perilous descent with the utmost safety. This seems almost incredible,
but it has been repeatedly observed by scores of honest witnesses.

[Illustration: NEW-BORN CICADA.

Line Below Shows Natural Size.]

On reaching the ground the young insects immediately burrow their
way into the soil, using their broad and strong fore-feet pretty
much after the fashion of the mole. They apparently follow, in their
descent, the roots of plants, fastening their beaks into the most
tender and succulent, and thus imbibing their juices, which constitute
their sole aliment. They do not descend very deeply into the ground,
probably not more than ten or twelve inches, although accounts have
been published of their discovery at a depth of ten or twelve feet, but
their occurrence at such great distances from the top of the ground is
doubtless the result of accident.

The only alteration to which the insects are subject during the
seventeen years of their subterranean confinement, is an increase in
size, and the more complete development of the four small scale-like
prominences of the back, which contain their future wings.

When the time of its transformation draws near, the larva, in which
stage the insect passes the greater part of its existence, works its
way up towards the surface, oftentimes in a very circuitous manner,
for local changes make it necessary for it to bore through hard woods
and between stones well beaten down. The burrow which it thus produces
is cylindrical, about five-eighths of an inch in diameter, and firmly
cemented and varnished so as to be water-proof. The upper portion, to
the extent of five or six inches, is empty, and serves as a habitation
till the period of its exit arrives, while the lower is filled with
earthy matter removed by the insect in its progress. In this cell it
remains during several days, ascending to the top for the benefit of
the sunshine and air when the weather is auspicious, even venturing to
peep forth occasionally, but descending on the occurrence of cold or
wet weather. But when the favorable moment to leave their subterranean
retreats arrives, the Cicada-grubs, or more properly pupæ, for such
they are now to be considered, although they still retain something
of the grub-like form, issue from the ground in great numbers as
evening draws on, crawl up the trunks of trees, the stems of herbaceous
plants, or on to whatever is convenient, which they grasp securely
with their claws. After resting awhile, their skins, which have become
dry and of an amber color, are by repeated exertions rent along the
back, and through the slit formed the included Cicada pushes its
head and body, and withdraws its wings and legs from their separate
cases, and, crawling to a short distance, leaves its empty pupa-case
fastened to the tree. At first the wing-covers and wings are small and
opaque, but in a few hours they acquire their natural size and shape.
It is not, however, for three or four days that the muscles harden
sufficiently for them to assume their characteristic flight. The males
make their appearance some days in advance of the females, and also
disappear sooner. During several successive nights the pupæ continue
to issue from the ground, and in some places, as was the case in May
of 1868, when these insects appeared in great numbers in the vicinity
of Philadelphia, the whole surface of the soil was made by their
operations to assume a honey-combed appearance.

[Illustration: DOME-LIKE HOUSE OF CICADA.

Longitudinal Section Showing Pupa in Two Positions.]

In localities where the soil is low and swampy, a remarkable chamber is
built up by the larva, where the pupa may be found awaiting the time
of its change to the winged state. These chambers were first noticed
by S. S. Rathvon, at Lancaster, Pa., and are from four to six inches
above the ground, and have a diameter of one inch and a quarter. When
ready to emerge the insect backs down to an opening which is left in
the side of the structure on a level with the surface of the ground,
issues forth and undergoes its transformation in the usual manner.
This peculiar habit of nest-building, which is so unlike what is
customary with the Cicadidæ, or with Hemiptera in general, points to a
high degree of intelligence among these insects, showing a remarkable
ability to adapt themselves to environing circumstances. Undue moisture
would be prejudicial to the pupa, as the larva seemed to know, through
the guidance of the same dumb and unerring instinct which teaches it to
cement its underground dwelling, but would that same instinct teach it
to construct so wonderful a dome-like house as the one described for
the preservation of its after-life, and one so eminently fitted by its
position, shape, size and entrance to secure the necessary shelter,
warmth and air for its protection and development? I apprehend not.
Nothing short of a reason, similar to that in man, but differing in
degree, would enable it to grasp the situation in which it found itself
to be placed when nearing its final change, and plan with the view of
carrying out the ultimate aim of its existence.

Fortunately, these insects are appointed to return at periods so
distant that vegetation has a chance to recover from the injuries which
they inflict. Were they to appear at shorter intervals, our forest- and
fruit-trees would be entirely destroyed by them. They are, moreover,
subject to many accidents, and have many enemies, which contribute to
diminish their numbers. Their eggs are eaten by birds, and the young,
when they leave the egg, are preyed upon by ants, who mount the trees
for that purpose, or take them upon the ground as they are about to
enter upon their protracted larval career. Blackbirds eat them in the
spring when turned up by the plough, and hogs, when allowed to run at
large in the woods, root them up and devour large numbers, especially
just before the arrival of the period of their final transformation,
when they are lodged only a few inches below the surface of the soil.
Many perish in the egg by the closing up of the bark and wood that
constitute the walls of the perforations, thus burying the eggs before
they have hatched, and others, no doubt, are killed by their perilous
descent from the trees.

As its name implies, this insect generally requires seventeen years
to complete its transformations, a fact that was first pointed out
many years ago by the botanist Kalm. The late Prof. Riley, who had
given this species a great deal of study, was the first to work
out the problem of its periodical returns. He found that there are
also thirteen-year broods, and that both sometimes occur in the same
locality, but that in general terms the thirteen-year brood might be
called the southern form, and the seventeen-year the northern form. At
the limits of their respective ranges these broods overlap each other.
The shorter-lived form he named provisionally _Cicada tredecim_. It
was the existence of this brood that led entomologists to doubt the
propriety of Linné’s name, because, in calculating each appearance
as occurring in any locality at the end of every seventeen years,
they could not make the dates of its periodical returns correct. But
it was Prof. Riley that cleared up the matter. It happened in the
summer of 1868 that one of the largest seventeen-year broods occurred
simultaneously with one of the largest thirteen-year broods. Such
an event, so far as these two particular broods are concerned, has
not taken place since 1647, nor will it take place again till the
year 2089. There are absolutely no specific differences between the
two broods other than in the time of maturing. There is, however, a
dimorphous form that appears with both these broods. It is smaller,
of a much darker color, has an entirely different voice, appears a
fortnight sooner, and is never known to pair with the ordinary form.
Dr. J. C. Fisher, in 1851, described it as _Cicada cassinii_, but the
specific differences are not sufficiently well defined to entitle it to
rank as a species.

HONEY-DEW.

That aphides secrete, or rather excrete, a saccharine fluid, called
honey-dew, which constitutes an important part of the food of ants,
is a fact well known to naturalists. It must not be supposed,
however, that this was its primitive use. But that it is in some way
connected with the preservation of the tender creatures by which it is
elaborated, there can exist not the slightest doubt.

Concerning its origin and application, and the benefit which it secures
to its authors, various opinions have been hazarded, but they have all
been too unsatisfactory to merit more than a passing notice. That it
was of some advantage to young aphides was surmised by many, but the
proofs necessary to sustain such a surmise were unfortunately wanting.
It was left to the latter half of the nineteenth century to throw
correct light upon the subject.

Whilst engaged some few years ago in the study of the species that
affects the blossoms of one of our gourds--the _Cucurbita ovifera_ of
botanists--certain phenomena were observed, which promised an easy and
speedy solution of the problem.

Gathered in compact masses, like companies of soldiery preparing for
a foray, hundreds of aphides were seen, busily feeding, all over the
flowers. There were old and young, not an indiscriminate mingling of
ages and sizes, but an orderly arrangement of families, each family
preceded by its own appropriate head. First came the very young of
each family, only to be followed by those that were older, leaving the
oldest of all to lead up the rear.

[Illustration: BLOSSOM OF CUCURBITA.

Mother-Aphis and Her Army of Children on Tube.]

Here, it was apparent, was a most wonderful manifestation of
intelligent design. The newly-born, needing the mother’s earliest
attention, were in closest proximity, while the almost mature were the
farthest removed from her essential presence.

All this seemed to indicate the dearest relationship subsisting between
mother and offspring, but judging from outward appearances, little,
if any, love existed. It is true that maternal instinct, which is
seldom so far gone as to shut its ears to the beseechings of suffering
offspring for food, was far from being absent. Instances of its
presence were momentarily noted.

But a stimulus seemed, in some cases, quite necessary to its
manifestation. There were times when the honey-glands acted without
any provocation. It was only, however, when the very tender were
a-hungry, that pressure was brought to bear upon the mothers. A few
gentle reminders served to arouse them from the apathetic indifference
which possessed them. The antennæ of the young were the means employed
for this purpose. Two or three caresses almost immediately brought
a discharge of honey. Again and again was the process observed, and
always with the same invariable result.

Never for a longer period than two days were the very young dependent
upon this manner of feeding, for their digestive organs were too weak
and delicate to assimilate earlier, without injury, the powerful juices
of the food-plant.

But what of the older offspring? That they were far from being
disregarded by parental provision, subsequent developments only too
plainly showed. The excretion, though less urgent in their case than
in that of the very young, was quite as indispensable. Were it not so,
what reason can be assigned for their very strict adherence to the
course over which the maternal head had already passed in feeding?

From what has been said, there can be no doubt that the newly-born
aphis derives material advantage from the excretion. But as the supply
is clearly above the requirements, why the excess? It is evident
nature does not need it as a kind of compensation for losses sustained
through aphides. Then what purpose does it serve? It becomes in part
the pabulum of the stronger of the young, and this it accomplishes by
mixing with the natural juices of the plant, thereby rendering them fit
for use.

To serve as food for the young is then the primary object of
aphis-excretion. That a secondary purpose, namely, the preservation of
the species, is also subserved, there can be no question. How this is
effected, it shall now be my endeavor to show.

Ants, it is well known, are fond of sugar, gums and saccharine
solutions, as well as the rich juices and tender tissues of animals.
But their appetite for sweets is stronger than for all other diets.
To them aphis would prove quite as toothsome a morsel as it is to
Coccinella, and would be as eagerly hunted for by them were it not for
this matter of sweets.

Way back in the history of time, things were perhaps different from
what they are now. Aphis was then a racy tidbit, and shared, no doubt,
the murderous assaults of Formica, as it did of other carnivores.

For ages this may have been going on, but how long conjecture only can
tell. But there came a time when affairs were changed. A new order
of things was initiated. Earth was growing better and impressing new
features upon its life. An Ant, more wise than any of its fellows, or
any that had ever lived before, doubtless stepped upon the scene, and a
new era for Aphis inaugurated.

Finding by accident, or otherwise, the delightful qualities of
aphis-excretion, it would not be slow to communicate the information to
its companions. And as news travels rapidly, and ants are by no means
reticent creatures, but a short time would be necessary to carry it
everywhere, till all the families, near and remote, of the great world
of the Formicidæ would be made acquainted with the important discovery.

Now, as ants are endowed with a high degree of intelligence,
considering the position they occupy in the grand scale of created
existences, they would soon perceive that their highest good would be
attained by taking under their protection the little creatures which
are the authors of this excretion. From this time the ants would begin
to abandon their sanguinary propensities and manifest some regard for
the aphides. The latter, in return, perceiving the former’s friendly
disposition, would cease to fear them, and learn to cater to their
wants. Thus would be developed, in time, those amicable relations which
subsist between the two great, yet widely differentiated, families.

MILCH-COWS OF THE ANTS.

While much has been written upon the social relations subsisting
between ants and aphides, yet the subject never grows uninteresting or
threadbare. New facts are brought to light as observations widen and
extend, some tending to confirm, and others to subvert old notions.

That aphides excrete a sweet, viscid, honey-like fluid, which affords
food for many species of ants, has been long known to naturalists.
Any one can convince himself of this truth if he will but put himself
to the trouble of examining the leaves or branchlets of any plant at
the proper season of the year. Scattered upon the foliage and tender
twigs thereof will be found millions of aphides, and close beside them
countless ants, that ever and anon will be seen to caress, by means of
their antennæ, the little creatures for the sweets within their bodies.
It has even been asserted that some species of ants keep aphides as
human beings do cows, but this by the many has been doubted, or deemed
imaginary.

When a young man the writer was disposed to drift with the popular
opinion in this particular, but a few facts that fell under his notice
whilst searching for carabi and other beetles that live under stones
and decayed logs, changed the bias of his mind and established in him
the idea that with one species of ant this was at least the case.

It was on an occasion while exploring a neighboring thicket for the
objects of his search, that he discovered, underneath a large flat
stone which he had raised, a nest of a small red ant, which he took
to be the _Lasius flavus_ of the books. The ground was covered all
over with pits, and divers communicating roads, and round about were
hundreds of ants, larvæ in various stages of development, pupæ and
eggs, and innumerous flocks of a white aphis, all of which were being
tenderly cared for by a large army of thoughtful nurses.

[Illustration: NEST OF LASIUS.

Neuters About Their Work.]

No sooner did the intrusion occur than the colony was a scene of
busy activity. Interested in what was before him, the writer seated
himself upon a small mound overlooking the nest, where could be clearly
observed the minutest details of ant-life. The neuters were everywhere
to be noticed, but not a single male or female ant. All the work
devolved upon the neuters. These were divided into three sets, each set
having a definite part to perform in the unexpected drama before it.
Some neuters had the exclusive charge of the mature larvæ, others of
the pupæ and very young grubs, and the rest of their aphidian herds.

But it is to those that had the care of the aphides that we shall
particularly invite attention. At the time of the disturbance, these
specialized neuters were busy milking their cows, which they did
by rubbing their long, pliant feelers against the anal nipples of
the latter, drawing therefrom, as it seemed, a drop of the coveted
fluid with each antennal stroke. No aphis was known to be visited in
this business twice in succession, but the ants would go from one to
another, and only return to the first when sufficient time had elapsed
for the replenishing of its store. So intent were they upon their task,
that several minutes must have passed before they took in the danger to
which they were exposed.

You should then have seen their anxiety, and the presence of mind they
exhibited. Conscious as of attack, and knowing the peril that beset
them, they did not flee to their underground galleries, or to the
adjoining grasses, for shelter, and thus leave their flocks to the
mercy of the invader, but they manifested the deepest concern for the
little creatures, so unable to defend themselves, that had so willingly
catered to their temporal wants. Not an ant was seen to desert its
post, but all remained on duty till the last of their protegés was
carried to safe and comfortable apartments in the ground beneath.

What clearer evidence is wanted to show the love these neuters bear the
tender objects of their care? It must be plain that man bestows not
half the attention upon his flocks than do these ants on theirs. It is
true they do not bring them food, but that they build their homes where
food, the roots of herbs and grasses, abound, there is no doubt. It
may be, too, that they are carried to their pasture-grounds, when that
necessity occurs, but this cannot with truth be said. When some would
stray, they were returned within the fold, which shows the watch these
ants do exercise.

Concluding then, this much may be averred: food, wholesome, sweet,
nutritious food, the aphides supply to ants, the neuters and the young,
but specially the young. And that they lead most happy, prosperous
lives, the ants their masters, must surely be, or looks deceive.

LIVING ARTILLERY.

No more remarkable creature exists, perhaps, than the little _Brachinus
fumans_, which is so very common in the early spring. Damp situations
are affected by it, but it is seldom met with except by insect-hunters,
for it conceals itself generally under stones, as many as a half-dozen
individuals often being found in company in a single locality. Banks of
tidal rivers afford excellent hunting-grounds in England for Brachinus,
but in America low, dank woods and borders of streams are the places
where one must look to discover its presence.

When once you have made the acquaintance of so remarkable a stranger
you can never afterwards fail to recognize him in your travels. He
is peculiar, but not at all distinguished in looks, as some of his
brethren. Picture a yellowish-red beetle, with a bluish frock-coat,
which his wing-covers resemble, and possessed of a short, narrow head,
a heart-shaped prothorax, as the front of the chest-segments is called,
and a long, broad abdomen, three times the size of the rest of his
body, and you have a tolerably fair idea of Brachinus.

But it is not so much his odd shape as a most extraordinary property
he possesses, which is singularly unique in the animal kingdom, that
makes him an object of interest and curiosity. Deep down in his most
marvellous body a fluid, highly volatile in its nature, is elaborated,
which the little creature can retain or expel at his pleasure. It
is only, however, when alarmed that he utilizes this fluid in small
quantities in defense, but its effect is wonderful, for in coming
into contact with the atmosphere it immediately volatilizes and
explodes, looking very much like a discharge of powder from a miniature
artillery. In consequence of this phenomenon the insect which produces
it is popularly called the Bombardier Beetle.

[Illustration: BRACHINUS PURSUED BY AN ENEMY.

His Curious and Unique Method of Defence.]

So small a coleopter, being scarcely one-fourth of an inch in length,
and so comparatively weak, is likely to be attacked by the larger
Geodephaga, or Earth Devourers, and especially by the Carabi, which
inhabit similar retreats. But for this curious defence the smaller
insect could have but the barest chance of living in the struggle for
existence. Often have I seen a Carabus in hot pursuit of Brachinus. The
chase is always an interesting one, and never fails, however frequently
it has been observed, of attracting attention and exciting admiration.
But the wide-awake, ever watchful Brachinus never loses his head for a
second when thus pursued, but like the clever artilleryman that he is,
awaits the opportune moment, and then pours a heavy discharge of his
fulminating fluid into the very face of the enemy. Baffled, alarmed,
Carabus desists from the attack, and backs slowly away from the tiny
blue smoke, while Brachinus, in the confusion that ensues, escapes to
some place of security for rest and protection.

Most skilfully has the artist delineated the scene. _Carabus serratus_,
the pursuing beetle, is chasing the Bombardier, and has nearly effected
his capture, when, all of a sudden, a discharge of artillery has
stopped the pursuit, under cover of which the Bombardier will make off.
Meanwhile the Carabus, exchanging his rapid advance for a retreat quite
as rapid, throws back his antennæ, a sign of his defeat, and skulks
away to recover his wonted self-possession.

The volatile fluid, which produces such curious effects, is secreted
in a small sac just within the end of the abdomen. Not only is it
capable of repelling the larger beetles by its explosion and cloud
of blue vapor, but it is also powerful enough to discolor the human
skin, as many who have captured Bombardier Beetles by the hand know
only too well. Should the fluid get within the eyelids, the pain and
irritation produced are very distressing. Some years ago the writer,
while searching for carabi underneath stones and in creviced rocks, met
for the first time with Brachinus, but was ignorant as a child of his
obnoxious property. Placing a little fellow upon his hand for close
examination, he soon experienced a burning and painful sensation of the
ball of the eye, but did not for a long while attribute the cause to a
discharge from the Beetle. Repeated investigations at very short ranges
by means of a microscope were attended with similar results, till
eventually an inflammation of the visual organs set in, accompanied by
a blurring of the sight, which debarred him from reading and study for
nearly a fortnight. One learns wisdom by experience, and the wisdom
thus acquired serves for a lifetime.

Even Brachinus has learned by experience, doubtless, to be economical
in the use of his resources. The whole of the contents of his tiny
magazine are not ejected at one discharge, but there is sufficient
to produce a series of explosions, each explosion being perceptibly
fainter than its predecessor. By pressing the abdomen of the dead
Beetle between finger and thumb these explosions may even be produced.
In hot countries, where exceedingly large species abound, the
explosions are said to be very loud, and accompanied with quite a cloud
of blue vapor.

BRIGHT AND SHINING ONES.

Probably more than ninety thousand different species of beetles exist
in the world, first and foremost among them standing the Cicindelidæ,
or Tiger Beetles. From their high position in the coleopterous world
they may well demand our attention, but they have other claims upon our
consideration. They are beautiful, courageous little creatures, and
accomplish a vast amount of good to man. The name Cicindela, by which
they are known to scientific people, tells us that they are the “bright
and shining ones;” while the cognomen of Tiger Beetle reveals to all
English-speaking nations the story of the incessant warfare which they
wage upon their fellows.

The Cicindelæ love the merry sunshine. On any bright summer day they
may be found running and flying about sunny banks, or revelling in
sandy places where the day-god smilingly rejoices. They mostly avoid
vegetation, as it checks their easy rapid movements, although some
kinds affect grassy spots among the trees. They are the most predaceous
of the coleoptera, and behave like the tigers among mammals, the hawks
among birds, the crocodiles among reptiles and the sharks among fishes.
In the tropics some few genera seek their food on the leaves of trees,
but in temperate and sub-tropical regions, where the species are more
abundant, they are terrestrial in habits.

Let us now take our instruments of capture and go in quest of some
of the dozen or more species that have their home with us. The day
is auspicious. Here is a likely spot. See there upon the ground are
some specimens of our commonest species--the _Cicindela vulgaris_ of
naturalists. Go for that one. He sees you as quickly as you see him,
and is off for a few yards, but suddenly drops to the grass from his
flight, but always with his head towards the enemy. Again and again
you start him, but at last, tiring of the chase, he takes a longer
flight that usual. This is a _ruse_ of his, and knowing what it means,
you hurry back to where you first saw him in time to see him all
unsuspectingly alight, and you easily take him captive in your toils.
Now that you have him secure, examine him closely. Watch how savagely
he moves his mandibles and tries to pinch. You need not be afraid,
for his bite is inoffensive and not very painful. You measure with
the eye his size, and you rightly decide that he is not much over an
inch in length, and scarcely one-fourth in breadth. His head you will
find very large and brainy, his jaws powerful and long and curved,
two scimitar-like weapons, which are admirably fitted for cutting and
carving the quivering bodies of his prey. His eleven-jointed antennæ
are long, slender and graceful. In color his back is dull purple, but
beneath he is resplendent in a bright brassy green. Three whitish,
irregular bands adorn his wing-covers. His legs, long and slender, are
just the things on which to hunt the active insects upon which he feeds.

His next of kin, the Purple Tiger Beetle, is nearly as large as he, and
often joins him in company. Beautifully robed in purple he usually is,
but sometimes in a greenish garb arrayed. From the outer almost to the
inner margin of each wing meanders a reddish line, while lower down a
dot, and still another at the farthest tip of the inner border, enhance
his beauty. Cold spring days delight him best, and he is often seen
when snow is yet upon the ground.

More beautiful by far than either, and no less active, is _Cicindela
sex guttata_, or the Six-spotted Tiger Beetle, whose dress, a brilliant
metallic green, flecked with six small silver spots, renders him a
pretty sight when you flash the rays of light athwart his burnished
armor. Hot, June-like days and dusty road-sides suit him best, and
there, what time the sun looks down in all his burning ardor, our
little friend is met, his purpose bent on slaughter. Other species
might be instanced, for North America contains at least a hundred, but
enough have been given for our present object.

[Illustration: COMMON TIGER BEETLE.

Larvæ in Burrows. Two Other Species in Background.]

Tiger Beetles may well be called beneficial insects. Although they
do not, like that brilliant murderess, the dragon-fly, clear the
atmosphere of the gnats and flies that torment mankind, but still,
with their powerful curved daggers, which serve them for jaws, they
accomplish a swift and almost incredible havoc among the smaller
insects. We should take care of them, and respect them, for they are an
invaluable auxiliary to the farmer.

The ferocity of these insects is remarkable. No sooner have they taken
their prey, than they quickly strip it of wings and legs, and proceed
at once to suck out the contents of its abdomen. Often when they are
disturbed in this agreeable occupation, not wishing to leave their
victim, they fly away with it to a place of uninterrupted security, but
they are unable to carry a heavy burden to any great distance.

They are true children of the earth. The eggs are laid in the earth,
and in the earth the grubs are hatched, and in the earth they spend
their days, and in the earth they prepare their shrouds, and, wrapped
therein, sleep their pupa-sleep through the long, dreary winter, and
with the returning warmth of spring crawl out of their earthy chambers
to run and sport on earth, seldom using their new-formed wings to fly
away from their beloved mother.

The grubs are hideous hunchbacks, but possessed of brains and stomach.
They live in the same localities as their parents, the anxious mother,
with wise precision, having carefully deposited her eggs where food
would be readily attainable by her children. Have you a desire to
examine a larva? There is a hole that has been made by one of these
creatures. Place down into it a small straw or a bit of fine twig. The
cranky little hermit, who is always wide-awake, resists most fiercely
such unprovoked insolence, and instantly seeks, by the aid of his
broad, expansive head, to eject the intruding object. Now is your time.
When he shows himself, quickly seize him with your fingers. You will
find him a perfect Daniel Quilp, with head enormous, flat, metallic in
color and armed with long, curved jaws. His legs are six in number,
and on the back, half-way between the legs and tail, are two curious,
odd-looking tubercles, each terminating in a pair of recurved hooks.
The head and first body-division are horny, the rest of the creature
being soft and very sensitive.

While the larval Cicindela has all the desire for slaughter which his
parents manifest, yet his delicate skin, long body and stubby legs
not only prevent him from chasing prey, but also from attempting a
struggle with an insect of any size; nevertheless this imperfectly
armed creature manages to secure his food without exposing himself
to any serious risk. With his short, thick spiny legs he loosens the
earth, and with his flat head, which he uses as a shovel, and turning
himself into a z-shaped figure, hoists up the clay and upsets it
around the mouth of his intended dwelling. With head and legs, and
with a perseverance that is truly surprising, he sinks in a very short
time a shaft a foot in length and as large in diameter as an ordinary
lead-pencil.

Especial pains are taken to see that the tunnel is sufficiently wide,
so that the little creature can crawl in with ease. If he wishes to
remain set fast, he sticks the back of his body against the sides and
rests safely with the aid of his hooks. In this position he can poke
his head out of the ground, thus closing the entrance of his burrow,
while in patient waiting for some unsuspicious wayfarer to pass over.
As soon, however, as the luckless insect touches the top of his head,
he relinquishes his hold within the tunnel and descends with great
precipitation to the bottom, and thus his victim falls into the hole,
where it is seized by the powerful jaws and its juices absorbed in a
quiet, leisurely manner. The loose earth around the opening of the
tunnel gives way on the approach of an insect, and thus the success of
the cunning Cicindela is doubly insured.

Sometimes in the construction of a burrow, after a certain depth has
been reached, the young Cicindela meets with a difficulty which he had
not expected. A flat stone is encountered, and thus further progress
in a vertical direction is prevented. If the obstacle, on account of
its size, cannot be gone round, and the shaft is not deep enough for
his purpose, it is not unusual for him to desert it and attempt the
tunnelling of a home in some more desirable spot. He does not undertake
a very long journey, for he knows too well the risk which he runs by
so doing, as he is in danger of being assaulted by secret foes in the
rear, an attack which the peculiar conformation of his hinder body ill
fits him to resist. On land he is timid and cowardly, and well might
he be, but within the protecting walls of his underground castle,
with a pair of powerful swords with which to defend himself, he is the
impersonation of fearlessness and courage.

When fully grown the larva closes up the mouth of its abode, and in
quiet and solitude undergoes its metamorphosis, lying dormant during
the winter months. But when the breath of warm spring days has melted
the icy coldness of the earth, and filled the air with vivifying
influences, then comes it forth in all the pomp and splendor of its
nature--a winged existence.

It has been seen what a beautiful adaptation of means to an end is
shown by the young Cicindela. Even the adult, or mature form, with its
long, slender legs, so admirably formed for silence and fleetness of
movement, which are alike necessary to pursuit of prey and escape from
enemies, displays the wisdom of Him who breathed into all animated
nature, no matter how small or how humble, the essence of His being,
and endowed one and all with qualities of mind and body which should
respond to environing conditions and thus prepare them to survive in
the struggle for existence.

QUEEN OF AMERICAN SILK-SPINNERS.

No insect affords a better proof of high art in nature, and of the
transcendent beauty of the Creator’s thoughts, than the Luna moth,
which is as preëminent above her fellows as her namesake, the fair
empress of the sky, above the lesser lights that dominate the night.
Her elegant robes of green, set off with trimmings of purple, and
jewelled with diamonds, added to her queenly grace and personal
charms, will always distinguish her from the _profanum vulgus_ of the
articulata.

And now for a short biographical sketch of this remarkable beauty
from the cradle to the grave, and beyond, after she has assumed her
resurrection-attire, to the day when, her appointed work on earth being
ended, she quietly lays her body down to mingle with its native clay.

In her childhood, or caterpillar state, her head is elliptical in
shape, of a light pearly color, the rest of the body being a clear
bluish-green. A faint yellow band stretches along each side, just below
the line of her breathing-organs, from the first to the tenth segment,
while the back, between the several body-rings, is crossed by narrow
transverse bars, similar in coloration. Each segment, after the fashion
of her kith and kin, is adorned with small pearly warts, tinged with
purple, some five or six in number, each tipped with a few simple
hairs. Three brown spots, bordered above with yellow, ornament the end
of the tail. An interesting variety, whose general color is a dull
reddish-brown, is sometimes met with, but the lateral and transverse
stripes of yellow have disappeared, and the pearl-colored warts with
edges of purple have assumed a richer hue and blaze like a coronet of
rubies. When at rest, with the rings all bunched and body shortened,
the infantile Luna is as thick as a man’s thumb, measuring but two
inches in linear direction; but when she sets out upon her travels,
feeling the dignity of her station in life, she stretches to her full
length of three inches.

When have been completed her allotted days of feeding upon the leaves
of the hickory, oak, walnut or sweet gum, and she is seriously
contemplating the preparing of a shroud and casket in which to await
her resurrection-morn, she casts about for leaves, which, when they
are found, she securely draws together, and within the hollow space
there is soon spun a very close and strong oval cocoon of silk, one
and three-fourths inches in length, of chestnut-brown color, thin, and
covered with warts and excrescences, but seldom showing the imprints
of leaves. Cocoons of Luna so nearly resemble those of polyphemus,
that many an experienced collector is greatly chagrined, after getting
together a large supply of what he deems Luna cocoons, to find dusky,
one-eyed polyphemi to issue from the silken tombs rather than a goodly
throng, in delicate bridal attire, of proud empresses of the night.
Polyphemus cocoons are, however, somewhat smaller than Lunas, white
or dirty-white in color, rounded at each end, and sometimes angular,
because of the leaves being unevenly moulded into their surfaces, and
generally covered with a whitish meal-like powder.

[Illustration: AMERICAN LUNA MOTH.

Larva on Branch Below, and Cocoon on Twig Just Above.]

In June the Lunas awake from their death-like slumber, burst asunder
their silken cerements, having at first made loose the compact threads
by a fluid-ejection, and come out into the world in all the freshness
and glory of a new and untried existence. Their wings, which expand
from four and three-fourths to five and one-half inches, are of a
delicate light-green color, the hinder ones being prolonged into a tail
of an inch and a half or more in length. Along the anterior margin
of the fore-wings is a broad purple-brown stripe, extending also
across the back, and sending downwards a little branch to a glittering
eye-like spot near the middle of the wing. These eyes, of which there
is one on each wing, are transparent in the centre, and encircled by
white, yellow, blue and black rings. The hinder borders are more or
less edged with purple-brown. All the nervures are very distinct, and
pale-brown in color. Near the body the wings are thickly invested with
long white hairs. The under sides, excepting that an indistinct line
runs along the margin of both wings, are like to the upper. As for the
body, the thorax is white, occasionally yellowish or greenish, and
coursed by the purple-brown stripe that traverses the entire length
of the upper edge of the wings; and the abdomen, similarly colored,
and clothed with white, wool-like hairs. The head is small and white,
and furnished with broad, flat and strongly pectinated antennæ, which
are very much wider in the male. The legs are purple-brown, and poorly
adapted for walking, but this defect is largely compensated for in
the wide stretch of wings, that fit their possessor for powerful and
long-sustained flight.

Such is Luna in her various transformations. Notwithstanding her
great size and almost matchless loveliness, her habits are not
proportionally noteworthy. The gift of superior beauty, in the insect
as in the mammalian world, does not often carry with it a high order
of intelligence. It is true the young Luna knows pretty well the
secret of dissembling. How quickly she perceives the approach of an
enemy! And she knows how to deal with him, but her little trick of
simulating death, or an immobile twig, does not always succeed with
the wily spider, or artful ichneumon. That she is a tolerably good
connoisseur of the character of foods, there can be no question. You
cannot deceive her. Take from her the foods her ancestors have used
for centuries untold, and substitute others she knows nothing about,
and she is at once cognizant of the change. However hungry she may be,
and in her early growing years she is ever a voracious feeder, she
will starve rather than eat what the unwritten law of her race has
strictly interdicted. I have known cases where death has ensued, or
the caterpillar has pupated earlier than usual, when alien food has
been given it to eat. But in the beginning of life, just after the
first skin-moulting has been effected, ere the little creature has
attained its seventh day of age, no trouble is experienced in changing
the food, almost anything edible in the plant-line being eaten, though
some things with a more decided relish than others. In the matter of
cocoon-weaving, where the necessary leaves for a basis cannot be
obtained, as occurs in captivity, the inconvenience is overcome, but
not without difficulty. Leaves, you must know, are in Luna’s way of
thinking, as essential to cocoon-building as wooden or iron beams and
girders to man’s own constructing. Without a framework of some sort,
what a sorry attempt would we make at home-building, but Luna does
succeed, after a good deal of wise planning and no little worry, in
producing a house which is well worthy her effort.

While the gaudy moth or butterfly, when contrasted in wisdom and sense
with the dingy-colored bee, may suffer in comparison, yet she is by
no means the dull, stupid creature she is pictured to be. She lives,
it is a fact, as has often been said, for the increase of her race,
but the interest she shows for the young she may never see, in laying
her eggs upon the plant that is to serve them as food and home, puts
her upon a rather high plane of intelligent existence. Luna’s life, in
the perfect state, is usually quite brief. It is one of the happiest
of honeymoons. Love conquers and destroys all other passions of her
being, while her gormandizing offspring are never troubled by the
ardent flame which consumes even the thought of sipping the nectar of
the flowers that rival in beauty the wings of the mother, who is the
perfect representation and embodiment of elegance and grace. While the
early insect lives and eats, the adult form, upon whom Dame Nature has
expended so much wealth of color and such symmetry of shape, which make
her a “thing of beauty and a joy forever,” lives and dies, for in her
seeming haste and forgetfulness the great mother of us all has made her
without the essential means of tasting food, a delight and an enjoyment
which the lords of creation are so wont to esteem the purpose and aim
of all human existence.

BASKET-CARRIERS.

You who have been to the country, in the summer, and who have kept your
eyes alive to the surroundings, have doubtless seen the Basket-worm
feeding upon the leaves of the quince, apple, peach, linden, and other
deciduous trees, as well as upon such evergreen as the arbor-vitæ,
Norway spruce, and red cedar. In Germany these worms are popularly
designated _Sack-träger_, or Sack-bearer, while the mature insect is
spoken of as the House-builder Moth. Scientifically speaking, the
latter is called _Thyridopteryx ephemeræformis_, a name which is nearly
twice the length of the caterpillar it represents.

During the winter the curious weather-beaten bags of these worms may be
observed hanging from the tree-branches, apparently without a trace of
the odd-looking creatures that hung them there the autumn before. If a
number of these bags are gathered and cut open at this time, many of
them will be discovered to be empty, but the greater portion will be
found partly full of yellow eggs. Those which do not contain eggs are
male bags, and the empty chrysalis of the male will be found protruding
from the lower extremity. Upon close examination these eggs will be
observed to be obovate in form, soft and opaque, about one-twentieth of
an inch in length, and surrounded by more or less fawn-colored silky
down. If left to themselves, they hatch sometime in May, or early in
June.

The young which come from these eggs are of a brown color, very active
in their movements, and begin at once to make for themselves coverings
of silk, to which they fasten bits of the leaves of the tree on which
they are feeding, forming small cones that are closely adherent to
the leaf-surfaces. As the larvæ grow, they augment the size of their
enclosures or bags from the bottom, until they become so large and
heavy that they hang instead of remaining upright, as they did at first.

By the end of July the caterpillars become fully grown. They are now
exceedingly restless, and may be seen wandering from branch to branch
by means of their true legs which are projected from the mouths of
their baskets, to which they keep firm hold, or suspended from a branch
of a tree by a long silken thread of their own manufacture. When very
abundant, as they were in certain localities during the season just
ended, they become a great nuisance, as one can hardly walk beneath the
trees without being inconvenienced by a dozen or more dangling into his
face.

Removed from the case at this stage of existence and closely examined,
that portion of the body which has been covered by the bag will be
seen to be soft, and of a dull brownish color, inclining to red at the
sides, while the three anterior segments, which are exposed when the
insect is feeding or travelling, will be found to be horny and mottled
with black and white. The pro-legs on the middle and hinder segments,
which are soft and fleshy, will show themselves fringed with numerous
hooks, by which the larva is enabled to cling to the silken lining of
its bag and drag it along wherever it goes. The external surface of the
bag is rough and irregular, often presenting a beautiful ruffle-like
appearance, which is due to the projecting portions of the stems and
leaves which are woven into it. During their growing-period these
caterpillars are slow travellers, seldom leaving the tree on which they
were hatched. When about to change into chrysalids, they fasten their
bags securely to the twigs on which they happen to be, and then undergo
their change, the male chrysalis being very much smaller than the
female, hardly one-third its size.

When we examine the cases of the Basket-worm, hardly any two will be
seen to be alike in their ornamentation. So completely is the outside
covered, when made upon the arbor-vitæ, which seems to be a favorite
food-plant of the species, that the silken envelope is concealed from
view. The bits of twigs and leaves are probably protective, and yet one
would think that the extremely tough case which covers the caterpillar
would be quite sufficient to protect it against all assaults of foes
and stress of weather. Nevertheless, this leafy coat of mail, which
sometimes wholly covers the sac, must certainly add very much to the
protective value of the covering. The caterpillar has a soft, hairless
body, and is thus more exposed than many of its neighbors, and nature,
it would seem, has favored it far above all of its fellows.

How the worm manages to trim its coat in this manner must seem, to the
uninitiated in such matters, wholly inexplicable. To enable the reader
to understand the manner of operation, it will be necessary first to
explain its mode of feeding. The larva has perfect control of its own
movements, notwithstanding the fact that it carries its house upon its
back. It can thus thrust its body out of the sac-mouth until nearly the
whole of it is exposed, and twist and bend itself in every direction.
Specimens have been met with that had dropped from the trees hanging
by a thread and squirming, bending and snapping their bodies in the
most grotesque ways, while the case spun around like an old-fashioned
distaff. Now, when the caterpillar wants to feed it stretches its head
and neck out of the case and moves them about until a satisfactory
place has been secured, which it clasps with its true legs, three pairs
of hard, conical organs armed with sharp claws, and pulls up its body
and commences to spin. The spinning-organs are near the mouth, and
after several movements of the head, as though smearing the liquid
viscid silk upon the leaf, the head is drawn back, drawing out with it
a short thread. A similar movement is then made against one side of
the mouth of the sac, the process being repeated several times until
a stout stay-line is spun by which the larva hangs securely. Now the
creature is ready to feed. The behavior, however, varies a great deal.
In feeding upon the white pine it secures itself to one leaf by its
stay-line, while it reaches to an adjoining leaf which it bites off,
and sitting erect, as it were, in its house, comfortably chews off the
end which is continually shored upward by the first and second pairs of
true legs that stand out free and untrammelled above the sac.

[Illustration: HOUSE-BUILDER MOTH.

Young in House, Winged Male, Young Suspended and Bag-like Female in
Longitudinally-Split Cocoon.]

But more frequently the worm feeds without separating the leaf from the
point of suspension. By making itself fast to the under part of the
leaf it is thus enabled to reach the edge, which it gnaws round and
round until it has completed its destruction.

So securely does the caterpillar hold on to its house, that one would
suppose that its body was lashed to the inside. But no, its body is
unhampered, for it can turn itself easily around in its case, and go
out at either end, although the head is generally directed upward.
It clings to the inside with the hooks upon its hinder feet, and so
tenaciously, too, that the writer has never been able to pull one
out, being checked by the fear of tearing the creature in two. And
now to the mode of attaching the leaf-cuttings to the case. This
is always done at or near the mouth of the sac. The Ephemeraform
larva is a growing creature, unlike the moth itself, which emerges
a perfect insect of full growth. It commences life as a small worm,
eats small quantities, and, as may be observed, down towards the
foot of the case sews on very small tags. But after it has fastened
on these pieces to the mouth, it grows itself, and so also does the
case, which it continually stretches and enlarges. Hence the mouth of
the case is continually changing, moving upward as the worm feeds,
so that the pieces sewed upon the cap of the case thus appear, in an
adult caterpillar, precisely as they are seen scattered along the
outside from top to bottom. And now, as to how the pieces are put into
the case, I shall endeavor to explain. That the worm cuts purposely
through the twig which it needs for the case, I feel certain. Of course
the outer or detached part drops down. But, while eating, the worm
frequently, quite constantly, indeed, spreads its viscid silk along the
leaf and so keeps it attached on both sides to the upper rim of the
sac, or to its own mouth-parts, and thus the tip of the twig or leaf,
instead of falling to the ground when it is severed from the stem,
simply drops alongside of the case, to which it is held by the slight
filament that attaches it to the sac, or, as happens in many instances,
remains attached to the caterpillar’s spinneret. In either case the
leaf, twig or stem remains, and, after being drawn up, adjusted and
tightened by the worm, adheres tightly. As the creature is forever
moving its spinning-tubes around the top of the sac, these fastenings
are being continually strengthened, and thus one piece after another is
added, and so the basket grows.

While the case of the Basket-worm, and even that part of its body
which it chooses to expose to view, are known to the casual observer,
yet but few persons have ever seen the mature insect. The female moth
is wingless, and never leaves the bag, but makes her way to its lower
orifice, and there awaits the attendance of the male. She is not only
without wings, but is devoid of legs also, being, in short, nothing
more than a yellowish bag of eggs with a ring of soft, pale-brown,
silky hair near the tail. The male, on the other hand, has transparent
wings and a black body, and is very active on the wing during the
warmer portions of the day. After pairing the female deposits her
eggs, intermingled with fawn-colored down, within the empty pupa-case,
and when this task is completed works her way out of the case, drops
exhausted to the ground and dies.

Though a Southern rather than a Northern insect, yet it is found as far
north as New Jersey and New York, and occasionally in Massachusetts.
It is extremely local in character, abounding in one particular
neighborhood and totally unknown a few miles away. Where they occur in
abundance they often almost entirely defoliate the trees they attack,
but this can be easily prevented by gathering the cases containing
the eggs for the next brood during the winter and destroying them.
Hand-picking the cases with the worms in them, where their ravages
are confined to small trees and shrubbery, will also help to hold
them in check. Nature has provided two species of ichneumon for their
destruction. One of them, _Cryptus inquisitor_, is about two-fifths of
an inch in length, and the other, _Hemiteles thyridopteryx_, is nearly
one-third of an inch. Five or six of this latter species will sometimes
occupy the body of a single caterpillar, and after destroying their
victim spin for themselves tough, white, silken cocoons within the bag.

HONEY-PRODUCING CATERPILLARS.

Late in June, growing abundantly in the edges of woods throughout this
region, may be seen the _Cimicifuga racemosa_ of botanists, popularly
called Rattleweed, or Black Snakeroot. It sends up a stalk, sometimes
branching, four or five feet, terminating in a spike or spikes, six to
ten inches long, of round, greenish-white buds, which stand upon short
stems, and are arranged in rows about the stalk, diminishing in size
till they reach the pointed top. The lower buds, when they are about
the size of an ordinary pea, open first, and the flowering proceeds
by degrees up the spike, so that buds are to be met with throughout a
period of from four to six weeks. The flowers emit an intensely sweet
odor, which renders them attractive to butterflies and bees.

But should you examine these buds with care, you will find a number
of small caterpillars, the larva of the beautiful Azure Butterfly,
called _Lycæna pseudargiolus_, feeding thereon. During its younger
stages it is white, and so near the color of these buds that it is
well protected, and very difficult to find. Later on, it may be white
or greenish, and often diversified with a few black or brown patches,
irregularly diffused over the surface.

When mature the larva is one-half of an inch in length, and, like all
Lycænid larvæ, is onisciform, or shaped like the little pill-bug, so
common under stones and logs. The head is very small, and is placed
on the end of a long, green neck, which at the junction is of the
thickness of the head, but gradually enlarges, and seems to be fixed at
the hinder part of the second segment, the latter being hollowed out
so as to form for it a sheath. In the final larval stages this segment
is elevated, transversely compressed, and inclines forward, thereby
shielding the head as the larva moves about. When quiescent the neck
and head are wholly retracted, and as the former, when fully extended,
is very much longer than the depth of the second segment, it must
possess considerable elasticity.

The larva feeds on the heart of the bud, and to reach this cuts away
the surface on one side till an opening is made sufficiently large to
admit its head; and as it feeds the second segment is firmly pressed
against the bud so as to permit the utmost elongation of the neck. Thus
it is enabled to eat out the contents of the bud, and only desists
when there remains but the empty shell. When so engaged the anterior
segments are curved up and the others rest upon the stalk of the plant,
but very small larvæ repose wholly in the bud. Not a single instance
has been observed where an open flower has been attacked, but the
destruction of buds is very extensive.

But now comes the most remarkable part of the larval history of
Pseudargiolus. The whole upper part of the larva is covered with small,
glassy, star-shaped processes, scarcely raised above the surrounding
surface, from the centre of which spring short, filamentous bodies,
bristling with feathery-looking tentacles, which the caterpillar has
the power of protruding at will. It throws them out like the tentacles
of Papilio or the horns of snails. More singular still is an opening
upon the eleventh segment, placed transversely and surrounded by a
raised cushion, about which the granulations that cover the body of the
caterpillar are particularly dense. From the middle of this opening,
which is shaped like a button-hole, issues, at the caterpillar’s will,
a sort of transparent, hemispherical vesicle, from which is emitted a
good-sized drop of fluid, which the animal is capable of reproducing
when absorbed.

[Illustration: PSEUDARGIOLUS BUTTERFLY.

Larva Feeding on Bud of Black Snakeroot, and Guarded by Ants.]

Four species of ants may be seen attending, not the small larvæ,
but those that have attained the nearly mature condition. They are
invariably found on or near the larva. Their actions, as they run
over the body, caressing with antennæ, evidently persuading the larva
to emit a drop of the fluid, are alike curious and interesting. Most
of this caressing is done about the anterior segments, and while the
ants are thus occupied, or rather, while they are absent from the last
segments, the tubes of the twelfth seem expanded to their full extent,
and so remain, without retracting or throbbing, until the ants come
hurrying along with great excitement and set foot or antenna directly
on or close by the tubes, when they are instantly withdrawn. The ants
pay no heed to the tubes. They seek for nothing from them, and expect
nothing. But they turn at once to the eleventh, caress the back of that
segment, and, putting their mouths to its opening, exhibit an eager
desire and expectancy. Suddenly a dull green, fleshy, mammilloid organ
protrudes, and from the summit of which comes a tiny drop of clear
green fluid, which the ants, some two or three perhaps standing about
it, lap greedily up. As the drop disappears, this organ sinks in at
the apex, and is so withdrawn. The ants then run about, some in quest
of other larvæ upon the same stem, some with no definite object, but
presently return and pursue the caressings as before. The intervals
between the appearance of the globule vary with the condition of the
larva. Where exhaustion by long-continued solicitings occurs, some
minutes elapse before renewal is effected, the tubes in the meantime
remaining concealed. Fresh larvæ, however, require little or no urging,
and globule follows globule, as many as six emissions in seventy-five
seconds, without even a retracting of the organ. Often the presence
of the ant, when the larva is aware of it, evokes, all unsought, the
sugary fluid.

Ordinarily the tubes expand when the ants are absent from the last
segments, and are certainly withdrawn when they come near. These tubes,
from all appearances, serve as signals to the ants. When the latter
discover them expanded, they know that a refection is ready, and rush
to the opening in the eleventh segment where it is to be found. The
tubes certainly serve no other purpose. No visible duct appears in the
dome of the tube when largely magnified, and the ants seek nothing
from it or the twelfth segment. They cannot be used to intimidate,
or to frighten away enemies, for in the younger stages, when the
larvæ have the most to dread, neither the tube nor the organ in the
eleventh segment is available. The outward openings, and the orifice
in the eleventh segment, exist in the youngest larval stages, but
are functionless until the larva has nearly attained maturity. Ants
seldom attempt to caress or solicit young larvæ, but pass them by with
indifference, seemingly knowing that they cannot emit the secretion.
When an ant approaches one of these immature larvæ, the larva manifests
considerable annoyance, throwing up the hinder segments, as though the
ant was an enemy which it was desirous to get rid of. If the tubes
could now be thrust out, the ant would be attracted, rather than
repelled.

But when the period arrives that the tubes are free, and the secretion
is ready to be ejected, which is perhaps just after the third
skin-moulting, and it cannot be earlier, the larva grows now quiet and
submissive, inviting the attentions of the ants, and rewarding their
antennal caresses.

Four species of parasites affect these larvæ. Two are dipterous. These,
which are of the size of the common house-fly, deposit their eggs,
during the second larval stage, on the back, and near the junction of
the second and third segments. In process of time the grubs hatch and
eat their way into the larva, to emerge when the latter has become
fully grown, thus destroying its life. Another of these enemies is a
minute hymenopterous insect, whose egg is placed in the very young
larva, probably in the first stage of its life. The grub, in this case,
eats its way out of the half-grown larva, spins a silken cocoon, from
which in a few days issues the newly-matured parasite. The destruction
of larvæ by these, and very likely by other similar parasites, is
doubtless immense. But no parasite attacks, it does seem, the mature
larva, for, if it did, the grub of the former would live within and
destroy the chrysalis, and instead of a butterfly emerging therefrom
would come forth the parasite. Multitudes of chrysalids of other
species of butterflies are thus destroyed, but Pseudargiolus, at this
stage, appears to enjoy a singular immunity from enemies.

Why this species, and doubtless many others of its family, are thus
favored, will soon be apparent. Ants may be seen wherever these larvæ
may be found, ever ready to receive the honeyed secretion when it
pleases the little creatures to eject it, but all the while exercising
the closest vigilance lest some wary ichneumon may come along and deal
a thrust of its ovipositor, which means misery and ultimate death to
their helpless friends. So intent is the larva, with its head buried
in the flower, upon its feeding, and so quietly and stealthily does
the ichneumon approach its intended victim, that hardly a single
individual would be left to tell the story of its existence were it
not for the ants. The larvæ know their protectors, it would seem from
their actions, and are able and willing to reward their services. The
advantage is mutual, and the association friendly. No compelling by
rough means on the one part is noticeable, and no reluctant yielding
on the other. All demonstrations made by the ants are of the most
gentle character. They caress, entreat, and as they drink in the sweet
fluid, lifting their heads to prolong the swallowing, they manifest to
the utmost their satisfaction and delight. It is amusing to see them
lick away the last trace, caressing the back of the segment with their
antennæ as they do so, as though they were coaxing for a little more.

In Pseudargiolus the tubes are white, cylindrical, nearly equal in
size, rounded at summit, and studded with little tuberculations
from which arise the tentacles. These last are tapering, armed with
small spurs set in whorls, and stand out straight, making a white
hemispherical dome over the cylinder, but none of them fall below the
plane of the base of the dome, nor do they ever hang limp or lie across
the dome, as is the case in a European species. When the tube comes up
the rays rise in a close pencil, and take position as the dome expands;
but, on the contrary, when the tube is withdrawn, the top of the dome
sinks first, the rays coming together in pencil again.

[Illustration: VIOLACEA BUTTERFLY.

Larva, Protected by Ants, Feeding on Flower-buds of Dogwood.]

_Lycæna pseudargiolus_ is subject to great variation, and occurs under
many forms, most of which having been regarded as distinct species. In
the early spring Violacea appears, and is characterized by dimorphism
in the female, some of that sex being blue, others black. This form,
which may be called the winter form, deposits its eggs in the clusters
of flower-buds of the Dogwood, the young larvæ obtaining their first
food by boring into the buds, but later on eating their way into
the ovaries. The flies that come from these larvæ late in May are
Pseudargiolus, which, as stated before, lays its eggs on _Cimicifuga
racemosa_, most of the resulting butterflies over-wintering to produce
Violacea. A small percentage of the May chrysalids give butterflies as
late as September, which are smaller than the parent-form, and also
differ therefrom in the more decided character of the marginal crescent
discal spots on the under side of the wings. There does not seem to be
any regular second summer brood, that is, there are but two regular
annual broods, the Violacea of March and the Pseudargiolus of May, the
individuals happening to emerge in July, August and September being
irregular visitants, for which the name of Neglecta has been given. The
females of the last form lay their eggs upon _Actinomeris squarrosa_,
and the chrysalids, thence resulting, give Violacea the next spring.

Larvæ feeding on Dogwood vary much in color from those that feed on the
Black Snakeroot, few being white in the last stages, but nearly all
dull-crimson or green, or a mingling of the two. Nevertheless, a small
percentage of the larvæ on _Cimicifuga racemosa_ are also green or
crimson, though the most of them white. Ants do not seem to visit the
larvæ on the Dogwood, and on being introduced to them in confinement
treat them with indifference. On rare occasions tubes have been
discovered in the eleventh segment, fully expanded, and accompanied by
a pulsating movement, but no teasing or irritating availed to make them
appear. Even severe pressure applied to the sides of the segment failed
to force out any fluid. As with the fall food-plant, _Actinomeris
squarrosa_, the Dogwood is neither sweet nor juicy, and it is possible
that the larvæ feeding on these plants do not secrete the fluid.

Eggs of this polymorphic species are round, flat at base, the top
flattened and depressed, and have a diameter of one-fiftieth of an
inch. Their ground-color is a delicate green, the entire surface being
covered with a white lace-work, the meshes of which being mostly
lozenge-shaped, with a short rounded process at each angle. In from
four to eight days the egg hatches into a larva, which is scarcely
one-twenty-fifth of an inch long, and whose upper side is rounded,
the under being flat. On each side of the dorsal line is a row of
white clubbed hairs, with similar ones at the base and in front of the
second joint, making a fringe around the body. The head is very small,
obovoid, retractile and black; the legs retractile, and the color a
greenish-white or brownish-yellow.

The first moult occurs in from three to five days, the larva having
increased to twice its former length, while very little difference is
manifest in the coloration. In from three to five days the caterpillar
has again changed its skin, doubled its length, assumed more pronounced
colors, which are diversified in some with mottlings upon back and
sides, and developed along the back, from the third to the tenth joint,
a low, broad, continuous, tuberculous ridge, cleft to the body at
the junction of the segments, the anterior edge of each joint being
depressed, the sides incurved. The third moult takes place in three or
four days more, but there is very little change from the former period.
Three or four days subsequent to this change occurs the fourth or final
moult, and in five or six days from this the larva is ready to pass
into the chrysalis state.

In its mature form the larva is about one-half of an inch in length.
The body is onisciform, flattened at base, furnished with retractile
legs, and has the back elevated into a rounded ridge, which slopes
backwards from the sixth segment. The sides are rather deeply hollowed,
and in the middle of each segment, from the third to the eleventh, is
a vertical, narrow depression. The last segments are flattened, the
last of all terminating roundly, its sides being narrowed and slightly
incurved, while the second segment is flattened, arched and bent
nearly flat over the head. Standing on the body is a ridge, tubercular
in nature, which in each segment from the third to the eleventh is
distinct and cleft to the body. In color, specimens vary. Some examples
are white, others decidedly greenish, but many have the posterior slope
of the second segment black or dark brown, while a few have most of
the back a dark brown, irregularly mottling a light ground, or with
small brown patches diffused over the back, but mostly on the anterior
segments. The entire surface is velvety. This appearance is caused by
minute stellate glossy processes, scarcely raised above the surface,
mostly six-rayed, and sending from the centre a concolored filamentous
spine a little longer than the rays. These stars are arranged in nearly
regular rows, and are light, except in the brown patches, where both
star and spine are brown. This velvet-like condition of the skin only
reveals its true composition under a magnifying glass.

On the eleventh segment, near the posterior edge of the back, is a
transverse slit, in a sub-oval spot, from which proceeds a membranous
process; and on the twelfth, on each side, is a mark like a stigma, but
a little larger, from which proceeds a membranous tube, ending in a
crown of feathery tentacles, these three special organs being exposed
or concealed at the will of the larva. The head is small, obovoid, dark
brown, and is placed at the end of a long, pale green, conical neck,
which is rectractile, both neck and head being covered by the second
segment.

Before changing to a chrysalis, the summer larvæ sometimes turn pink,
and from pink to brown, or become brown without the pink stage,
although others remain white or change to rusty brown. The body
contracts to about three-tenths of an inch and takes on a rounded form.

The chrysalis is dark-brown or yellow-brown, but varying in color, the
wing-cases being dark or green-tinted. Two sub-dorsal rows of blackish
dots are found on the abdomen, and sometimes a dark dorsal line. In
the few instances in which the butterfly emerges the same season
the duration of this stage is from thirty to sixty days, but most
chrysalids pass the winter and mature in the spring.

[Illustration: NEGLECTA BUTTERFLY.

Larva Feeding on Central Florets of Actinomeris, and Guarded by Ants.]

Now for a description of the butterfly. In general terms, the upper
side of the wings of the male is a deep azure-blue, with a delicate
terminal black border. On the apical part of the fore-wings the fringes
are black, but white and barred with black on the rest of these wings
and on the hind-wings. In the female the fore-wings have a broad,
blackish outer border, in some examples extending along the costa,
while the hind-wings have a blackish costa and a row of dark spots
along the outer margin. Usually the ground-color is a lighter blue
in the females than in the males. A pale silvery gray, with a silky
lustre, is the color of the under side of the wings, which is relieved
by a row of spots along the outer margin, each preceded by a crescent,
a curved row of elongate spots across the disk of the fore-wings, and
several spots on the basal part of the hind-wings, all the markings
being of a pale brown color. Violacea, the so-called winter form, has
the dark parts and crescents on the under side of the wings quite
prominent, but they do not, either in the outer border or in the basal
portion, coalesce. Pseudargiolus, the largest of the series, there
being but three forms in Pennsylvania, expands one and four-tenths
inches. The upper surface of the male usually has a terminal border
to the hind-wings of the same shade of blue as is visible on the
fore-wings, the middle area of the hind-wings being a little paler
than this border on the fore-wings. On the under side of the wings the
spots are much smaller than on the preceding form. Neglecta, which
resembles Pseudargiolus, and has the spots on the under surface small,
is a smaller form, never expanding more than one and one-tenth inches.
It is a summer form when there is more than one generation in a season,
ranging from Canada, through New England to West Virginia and Georgia,
and occurring also in Montana and Nevada. Violacea has a more extended
limit, being found in Alaska, British America, Ontario, Quebec, New
England to West Virginia, and Colorado, while Pseudargiolus ranges from
Wisconsin south to Tennessee, and on the east from Pennsylvania to
Georgia.

HIBERNATING BUTTERFLIES.

Early in March, and often while the snow yet lingers upon the
landscape, may be seen flying in and out among the forest-trees, or
lazily meandering along some deserted road through a thicket, the
beautiful Antiopa. Her rich crimson dress, so dark that it almost
seems black, with its buff-colored, sky-dotted border, serves to
distinguish her from her no less interesting, but smaller, sisters of
the Vanessa family of butterflies. But the Antiopas you then see are
generally ragged and shabby, which is not to be wondered at, when it is
considered that it is their last year’s dresses they wear, for late in
the preceding August they had their being, and all through the autumn
had been exposed to a hundred misfortunes or more while seeking their
living.

But with the coming of frost and of cold comes the blighting of
flowers. A feeling of torpor in consequence steals over their once
bouyant spirits, and into some crevice in a barn or a wood-pile or
stone-heap they creep, and there sleep the winter away, till the
warmth of the sun from his southward-bound journey returning sets the
brown buds a-swelling, when out of their hibernating retreats they
leisurely crawl for a flying stroll through the awakening trees. Slow
and deliberate their movements are, as though some grave and momentous
event were dependent thereon.

Never have I watched such actions, so human-like have they seemed,
than the conviction has gone home to my mind that they plainly evinced
a thought and a purpose, which had their origin, if not in a brain,
at least in one of the several ganglions which largely make up their
wonderful and somewhat complicated nervous machinery.

No matter how low in intelligence she may rank, Antiopa has
nevertheless, or all experience is at fault, some general ideas of the
time and fitness of things. From her gloomy abode in the wood-pile she
has emerged, while all the gay butterfly world, barring a few familiar
exceptions, is asleep, for a tour of investigation. Her venture is
seldom ill-timed, for the violets have preceded her, and from their
delicately curved flagons proffer her food and refreshment.

Cool and unhealthful as the mornings are at first, it is not till
the sun is nearly overhead that she leaves her retreat, for what of
plant-life exists is then, under the full force of his beams, at its
very best. Three or four hours a day, with few intervals of rest,
she is actively on wing, regaling herself with exercise and food,
thus storing little by little her body with some of the strength and
vivacity which were hers when the famine of winter overtook her and
forced her to retirement, so as the better to prepare for that work,
the propagation of her kind, which is the principal, but not the only,
aim of her existence. After four in the afternoon her presence is
scarce, as she has sought her old, or some other, place of shelter and
security.

But when the days have grown longer and warmer, and the trees are
arrayed in their livery of green, she is in the fields bright and
early, and often ere the dew has disappeared from the grass and the
flowers. The most restless of beings she now is. Anon alighting upon a
bush for a momentary rest, then off for a dozen or more rods, when the
presence of some favorite blossom meets her quick sight and invites her
to pause, which she does, but only for a second to quench her thirst.
Where willows, or elms, or poplars abound, she is more frequently seen
later on in May, but flying more slowly and sedately than ever before.
The flowers pass unheeded. She seems in a dream, in a reverie. But all
of a sudden she quickens her speed. You look for the cause. There, in
the distance, another is seen, just like her in mien, some would-be
suitor for her hand and affections. He enters his suit, he pleads his
great love, and awaits her sweet pleasure. The answer is brief, and
soon by their actions, as high up in the air they circle and circle,
caressing each other with strokes of the antennæ, the story is told
that his love has been requited. A brief honey-moon of two or three
days and the love-scene is over, and the two settle down to the prosy
realities of everyday life. The male goes back to his old-time pursuit
of rifling the flowers of their honeyed treasures, whilst the female,
upon whom devolves the duty of providing for the offspring whom she
is never likely to see, looks scrutinizingly about for her favorite
trees, the poplar, the elm, or the willow. In her selection of a tree
a wonderfully keen discernment is shown, for she seldom, if ever,
mistakes her plant-species.

[Illustration: MOURNING-CLOAK BUTTERFLY.

Larva Feeding on Willow Leaf, and Chrysalis Suspended from Twig.]

When a choice has been made, no time is expended in fruitless endeavor.
She proceeds at once to deposit her eggs. They are laid in a cluster
round the twig, and near the petiole of a young leaf, upon which the
newly-hatched larvæ are to feed. The eggs hatch inside of a week into
small black spiny caterpillars which, in their early stages, are very
social in their habits. Just before the final skin-moulting they
separate, each caterpillar living alone, the necessity for food, which
their very vigorous appetites now demand, being the impelling motive.
In a state of maturity the larvæ are two inches in length. They are
black, and minutely dotted with white, which gives them a greyish look.
A row of brick-red spots are found down the back, and their body is
armed with many black, rather long and slightly branching spines. The
head is black, and roughened with small black tubercles.

Having completed their period of feeding, which they do in about four
weeks, the caterpillars attach themselves by means of their tails to
a fence-rail, a window-ledge, or some such place, and pass into the
chrysalis state, which is accomplished in about four days. In this
condition they present an odd-looking appearance. The head will be
found to be deeply notched, or furnished with two ear-like prominences.
The sides are very angular. In the middle of the thorax there is a thin
projection, somewhat like a Roman nose in profile, while on the back
are two rows of very sharp tubercles of a tawny color, which contrast
very markedly in coloration with the dark-brown of the rest of the
chrysalis. Fifteen days, when the weather is favorable, are sufficient
for the development of the imago, or butterfly. As maturity approaches,
the chrysalis-shell becomes quite soft, and the efforts of the imago
to free itself from this covering are facilitated by the ejection of a
blood-red fluid, which rots the case, while it acts, at the same time,
as a lubricant to the emerging butterfly.

When these caterpillars are very abundant, as was the case in the
vicinity of Germantown some twenty-five years ago, every fence-rail
was hung with chrysalids, as many as a dozen being found upon a
single rail. The caterpillars even climbed up the sides of the houses
and suspended themselves from the window-ledges and the edges of the
overhanging shingles. When the butterflies emerged, great blotches
of the fluid bespattered the fences and houses as though the clouds
had rained great drops of blood. The willows and poplars were alive
with the caterpillars, and even the maples were overrun when there
came a scarcity of the leaves of the natural food-plants. Green
caterpillar-hunters were everywhere plentiful, and the writer could
have taken hundreds of specimens, but these highly-useful beetles made
a very sorry attempt in holding the enemy in check.

Two broods of the caterpillars are raised, one in June and the other
in August, but the agencies by nature employed for their destruction
so effectually accomplish their mission that hardly a season brings to
my notice a dozen full-grown larvæ. _Vanessa antiopa_, as this species
is called by the scientific student, or Mourning-Cloak by people and
amateurs, is generally found through the whole of North America. In
England, where it is popularly called the Camberwell Beauty, because
specimens were first taken near Camberwell, it is the rarest of
butterflies; while on the Continent, as in this country, it is a very
plentiful insect.

LEAF-CUTTER BEE.

Few hymenoptera of the family of bees are so little known as the
Megachilidæ, or Leaf-cutters. They are stout, thick-bodied insects,
with large, square heads, and armed with sharp, scissors-like jaws,
which admirably fit them for the work they have to do in preparing
materials for the building of their homes.

Our commonest species, _Megachile centuncularis_, is about the size of
the hive-bee. In gardens and nurseries where shrubbery abounds, it is
very prevalent, especially the female, which is readily distinguished
by a thick mass of stout, dense hair on the under side of the tail,
which serves as a carrier of pollen. The honey- and bumble-bees differ
materially from them, for they have the hind tibiæ and basal joints of
the tarsi very much broadened for that purpose.

Megachile is by no means a remarkable-looking insect. Judging from
its very humble exterior, one can hardly believe it possessed of the
wonderful intelligence, as shown in its wise provisions for its young,
which it is found to display.

Ordinarily the female, who is entrusted with the discharge of this very
essential business, places her nest in the solid earth underneath some
species of shrub. A vertical hole, three inches in depth, is dug, and
this is enlarged into a horizontal gallery, some five or six inches in
length.

You should see the little creature in her never-tiring work of
preparing material for her nest. In and out among the roses she goes,
examining each leaf with the most critical care, and only desisting
from her labor when a suitable one has been chosen. She scans it
over and over, and at last from a position on its upper or nether
surface proceeds to cut a piece just fitted for her work, which,
heavy as it seems, is seized between the legs and jaws and carried on
swiftly-agitated wings to her burrow.

[Illustration: LEAF-CUTTER BEE AT WORK.

Two Tunnels Being Filled With Leaf-Cells.]

Ten pieces or more, each differing in shape, are cut and borne away,
which the ingenious insect tailor twists and folds, the one within the
other, until is formed a funnel-like cone, whose end is narrower than
its mouth. So perfectly joined are the parts, that even when dry they
have been found to retain their form and integrity. A cake of honey
and pollen, for the use of some yet unborn Leaf-cutter, is deposited
within, and on this, in due time, is laid a single small egg. Nought
now remains but to wall up the cell. A circle of leaf, of the size of
the opening, is cut, and this is closely adjusted within the wall of
rolled-up leaves. Sometimes as many as four pieces are thus utilized.
A second cell, similarly built, is fitted to the first, and this is
succeeded by eight or ten others. When all is completed, the eggs being
laid and the cells all victualled, the hole of the shaft is closed with
the earth that was thrown out, and so carefully, too, that not a trace
of her doings remains to tell us the story.

Like other insects, Megachile is occasionally prone to change. Some
laborers while digging, one early spring-day, some thirteen years ago,
about a cluster of plants of _Spiræa corymbosa_, a species allied to
the roses and cinquefoils, came unexpectedly upon a dozen or more cells
of this insect, arranged horizontally in layers, some three or four
inches below the ground’s surface. These cells were three-fourths of
an inch in length, one-fourth in width, and formed of the leaves of
Spiræa. Six circles, of three pieces each, constituted the cell, and
these were so arranged that each succeeding circle was made to project
but slightly beyond its predecessor. Six circular pieces, larger than
seemed needful, closed up the opening of each cell. That there was a
purpose here manifested was very apparent. This purpose, as it appeared
to the writer, was the better accommodation by the hollow surface of
the cell that was to follow, and the giving of greater firmness and
security to the entire structure.

More curious, however, were some cells that were found the ensuing
year, which, in looks, resembled very closely those of Pelopæus, a
species of wasp, familiarly designated the Mud-dauber. These cells,
in numbers of three, were adherent to the rafters of a hardly-used
garret. In form, and in the peculiar combination of their pellets of
clay, they were the exact counterpart of the Mud-dauber’s. But the
curious funnel-like arrangement of leaves on the inside, so strikingly
characteristic of the Megachilidæ, was evidence of the most positive
kind that Pelopæus had nothing whatever to do with their putting
together. It bespoke a piece of work that was entirely beyond the
highest capability of her being to execute.

Each of the included leafy cells was one and one-eighth inches in
length, and just barely exceeding one-fourth in width. Elliptical
pieces of Spiræa, less in size than those previously described, but
arranged in a similar manner, composed the several structures. Within
each, a dead but perfectly-formed Megachile, encased in a cylindrical
bag of silk, was found, so that there could be no possible doubt of the
builder. That this inner fabric was the labor of some mother Megachile
admits not of a scruple, for no other bee is known to construct a nest
of like character. But what of the outer enveloping fabric of mud?
It was clearly impossible for the skill of a Megachile, who, while
certainly fitted for tunnelling the ground and for snipping circular
and elliptical pieces of suited dimensions from leaves with all a
tailor’s precision, would find herself wofully unadapted for the making
of mortar and the building of nests, in imitations of tunnels, out of
pellets of mud that had to be moulded into consistency and shape by the
jaws of the builder. Pelopæus alone, of all hymenopters, possesses the
ability and means of making such structures. Megachile, who is known
to occasionally build under the boards of the roof of a piazza, might
sometimes in her quest of a place appropriate the discarded cells of
some pre-existent Pelopæus for nesting purposes, but she runs a very
great risk in so doing, for the Mud-dauber does not always build a
fresh home for her treasures, save when there is a lack of the last
year’s structures. Old nests, when found, are put in speedy repair and
made to do as invaluable a service.

BATTLE BETWEEN ANTS.

Whilst reclining one beautiful May afternoon in the shade of an oak
that stood on the outskirts of a thicket, my attention was arrested by
the activity and bustle presented by a colony of yellow ants, which
proved to be the _Formica flava_, so common everywhere.

Scattered indiscriminately about were numberless larvæ in various
stages of growth, and not a few immobile pupæ, that had been brought up
from subterranean domiciles by thoughtful nurses, while here and there
were a dozen or more ants, but recently escaped from their mummy-cases,
basking in the sun’s warmth, preparatory to entering upon the duties of
the formicarium.

The very picture of restlessness and anxiety were these full-grown
neuters. That something was transpiring, or was about to transpire,
seemed not unlikely, for ovæ, larvæ and pupæ were being quickly carried
to places of concealment in the earth, or hustled away among the
entangling and interlacing grasses.

Looking about for the cause of all this excitement, the truth at once
became painfully apparent. Three large, burly ants, representatives of
_Formica subterranea_, a black species that is everywhere abundant in
wooded regions, had intruded their obnoxious presence into the happy
colony, bent, as it was evident, on pillage or slaughter.

Were plunder the inspiring motive, these giant invaders were not slow
to learn that their weaker kin, though lacking their strength, could
more than match them in cunning and stratagem.

Not daring to attack the foe, and being unwilling that any of their
number should be led into slavery, or suffer aught at the hands of
others, they immediately set to work to destroy all whom it was
impossible to protect.

[Illustration: BATTLE BETWEEN ANTS.

Young Destroyed by Nurses.]

Detailed as most of the neuters seemed to be in looking after the wants
of the immature, there were a few observed running hither and thither
and seizing in their jaws the newly-developed, not to bear them out of
the reach of danger, as was at first supposed, but to kill them so as
to prevent them from falling a living prey into the hands of the enemy.

Knowing the sympathy and affection which the nurses are ever wont to
cherish towards the objects of their care, this act of cruelty struck
me as something very astonishing and peculiar.

Prompted by curiosity to know the nature of the wounds thus inflicted,
I placed upon the palm of my hand one of the wounded ants, and made, by
means of a microscope, a careful examination of its injuries. Above
and below the abdomen, between the second and third segments, two deep
wounds, which met each other in the interior, were plainly to be seen.

Several cases of the kind were afterwards noticed. These were not
accidental occurrences, made through efforts to carry the young to
places of shelter. Possibly, through inexperience, accidents might
happen once in a long time, but to suppose that insects, accustomed to
handling their young as the neuters assuredly are, would be likely to
make such blunders, is too unreasonable to be entertained. Admitting
for argument’s sake that such things might occasionally occur, would
successive repetitions be expected? I apprehend not. But on the
supposition that a purpose was thereby subserved, the object had in
view warrants, it would seem, the means employed for its accomplishment.

What the purpose was it will now be my aim to show. That many animals,
tame as well as wild, are wont to destroy disabled and wounded
companions, is well established by history. In many instances the
destruction is justified to preserve the herd or pack from the close
pursuit of enemies. “Instinct or reason,” as Darwin says, “may suggest
the expelling an injured companion, lest beasts of prey, including man,
should be tempted to follow the troop.”

Audubon, in writing of the wild turkey, so abundant in his day,
observes substantially that the old males in their marches often
destroy the young by picking the head, but do not venture to disturb
the full-grown and vigorous. The feeble and immature being an
encumbrance, it is obvious that the watchfulness and attention which
they would require, were sympathy and affection the emotions by which
the males are actuated, would necessarily retard progress, and lead to
the destruction of the entire flock. Instinct or reason here operates
for individual and family good.

Granting that instinct or reason does sometimes act for individual and
family preservation in the manner described, I am not willing to admit
that in every case that may arise in which the weak and disabled are
sacrificed, that it is done for the material benefit of the physically
able and robust. How the destruction of the weak and nearly-developed
ant can result in good to the colony, in view of the fact that not the
slightest effort to escape the danger by flight is undertaken, the sole
object being the hiding of the young, it is most difficult to conceive.

There seems to be one of two theories, in the writer’s judgment, that
will, in anything like a satisfactory manner, account for this strange,
abnormal habit upon the part of an insect that has been proverbially
distinguished for its kind and affectionate disposition towards the
tender beings committed to its trust; either to attribute it to an
unwillingness and dislike to see its offspring made the servants of
a hostile race or the subjects of ill-treatment and abuse, or to the
survival of a habit of the past when its ancestors were a migratory, or
nomadic, species.

That a feeling of repugnance does sometimes take possession of animal
nature when the objects of parental care and solicitude are, or are
about to be, reduced to slavery or confinement, and impels to actions
of cruelty, will be patent from what follows:--

A friend, several summers ago, having procured a pair of young
robins, placed them in a cage, which he hung from a tree-branch close
to his dwelling, where the parent-birds could have an opportunity to
feed them. All went well for a few days, when the parents, who had
busied themselves in the intervals of feeding in attempts to secure
their release, finding their efforts unavailing, flew away, but
only to return with something green in their bills, most probably
poisonous caterpillars, which they fed to their offspring. A few
minutes later and they lay in the bottom of the cage dead, but the
parents, as if conscious of what would result, flew away, and never
came back.

May it not be that the parents, finding all efforts to restore their
young to freedom ineffectual, sought this method of saving them from
a life to which death must assuredly be preferable? Instances of like
character might be adduced by the hundred, but enough has been written
to show that, in the case of _Formica flava_, an unwillingness to allow
the humblest of the colony to be taken into bondage was the motive
which prompted the sacrifice.

NEST-BUILDING FISHES.

Not alone in color do fishes resemble birds. In the home-life and love
of offspring a close resemblance obtains. Many are nest-builders,
erecting structures quite as complicated as those of some birds, and
hardly less elaborate in design and finish.

Floating along some woodland stream, or strolling along its
grass-fringed margin, we have watched the domestic life of the
Sun-fish, the _Eupomotis vulgaris_ of writers, that mottled, bespangled
beauty that seems always on hand to be caught by the angler in default
of more noble game.

Where delicate grasses grow, and floating lily-pads cast their shadows,
there among the winding stems the Sun-fish builds its home. Moving
in pairs in and out among the lilies near the shore, as if jointly
selecting a site for a nursery, they may be seen. The spot is generally
a gravelly one, and, once determined upon, no time is lost in pushing
the work to a speedy conclusion. For several inches around the space
is cleared of stems or roots, and these are carefully carried away.
The smaller roots are swept aside by well-directed blows of their
tails, or by mimic whirlpools which the fishes, standing over the nest,
create by their fins. The stones are next taken up, the smaller ones
in their mouths, the larger being pushed out bodily, or fanned away by
the sweeping process, until an oval depression, with a sandy bottom,
finally appears. About the sides the stems of aquatic verdure, which
seem to have been purposely left, may be seen standing, and these now
naturally fall over, oftentimes constituting the nest a perfect bower,
with walls bedecked with buds, while the roof is a mat of white lilies
floating upon the surface. Here the eggs are deposited, the male and
female alternately watching them.

[Illustration: NEST OF COMMON SUN-FISH.

Male and Female Defending It from Attack of Cat-fish.]

While the Sun-fish is always recognized as the most peaceful of the
finny tribe, and only chasing in wanton playfulness its neighbors,
it is otherwise when the passions are wrought to a high pitch of
excitement through the play of amatory influences in the spring-time.
Let a stranger, a bewhiskered cat-fish, approach the bower, and war
is at once declared. The little creatures snap at the intruder with
anger and defiance. Their sharp dorsal fins stand erect, the pectorals
vibrate with repressed emotion, while the violent movements of their
powerful tails evince a readiness and determination to stand by their
home at all hazards. Indeed, so vigorous is their charge, that even
large fishes are forced to retreat, and, as the Sun-fishes build in
companies, the intruder often finds himself attacked by a whole colony
of them.

Nearly all the Sun-fishes are nest-builders, some forming arbors, as we
have seen, others scooping out nests on sandy shoals, while one, the
Spotted Sun-fish, is more democratic, affecting muddy streams, where,
on the approach of cold weather, it makes a nest in the muddy bottom,
and there it lies dormant till the coming spring.

Who has not made friends with the Dace--_Rhinichthys atronasus_? He is
a veritable finny jester. We have watched him in his watery retreat,
and, perhaps unseen, have played the spy upon his domestic proceedings.

Life is a gala time to these little fishes. They have seemingly never a
care or a bother. In jest they join in the chase of some curious minnow
that intrudes upon their presence, suddenly changing their course to
dash at some resplendent dragon-fly that hovers over the leafy canopy
of their home, and as quickly darting off again to attack some bit of
floating leaf or imaginary insect.

All is not play, however, even among the Dace. The warm days of June
usher in the sterner duties, the nesting-time. Male and female join
in the preparation, and a locality, perhaps in shallow water in some
running brook, is selected. Roots, snags and leaves are carried away,
both fishes sometimes found tugging away at a single piece, taking it
down-stream, and working faithfully and vigorously until, in a few
hours, a clearing over two feet in diameter is the result.

There the first eggs are laid. The male, who has retired, soon appears
from up-stream, bearing in his mouth a pebble, which is placed in the
centre of the clearing. Now they both swim away, but soon returning,
each bearing a pebble, that is also dropped upon the eggs. Slowly the
work proceeds, until a layer of clean pebbles apparently covers the
eggs. A second layer of eggs is now deposited by the female, and these
are covered by pebbles as the others had been, the industrious little
workers scouring the neighborhood for them, seemingly piling up eggs
and stones alternately until the heap attains a height of eight inches
or more. These heaps vary in shape, some being pyramidal, and others
dome-shaped.

Such patience as these finny housekeepers manifest is not appreciated
by man. The gleaners of the golden fields, in whose waters our little
friends are found, have not discovered their secret, and think the
curious piles the washes of the brook itself. But their purpose is
the protection of their eggs. In swift-running streams, which these
fish are so wont to affect, the eggs would be washed away, and,
driven against rocks and snags, would be destroyed, or, even escaping
destruction, would, by the undulating movement to which they would
become subjected, be rendered impossible of incubation. Besides, were
they not thus protected, even though there was no danger of being
washed away, they would become easy prey to the attacks of carnivorous
fishes.

Unlike as the Lamprey-eels are in structure to the Dace, yet in their
habits of erecting a nest they are very similar. Upon our Eastern
sea-board they are a common species, inhabiting both salt and fresh
water. In the early spring they follow the shad up the rivers,
occasionally preceding them, and search about for suitable localities
in which to deposit their spawn. They clean away the stones as the
Dace were seen to do, bending their long bodies in coils, which they
use in pushing aside the accumulation on the bottom. To the unlearned
the appearance of two Eels, each three feet in length, twisting and
seemingly coiling about each other, would be indicative of war. But
having cleaned for themselves a smooth spot, the Lampreys proceed
to place stones. Irregularly-shaped stones of small size are easily
and quickly transported in their mouths, but when stones that weigh
several pounds are to be brought, the tactics they adopt are worthy of
an engineer. As the spots chosen for the rearing of their submarine
castles are ordinarily subjected to a swift current, the largest
stones, which it would be thought impossible for them to move, are
looked for up stream. A suitable one found, and a favorable position
presented, the sucking mouth is fastened to it, and by a convulsive
effort, the tail of the fish being raised aloft, the heavy stone is
lifted from its place, the current pushing against the fish and stone,
bearing them along several feet before they sink. Another effort of
the fish, and the rock is again raised and carried down stream, until
finally, by repeated liftings and struggles, the ingenious, persevering
nest-builder is swept down to the nest, where the load is deposited.
This laborious work is carried on until the pile has attained a height
of two or three feet, and a diameter of four. No special form seems
to be necessary. The nest is generally oval, compact and well devised
to contain the eggs, which are carefully deposited within, thus
affording protection in its numerous interstices for the young when
they hatch. When about six inches long, the young _Petromyzon marinus_,
which is a strange little fellow, is devoid of teeth, and blind, and
possesses so many characteristics distinct from the parent, that for
a long time he was considered a separate species, and even assigned a
place in a different genus. Enormous nests are sometimes built. John
M. Batchelder, Esq., describes one, which he saw in the Saco River,
Maine, that was about fifteen feet long, and from one to three feet in
height, its position and triangular shape in vertical section being
well adapted for securing a change of water, and a hiding-place for the
young. The operation of building was very methodical, a hundred and
more Eels being at work upon the structure. Water-worn stones, chips
of granites and fragments of bricks, sometimes weighing as much as two
pounds and transported by a single individual, were utilized in the
building.

[Illustration: BLACK-NOSED DACE.

Constructing Their Nest of Pebbles.]

More remarkable, however, than any previously described, are the nests
of the Fresh-water Chub, _Semotilus bullaris_, which is known in some
localities as the Stone Toter. This fish attains a length of about
fifteen inches. The finest nests are on the shores of Westminster
Island, but they are common on nearly every island that has a sandy,
gravelly shore among the many that make up the Thousand Islands. The
nest is a pile of stones, sometimes measuring ten feet across at the
base, four feet in height, and containing a good-sized cart-load of
stones, weighing in all perhaps a ton. Stones from small pebbles
to some four inches in length were used, and as some of the nests
are placed at considerable distances from the gravel-beds, and each
stone represented a journey, the amount of labor performed, when it
is considered that tens of thousands of stones must have been used
in the building, certainly was incredible. Each stone is brought in
the mouth of the Chub and dropped over the piles, one or more fishes
working at the same heap. Some plan is evidently followed in the work,
the first deposit of stones being small, and dropped so as to form a
circle or semi-circle. The largest heaps are undoubtedly the work of
successive years, the nests being annually added to during the last
of May or June, when the Chubs are seen lying in the heaps, at which
time the eggs are probably deposited. All the labor of piling up is to
protect them from predatory fishes, a necessary and wise provision, as
cat-fish, rock-bass, perch and others prey upon the eggs.

In gravelly beds the Trout excavates a simple nest, a mere depression
in the sand, that is not at all incomparable to the nest of some
species of gulls. A furrow in the gravelly bottom of a river, often ten
feet in length, the depression being made as fast as it is required, is
the nest of the Salmon. In Canadian rivers these nests can be easily
distinguished by the lighter marking in the bottom.

Few persons of the many who delight to drift along our sea-shores are
unfamiliar with the Toad-fish. So closely does he in shape and color
resemble a moss-covered stone that his enemies are deceived. Intrenched
among the weeds and gravel, which the mother-fish carelessly throws
aside, after the fashion of some of the gulls, the young are reared,
their yolk-sacs enabling them to cling to the rocks of the nest soon
after birth. There, under the watchful eye of the parent, they remain
until old enough to swim away.

But the most vigilant of all nest-builders is the Four-spined
Stickleback--_Apeltes quadracus_. In some neighboring stream, that
sooner or later finds its way to the ocean, he may be found. There
are different species of these fish, but their architectural ideas
are pretty much the same. They vary mainly in the locations they
select for nesting. Some place the nests upon the bottom, concealed
among the sea-weed found there, while others hang theirs from some
projecting ledge, or swing it in the tide from the sunken bough of
some overhanging tree. As is unusual, the work of nidification is
solely performed by the male Stickleback, the female taking no part in
the labor. The spawning season having arrived, he, assuming a bright
nuptial lustre, shows remarkable activity in selecting a site for an
edifice, and transporting the building material thither. Fragments of
all kinds of plants, gathered often at a distance, are brought home in
his mouth. These are arranged as a sort of a carpet, but as there is
danger of the light materials being carried away by the current, they
are weighted down by sand to keep them in their places. Having entwined
them with his mouth to his complete satisfaction, he then glides gently
over them on his belly, and glues them with the mucus that exudes from
his pores. More solid materials, sometimes bits of wood, sometimes bits
of straw, which he seizes with his mouth, are adjusted to the sides of
the floor to constitute the walls. He is now very particular. If the
piece cannot be properly adjusted to his building, and he does not lose
patience in his efforts to fit it in, he carries it to some distance
from the nest and leaves it. After the side walls are erected, a roof
of the same materials with the floor is laid over the chamber. Firmness
is given to the whole structure by passing over it with his body, the
light and useless particles being fanned away by the action of his fins
and the vibratory movements of his tail. In carrying on his building
operations care is taken to preserve a circular opening into the
chamber, his head and a great part of his body being thrust therein,
thus widening and consolidating it, and rendering it a fit receptacle
for the female. When choosing material, the fish has been seen testing
its specific gravity by letting it sink once or twice in the water, and
if the descent was not rapid enough finally abandoning it.

Of the exact method used by the fish in binding the nest together we
are indebted to Prof. Ryder. The male fish spins from a pore or pores
a compound thread, using his body to insinuate himself through the
interstices through which he carries the thread. The thread is spun
fitfully, not continuously. He will go round and round the nest perhaps
a dozen times, when he will rest awhile and begin anew. Its shape is
somewhat conical before completion. The thread is wound round and
round the nest in a horizontal direction, and when freshly spun is
found to consist of six or eight very thin transparent fibres, which
have alternated tapering ends where they are broken off. Very soon
after the thread is spun, particles of dirt adhere to it, and render it
difficult to interpret its character. The nest measures one-half of an
inch in height, and three-eighths in diameter.

The time occupied in collecting materials and constructing the nest
is about four hours, and when all is ready the male starts out to
seek a female, and, having found her, conducts her with many polite
attentions to the prepared home. The eggs being deposited, the male
establishes himself as a guardian of the precious treasures, not even
suffering the female to approach it again. Every fish that comes near,
no matter how large, is furiously assailed. He gives battle valiantly,
striking at their eyes and seizing their fins in his mouth. His sharp
dorsal and ventral spines are very effective weapons in his defence.
Constant watchfulness upon the part of the male is needed, for, if he
go away for only a few moments, the sticklebacks and other fish lurking
in the vicinity rush in and devour the eggs in an instant. A whole
month he is occupied in providing for the safety of his offspring.
About the tenth day he employs himself in tearing down the nest and
carrying the material to some little distance. The fry may now be
observed in motion. And these the male continually nurses, suffering no
encroachment, and if the young brood show a tendency to stray beyond
bounds, they are driven back within their precincts, until they are
strong enough to provide for their own living, when both old and young
disappear together.

But nothing in the lives of all these little nest-builders is more
interesting than the intelligence they display and the facility with
which they adapt themselves to circumstances. They seem to be able to
grasp almost instantly the conditions of the environment, and to employ
a wise discrimination in suiting them to their wants. Hardly two nests
are alike. Marked differences in details of structure, configuration
and surroundings are apparent, which prove that these creatures are
controlled by reason, rather than instinct, in the elaboration of their
homes. That they have some means of communicating their desires to
each other cannot be doubted. When the male has laid hold of a stem, a
pebble or a stick that completely baffles all effort at removal, his
mate seems summoned to his assistance, and the united strength of the
pair accomplishes the object to be gained. There is ever noticeable
in whatever the sexes undertake some concert of action which would
put to shame the boasted intelligence of man himself. The Sun-fishes,
as has been said, nest in companies. When the combined effort of two
individuals is unable to expel an invader, the entire community, as by
a single mighty impulse, rises up against the foe. There is evidence
of some form of society, even though simple in its organization, where
individual members league themselves together for mutual protection
and defence. Other examples might be cited to give the reader a
common-sense estimate of the comparatively high order of intelligence
that characterizes the actions of many of our fishes.

SLIPPERY AS AN EEL.

Eels are found in almost all warm and temperate countries, and grow
to a very great size in tropical regions. They are impatient of cold,
and hence do not exist in the extreme northern and southern parts
of the world. In many islands of the Pacific Ocean they are held in
considerable estimation, being preserved in ponds and fed by hand, but
in many civilized communities a strong prejudice prevails against them,
probably from their similarity to snakes, which prevents even a hungry
man from caring to eat such wholesome and nutritious food.

Not one of our river fishes is so mysterious as the Eel, and although
much is now known that was involved in obscurity, yet there is still
much to learn of its habits, especially the manner of its reproduction.
Difference of locality, it is likely, may influence the Eel and cause a
difference of habit, an opinion which seems warranted from the various
and perplexing accounts that have been given of its customs by numerous
practical observers.

During the hot, still and sunny days of June they are chiefly seen on
top of the water, wherever masses of aquatic weeds may be found, either
in the calm enjoyment of a sun-bath, or for the purpose of feeding upon
the myriads of gnats, moths and flies that seek the plants for rest or
food, and which by unavoidably damping their wings become easy prey
to their ambushed enemies. At night, similar retreats are affected
for like purposes. Floating masses of detached weeds that the eddying
stream has wound and kept in one place are sought in warm, stilly
weather, but in blowing, cooler or rainy weather they forsake such
places for the still, deep ditches. If a flush of water comes, and a
little, shallow stream, running from or into the main river, becomes
fuller than usual, there they resort in vast numbers, evidently pleased
with the delicious change, only to remain as long as its freshness
continues.

Like many other fishes, Eels are very tenacious of life, and can live a
long time when removed from the water, owing to a simple and beautiful
modification of structure, which permits them to retain a sufficient
amount of moisture to keep the gills damp and in a condition to perform
their natural functions. They have been seen crawling over considerable
distances, somewhat snake-like in their movements, evidently either in
pursuit of water, their own dwelling-place being nearly dried, or in
search of some running stream in whose waters they may reach the sea
after the customary manner of their race. Multitudes of Eels, both old
and young, some of the latter scarcely six inches in length, have been
seen crawling up the banks of a creek, apparently without any purpose,
and over the smooth surface of a projecting rock, with all the ease
of a fly moving over a ceiling. So active were the little ones as to
defy, unless the hand was moved with extreme rapidity, their capture.
Vast numbers of these little Eels are in the habit of proceeding up the
rivers in the spring-time. In some places in England they are called
Elvers. They are caught in immense quantities, and scalded and pressed
into masses termed Eel- or Elver-cake. When dressed these little Eels
afford a luxurious repast. Towards the latter part of summer these
fishes migrate towards the sea, being capable of living in fresh or
salt water with equal ease, the mouths of rivers constituting favorite
localities. Even in our seaport towns and marine watering-places the
common river Eel is caught by those who are angling in the sea for fish.

Various modes of capturing Eels are adopted by man. Bobbing, or
clodding as it is sometimes called, is a very common and successful
method, consisting in bunching a number of earthworms upon a worsted
string, and lowering it near the place where the fishes are supposed
to be feeding. So eagerly do the voracious fish seize the bait, and so
fiercely do they bite, that they are pulled out of the water before
they have time to collect their thoughts and disengage their teeth from
the string. Night-lines, which are laid in the evening and taken up in
the morning, are another plan. But the most successful method is by
spearing. The spear used for the purpose is not unlike the conventional
trident of Neptune, except that the prongs are four in number,
flattened, slightly barbed on each edge, and spread rather widely from
their junction with the shaft. This is pushed at random into the muddy
banks where the Eels love to lie, and when one is caught, its long
snake-like body is wedged in between the jagged prongs and lifted into
the boat before it is able to extricate itself. Almost any kind of food
that it can master, whether aquatic or terrestrial, is eaten to satisfy
the creature’s most voracious appetite. Even mice and rats fall victims
to its hunger, and an Eel is recorded to have been found floating dead
on the water, having been choked to death by a rat which it had essayed
to swallow, but which proved too large a morsel for its throat.

So remarkable is the tenacity of life which this fish possesses,
that after the creature has been cut up into lengths, each separate
piece will move as if alive, and at the touch of a pin’s point will
curve itself as though it felt the injury. When all irritability has
ceased, the portions will flounce vigorously about if placed in boiling
water, and even after its influence has ceased will, upon the addition
of salt, jump about as vigorously as before. There can be no real
sensation, let it be understood, as the spinal cord has been severed
and all connection with the brain, which is the seat of sensation, has
been cut off.

How the Eel reproduces its kind has long been a subject of discussion.
Some held that the young is produced in a living condition, and others
that it is hatched from the egg. The matter has, however, been set at
rest by the microscope, which shows that the oily-looking substance,
generally called fat, which is found in the abdomen of the Eel, is
really an aggregation of eggs, and that these objects, minute as they
are, and which are not so large as the point of a pin, are quite as
perfect in their structure as the eggs of a moth or a bird are seen to
be to the naked, unaided vision.

_Anguilla rostrata_, as the Common American Eel is technically known,
is abundant in the United States, living in fresh-water streams, but
depositing its eggs, often eight millions to a single fish, in the
ocean, the young ascending the rivers. Eels are devoid of ventral
fins. Their scales, which are very minute, are covered with a thick,
slime-like material. Under the microscope each scale is beautifully
ornamented, and the exquisite pattern formed by the scales on the skin
may be readily and effectively seen if a bit of it, when fresh, be
placed on the window-glass and allowed to dry. The sexes are difficult
to distinguish; the females have the highest dorsal fin, smaller eyes,
and a lighter color than the males, while the snout is generally
broader at the tip.

When contiguous to the sea, as in a pond near Wells, on the coast of
Maine, the Eels invariably go down into salt water at night. As the
connecting stream is narrow, the sight is remarkable, thousands filling
the channel, many of whom, when alarmed, leaving the water and passing
over the dry rocks to the ocean. Eels are not the silent creatures
which many persons suppose them to be. They frequently utter a sound,
expressed by a single note, which is more distinctly musical than the
sounds made by other fishes, and which has a clear metallic resonance.
They are of slow growth, scarcely reaching the length of twelve inches
during the first year, but subsequently attaining to large dimensions,
the preserved skins of two Eels, which Mr. Yarrall saw at Cambridge,
England, weighing together fifty pounds, the heavier being twenty-seven
pounds in weight.

[Illustration: COMMON AMERICAN EEL.

How It Seeks New Feeding-Grounds.]

Fish, as a rule, do not live more than a few minutes out of the water.
An Eel, however, will remain alive for many hours, and even days, in
atmospheric air, provided it is laid in a damp place. Now, if one
be carefully watched when placed upon dry land, it will be observed
to pout out the cheeks on both sides of its face. Underneath this
puffed-out skin will be found the gills, and the skin which covers them
will be seen to be so arranged as to form a closed sac, which the Eel
fills with water, and so keeps the gill-fibres moist. This wonderful
contrivance enables the Eel to come out of the water, and to travel, so
to speak, by land. Thus Eels are often found in outlying ponds of human
construction, where they were never placed by the hand of man. Finding
old quarters uncomfortable, they take in a good supply of water, and
exchange them for the better, not by repeated leaps towards the water,
as some fish are known to do, but by a smooth, uniform snake-like
progression.

That some fishes should leave the water and travel overland is,
perhaps, not more remarkable than that some birds, the ouzel for
example, should leave their natural element and fly into and under
the water. Whoever knows the hidden paths of the marsh has doubtless
watched the brown-hued Eels wriggling their way through the grass
from one pool to another, especially at night, leaving their home and
wandering about, seemingly unconscious whither their pilgrimage will
end.

“Slippery as an Eel” is proverbial. Many a person has, by his slick,
cunning ways, succeeded in eluding the law and escaping justice,
affording an apt illustration of the character of the animal about
which we have been talking, but the slipperiness of the Eel is not
given to it that it may take some unlawful advantage of its neighbors,
but that it may the more readily slip from the grasp of a more powerful
enemy, or the more easily make its way into the muddy depths of the
pond or stream which it so very much affects. So it will be seen that
while this slippery character in the one is protective, in the economy
of nature, for a wise and laudable purpose, yet in the other it but
secures to the possessor the getting of an ignoble gain and the ruin of
a once proud name.

While these agile denizens of aquatic life are selfish and voracious
almost beyond precedent, and apparently more concerned in feeding than
in anything else, there are certainly some traits in their character
which are redeeming features. Low as they are in the scale of piscine
existences, occupying the very lowest family of the Anguillidine
Apodes, they are none the less susceptible to the human influence of
kindness. They grow accustomed to man when good is at the basis of
his actions, and have been known to accept food from his hand. They
remember the face of a friend, and when it is presented at the door of
glass, so to speak, that opens the way to their home, they come without
fear or suspicion showing itself in their movements. Even the sound
of the voice of a benefactor awakens a sympathetic response in their
bosoms.

RANA AND BUFO.

Belonging to the lower vertebrates is a family of animals called
scientifically Ranidæ, but which are, popularly speaking, best known as
frogs. They are queer-looking creatures, scarcely met with in Australia
and South America, but reaching their highest state in the East Indies.
They are capable of enduring great changes of heat and cold, and can
live on land as well as in water, provided they have the amount of
moisture necessary to preserve the suppleness of their skins. Salt
water is fatal to the frog in any stage of its existence.

_Rana clamata_, the lusty croaker of the summer pond, is our most
familiar species. He may be recognized by the colors of his dress,
in which green, bronze, gold and silver play important parts, and by
the ear-splitting character of his vocal intonations. The glandular
ridges down the skin of his back, together with his strange coloration,
singularly fit him for his home. Imitations of the stems of plants
are seen in the darker ridges, and their leafage in the green color
of his coat. The silver of his vest has the glimmer of the water in
which he bathes, and the moist earth seems to have left its stain upon
his brownish feet and markings, while the yellow of the several badges
that adorn his person in being like the stamens and pistils of the
surrounding flowers, and of the hue of many buds and blossoms, adds
largely to his protective display. Thus is the frog in his natural
haunts protected by his garments, and, unless he stirs or is betrayed
by his full, bright eyes or the palpitation of his breast, he is not
likely to be observed.

Four fingers or toes are found upon the anterior extremities, while
those of the posterior are five in number and webbed. The front legs
are much shorter, smaller and weaker than the hind ones, which are
largely developed, and thus serviceable in swimming and leaping.

Though the frog is possessed of a back-bone, yet he has no ribs.
Being ribless, he cannot expand and contract his chest in breathing,
but must swallow what air he requires. In swallowing the air he must
close the mouth and take the air in only by the nostrils; therefore,
oddly enough, if his mouth is forcibly kept open, he will smother. The
frog’s breathing, a fact not generally known, is partly through his
skin, which gives off carbonic acid gas; and moisture, therefore, is
just as essential to his skin as it is to the gills of a fish. Damp,
rainy weather is his extreme delight. When the rain falls, out come
the frogs. Their skin absorbs moisture, which is stored up in internal
reservoirs, and some of this water, when these timid creatures are
alarmed by being suddenly seized, is ejected, but I do not think that
it is purposely so done, as the water is not, as some people have
fancied, of a poisonous nature. Frogs have no poison-sacs, and in truth
no weapons of any kind.

Open a frog’s mouth, and you will find but a few tiny teeth in the
upper jaw and palate, which are useful for the partial grinding up of
horny insects. His tongue you will discover to be a very odd affair,
which is fastened at the front end of the mouth, the hinder part being
free and hanging down the creature’s throat. This organ is covered with
a glue-like secretion. When an insect is to be captured, it is snapped
forward from the mouth, and, striking the insect, which it seldom fails
to do, causes it to adhere as to bird-lime.

A few thoughts now about the life-history of the frog. From egg to egg
is the story. In roundish masses, upon sticks lying in water, or upon
the leaves and stems of submerged water-plants, are the eggs deposited.
The creature that comes from the egg is no more like a frog than a
caterpillar is like a butterfly. It has a large head, small tail,
branched gills, and is devoid of limbs, resembling, in this stage, more
a fish than a frog. This is its early childhood, or tadpole state. It
can only live in water now, and swims and feeds from the very moment it
leaves the egg. Change in form almost immediately begins, the branched
gills being drawn within the neck and hidden, a pair of fore-legs
beginning to bud, and subsequently a pair of hind-legs, which push out
much faster than the fore-legs. As the legs grow, the tail is gradually
absorbed and disappears. The interior of the body meanwhile changes,
the lungs and heart becoming reptilian. When the gills and tail are
gone, and the legs are fully formed, the once-swimming tadpole hops out
of the water a perfectly-formed frog.

When first the tadpole emerged from the egg, it ate the jelly-like
cover. Then soft animal and vegetable matters, with the strengthening
of its pair of horny jaws, began to be devoured. Insects later on, and
even its own kith and kin, became its food. The fare of the adult frog
is almost exclusively insect in character, although necessity sometimes
drives him to make a meal out of some of his weaker brethren.

Seated in cool, leafy shadows, not far from his favorite stream or
pool, the frog watches with his great, black, gold-ringed eyes for such
insects as good fortune shall bring to his retreat. As one hovers near,
out flies his limber, sticky, ribbon-like tongue, true to its mark, and
the hapless insect, adhering to the viscid projected ribbon, is gently
and cleverly deposited in the open throat, the frog maintaining all the
while an air of calm, superior self-satisfaction, as if he had not so
much satisfied an appetite as fulfilled the mission of ridding nature
of a superfluous insect.

A most harmless, timid and interesting animal is the frog, and often
most unfortunate. He is the legitimate mark for all the missiles that
can be thrown at him by urchins wandering about his native pool.
Snakes make him their prey, and he is always in mental fear lest some
insidious serpent shall take him unawares, or his musings shall be
suddenly cut short by the stately progress of some swan or goose,
sailing over the limpid water, or searching the green herbage wherein
he sits concealed.

[Illustration: RANA CLAMATA, OR GREEN FROG.

Lusty Croaker of the Summer Pond.]

That he is susceptible of being trained, there can be no question. Man
is not always viewed by him as an inveterate enemy, nor does he always
dive headlong into the pool when his presence is near. He has been
known to cultivate man’s acquaintance, and to live on friendly terms
with him. Some three years ago a tiny frog was taken from a swamp by a
friend and placed in a small stream of spring water that passed close
to the house where the writer was summering. A dozen times a day the
little frog was dipped up by the hand from the bottom of the stream,
and forced to endure down the head and back the tenderest caresses. A
few insects were then offered as food in conciliation for the liberty
taken, which the little frog was only induced to accept after a great
deal of persuasion, when he was carefully put back into his watery
bath. In the space of a week, the frog had become so attached to his
friend, that he would leap into his outstretched hand and take his food
without the least distrust or fear. Even the voice of the master was
recognized by the frog, and, when heard in the distance, was the signal
for the strangest behavior. Froggie would leap out of the water upon
a bare stretch of earth, peer off in the direction whence the sound
came, and there await his master’s arrival with restless anxiety. The
strongest bond of friendship seemed to unite the two. Not only was the
frog able to recognize the voice of his friend, but he knew him in
person as well. Repeated efforts were made by the writer to gain the
attention and good-will of the frog, but all his advances were received
with the utmost indifference.

While the species which I have just described represents the aquatic
Ranidæ, the Wood-frog, its near kin, represents a branch of the family
which prefers dry situations, except in breeding times, when the eggs
must be deposited in water. The Wood-frog is somewhat smaller than
the Bull-frog, and is clad in olive-green and brown colors, which are
in perfect keeping with the coloration of dead leaves and dry twigs.
There is a large black patch on the side of the head around the big
ear-drum, which seems still further to distinguish him from his cousin.
He is a very shy and suspicious creature, and makes a prodigious jump
at the first intimation of danger, his leaps being so enormous that it
is very difficult to capture him. When upon the ground, he can hardly
be discerned from the dry vegetation around. By hiding in damp moss or
in decayed logs, and in little hollows in the ground, he is enabled to
maintain the moisture of his skin. He avoids the sunshine, and keeps
close to the earth.

Another curious Rana is the Tree-frog. He is smaller than any of his
cousins, and may be known by his bright green dress, which is spotted
with black, and by a membrane stretched between his toes, which gives
him a broad, flat surface, while it helps to sustain him as he leaps,
somewhat after the fashion of a flying squirrel, from branch to branch.
In tropical regions, where many of the trees are bedecked with gorgeous
blossoms, Tree-frogs appear in the gayest of colors, the splendor of
their garb being protective in such surroundings.

Dressed in black and light brown, and living in marshes in the
Eastern United States, is another species--the Swamp-frog. His voice
is a prolonged croak, which, to the practised ear, can be readily
distinguished from the bawl of Clamata, or the roar of the Bull-frog.

Cats, geese, hawks, vultures, owls and other animals eat frogs, and the
luckless creatures can scarcely appear without finding an enemy. But
nature, who is a very wise and considerate mother, provides a means for
balancing this great destruction of their forces in endowing them with
wonderful reproductive organs. So prolific are frogs, that when the
little black tadpoles appear, so thickly are they huddled together that
the pond seems literally alive with their swimming forms.

In the same class of animals to which the frogs belong, as well as to
the same order, but to a different sub-order, are placed the toads,
somewhat remote cousins of the frogs. As the frog is well-known about
our ponds, so the toad is a constant denizen of our groves and gardens.
The frog, you have been told, is a species of Rana, and now I shall
introduce to you the toad as a species of Bufo. In general anatomy they
are alike. Their eggs and young are closely similar, and the stages
of growth from egg to adult form are nearly identical. When the adult
stage is attained the frogs and toads are very tiny creatures, but,
small as they are, they are readily distinguishable from each other by
the conformation of the snout, and by the larger development of the
hind-legs of the frog. Their chief differences will now be enumerated.
The toad has no teeth, but the frog, as has been stated before, has
teeth in both the upper jaw and the palate. Similarly attached is the
tongue, but the free end of the frog’s tongue is forked, and the toad’s
entire. The skin of the toad is usually warty, while the frog’s is
smooth. A rounder body, shorter hind-legs, less fully webbed feet and
more rounded snout still further distinguish the toad from the frog.
Their soft moist skin shows them to be Amphibians. The absence of tails
places them among the Anuran, or Tailless Amphibians. Thus far they
agree well together, but differences loom up upon careful examination,
and we are compelled to say of the frog that he belongs to the Ranidæ,
and of the toad that he belongs to the Bufonidæ. Of the two animals,
the toad is by far the more interesting and useful.

The toad is almost unrestricted in his territorial range. He hops
through the tropics and the temperate zones, and well up into the
polar regions. Everywhere he is the same inoffensive, gentle, humble,
useful and generally silent creature. But like his human brother he
has his faults. He has a great fondness for bees. Happy is he when,
brigand-like, he can stand by the highway of the bees and capture them
as they return to their waxen city. Their wealth of honey he does not
demand as a ransom, but swallows the little creatures themselves, alive
and whole, and digests them at leisure. Bee-eating seems his only
fault. Not only the hive-bee, but other insects as well, share his
attention. Millions of noxious beetles and bugs are devoured, and the
world is the richer by thousands of bushels of fruit and vegetables.
The good he accomplishes largely outweighs the mischief he commits.
So ceaselessly and swiftly he swallows his game, that a grasshopper’s
legs or a sphinx’s antennæ may often be seen sticking out of his mouth,
while the carcass itself is well down in his throat. French gardeners
so appreciate his utility that he is brought to market and sold for a
pittance to such as may need his services.

[Illustration: COMMON AMERICAN TOAD.

How He Manages a Difficulty.]

Toads can be tamed and taught to eat from the hand. They are easily
beguiled with sugar and with bread that has been soaked in milk, but,
like a captious child, they eat only the middle out of the slice, and
leave the crust. We once saw a toad, a noble fellow he was, who, at a
certain hour of the closing day, would come from his gloomy retreat
to receive at the hands of man his supper of flies, which he had been
trained to catch on the throw. So unerringly would his tongue dart out
at the opportune moment, that he seldom, if ever, shot wide of his
mark. It is amusing to observe him when, in his greed and haste, he has
attempted to swallow a huge grasshopper whose legs will not accommodate
themselves to his peculiar gape of mouth. How he swallows and twists
and contracts the walls of his throat, but the legs seem unmanageable.
He does not give up, or endeavor to eject the half-swallowed body,
but ponders the matter over and over. A look of delight beams out of
his eyes, that shows he has managed the problem. Up goes to the mouth
the right fore-leg, and, in less time than it takes to chronicle the
event, the obstreperous insect is pushed into the stomach.

Some curious myths are told of the toad. One says he can live for
hundreds of years encased in clay or in stone. No more true of Bufo
is this than of Rana, his cousin. Another asserts that his skin,
when handled, is productive of warts, and that the fluid he emits,
which serves but to moisten his body, for without moisture he could
certainly not live, and to protect him from enemies, is poisonous in
character. His power to produce warts, we cannot admit. But that the
fluid he exudes, if not poisonous to touch, is offensive to animals,
there can be no doubt. We are led to this conclusion from the following
considerations: Dogs, young animals especially, are prone to attack
the toad, but they never want to repeat their experience. The toad’s
exudation so affects the salivary glands of the dog as to cause him to
froth and foam like an animal with rabies. A case is recalled where
a dog, that had taken a toad in his mouth, became almost frantic.
This dog never afterwards was well. His whole system apparently
had become diseased, and, in less than a year, he had wasted to a
complete skeleton, when death relieved him of his sufferings. Another
allegation, that the toad has a jewel in his head, has been believed
from very ancient times. The story doubtlessly originated from the
beauty of the toad’s eyes, the irides being a rich flame-color, which,
in the dusk of the even, shine like burnished gems.

When hatched the young of the toad are of a jet black color, and are
very active. Their changes are made very early and in the same manner
as those of the frog. They are quite small when arrived at the perfect
toad state. Their legs produced and their tails absorbed, they quit
the water and set out on long journeys. Unlike the frog, which is a
home-stayer, the toad is a born vagrant. They travel chiefly by night,
hiding under stones and herbage during the day. If clouds cover the
sky, they take heart and joyously hop forth upon their pilgrimage.
During a long drouth they mysteriously disappear, but if a rain comes
on they suddenly come out by hundreds, and this has given rise to the
tale of a “shower of toads.”

Worms, as well as flies, etc., constitute a toad’s bill of fare. After
a rain toads and worms, it would seem, are mutually inspired to take
their walks abroad, and many an unfortunate worm makes its way into
the toad’s maw. Dead insects are at a discount with him, and he views
with suspicion anything that shows not the active wriggling principle
of life. When winter comes on the toad, like the frog, goes into
winter-quarters. Since the young toad reaches its adult size in the
autumn, it is forced to pass the first period of its grown-up life in a
sleep, or coma, in some hole or burrow which it has found or fashioned
in the earth. Sometimes toads creep into rock-crevices, or into hollows
in logs and trees, and being found in these places in the early spring
are hastily supposed to have been prisoners for many years.

In the process of growth the skin of the toad, as well as that of the
frog, becomes too small, and hence is cast off. As the shedding-time
approaches, the white, green and brown colors become dull, and a
peculiar dryness appears. A new skin is now forming under the outgrown
one, and presently the latter splits half down the middle of the back
and along the under part of the body. By a series of violent twitchings
of the toad the old skin is made to wrinkle and fold along the sides. A
hind-leg is now tucked under a fore-arm, and by a good pull the animal
is soon out of that leg of his trousers. The other leg is removed in
similar fashion. Putting one hand in his mouth and giving a jerk, off
comes the covering of that hand and arm, like a discarded glove. He has
now but to take off the other, and he is free. Relieved of his dress he
neither sells nor gives it away, but rolls it up into a neat solid ball
and swallows it. The frog strips off and disposes of his outgrown skin
in a similar way.

Strange to say, toads and frogs can change to some extent the color
of their skin to suit their homes. Kept in the dark with dark
surroundings, toads become darker in color, while those that are kept
in light with white accessories become lighter. The color of the toad
changes more slowly than that of the frog. It is not the arrangement of
the color that alters, but merely a change from light to dark.

What has been said applies to our Common American Toad, the _Bufo
Americana_ of the books. Let us now look at some curious specimens
of the Bufonidæ. The Pipa, or Surinam Toad, does not lay her eggs
in water, but places them on her back. A fold of skin rises up and
encloses each egg in a separate cell, until the young have not only
been hatched, but have also passed through all their metamorphoses, and
come out fully formed. Another toad, abundant in Europe and Asia, is
largely colored with bright crimson, and the father-toad carries the
little ones in separate cells fastened to his hind-legs like chains.
The young change to their perfect shape in these cells, and with the
withering away of the cells the young toads hop out, able to take care
of themselves.

Somewhere I have said that toads are generally silent. A little toad
about three inches long, called a Natter-jack, is common in England,
and is a noted singer. His “gluck-gluck, gluck-k-k,” can be heard any
night. The Green Toad, well known on the Continent, is not so noisy as
the Natter-jack, but has a low, moaning cry.

All the Tree-toads, or Hylidæ, have clear, shrill voices, and are
fond of singing serenades. In the spring the Common Toad takes to the
water and there sings very loudly. The loud continuous trill that we
hear in swamps in spring-time is made by toads, and not by frogs, as
is generally believed. Another toad with a voice is the Spade-foot.
This Toad is rare, though widely distributed. It is remarkable for its
feet, formed for digging, its subterranean habits, and its queer way
of appearing and disappearing very suddenly. After a rainy season the
Spade-foot will emerge from its hiding-place, attract attention by its
loud cries, swarm by hundreds about the ponds, lay innumerable eggs,
and vanish. But while thousands of eggs are laid, scarcely any hatch,
for most of them perish from being laid so near to the water’s edge as
to become dried up on the subsidence of the water.

Thus we find that toads have three different methods of life. Some live
on trees, but seldom appear upon the ground. Others are underground
dwellers, and hardly ever come to the surface. But the Common Toad, and
his numerous kin, are dwellers in the ground, hiding among grass and
other herbage when asleep, or when the sun is too intense for their
comfort. But all toads, excepting the two varieties mentioned above,
which carry their young on their bodies, repair to the water to drop
their eggs, and the young live in the water until they have attained
the adult state.

OUR NATURAL ENEMIES.

No animal, perhaps, is so little known and understood as the snake.
This is not because its study has been neglected or overlooked, as
our scientific institutions are replete with fine collections of most
of the reptiles, and exhaustive works upon their habits and customs.
Yet, notwithstanding this, the snake continues to be the subject of
ever-recurring stories, fabulous in the extreme, that seem handed down
from generation to generation. Strange to say, many of these stories
are current among those who, from the nature of their lives, would
be expected to be well and accurately informed on the habits of the
animals. Farmers and horticulturists are plentiful who religiously
believe that the Milk Snake, the beautiful _Ophibolus clericus_,
deprives milk-giving animals of their supply of milk. A statement often
seen, and that has many believers, is that the Whip-snake of the South
seizes its tail--which is supposed to have a sting--in its mouth, and
rolls away in the form of a wheel, stopping suddenly and striking the
enemy with the sting. Such fables are current by the score, and denial
only strengthens belief.

More than a hundred species of snakes, nearly all having a wide
geographical range, are found in America, north of Mexico. They
constitute the first order, Ophidia, of reptiles, and have long,
cylindrical bodies, are footless, without a shoulder-girdle, and
invested with a coat of scales, which is shed in the summer months.
Snakes have no eyelids in the strict sense of the term. Their eyes are
permanently covered by a delicate membrane that takes the place of the
lid, and this explains the stony stare, so disagreeable to many, that
all snakes have.

The skeleton of snakes is so arranged as to allow the greatest freedom
and flexibility. Numerous pieces of bone, hollow in front and convex
behind, make up the long tapering backbone, which literally works on
a ball-and-socket plan. Articular facets, that lock into each other,
are found upon the processes of the vertebræ, and these strengthen and
give to the backbone a greater degree of flexibility. A more remarkable
arrangement, however, is found in the head, which enables the snake
to prey upon animals that are larger than itself. The jaws seem a
combination of elastic springs, having no gauge to their tension, the
quadrate bones connecting the lower jaw with the skull being movable,
thus allowing that enormous gape with which all are familiar who have
seen a snake swallow its prey. Besides this, the bones of the jaw
itself and palate are more or less movable, also tending to the larger
distention of the throat.

As snakes do not tear or mutilate their prey, their teeth are not
set in sockets, but serve merely to poison and stupefy the prey, or
to prevent its escape, acting as hooks by which the body is hauled
over the victim. The bones of the lower jaw, as we have seen, are not
fastened closely to each other; so in swallowing prey the teeth on one
side are advanced, and then those on the other side, and so on until
the victim is hauled, hand over hand, as it were, into the snake’s
throat.

Poisonous snakes, such as the rattlers, have two long, sharp fangs,
each compressed and bent up, and forming a hollow tube, open at both
ends. The upper portion of the hollow fang is fastened to a bone in the
cheek, which moves with ease, so that, when not in use, the fangs can
be packed away until needed.

All animals, man included, have doubtless in their saliva a deadly
poison, though in the latter it is extremely diluted, and essential
only to the digestion of food. In poisonous snakes, however, it is
stored up in sacs, modifications of the salivary glands, and placed in
each side of the upper jaw. From the poison-gland under the eye forward
to the edge of the jaw, a delicate canal, which opens into the fang
above the tube of the tooth, extends. Alongside of the latter may be
seen rudimentary fangs, all ready to grow out should the large one be
lost. To use the poison, the snake has merely to strike its prey, when
the muscles of the jaw, which are admirably fitted for the part they
have to play in the tragedy, press upon the glands, squeeze the poison
through the little canal down through the hollow fang, and the work is
accomplished.

In their actions, snakes are most graceful. The gliding motion, so
characteristic, is effected by the movements of the large central
scales, that are successively pushed forward, the hinder edges resting
on the ground and constituting a support. These scales, or pushers, are
fastened to the ribs by muscles, and by holding a snake by the hand the
swelling movement can readily be felt.

Snakes vary much in color. They are generally adapted to their
surroundings. Green Snakes are found in green grass and vegetation,
while grey snakes affect rocky districts, where they are alike
protected. Their skin is shed in one piece at various seasons of the
year, being forced off by the snake forming a ring with its tail and
squeezing the rest of the body through it, or by wriggling through
entangled bushes. Poisonous snakes may be always recognized by their
broad, flattened heads, generally short and thick bodies, and the
almost invariable possession of a vertical keel along the centre of
each scale. Long bodies, small heads devoid of distinct necks, and
scales not keeled, characterize non-poisonous species.

Probably the best-known of our common kinds of poisonous snakes are the
rattlesnakes. They belong to the dangerous family Crotalidæ, to which
the copperheads and moccasins also belong, and are distinguished by
the large, ugly head, absence of teeth in the upper jaw excepting the
fangs, and the pit in the head.

[Illustration: NORTHERN RATTLESNAKE.

Prepared to Attack a Song Sparrow.]

_Crotalus horridus_, our Northern Rattlesnake, has doubtless the widest
geographical distribution, being found in nearly every State in the
Union, from the Gulf of Mexico to Northern New England, and thence
west to the Rocky Mountains. It has a most forbidding appearance, and
when once seen with its enormous head, triangular in shape, and large
brilliant eyes, with fiery irides, it can never be mistaken. Between
the eye and the nostril is a deep pit, a character that is peculiar to
the family.

All rattlers, as the name indicates, have a horny appendage to the
tail, formed of separate button-like objects, that rattle together when
the tail is vibrated. This rattle not only serves to warn human beings
of danger, but also to arouse in animals a curiosity that often proves
fatal. The popular belief that a rattle is added every year, and that
it is possible to determine the age of the animals by this means, is
not borne out by facts. Sometimes two rattles are known to appear
within a year, and other instances are recorded where four have been
attained in that period, and others still when several have been lost,
new ones taking their places. The number of rattles is also uncertain.
The greatest number, as observed by Dr. Holbrook, is twenty-one, but a
specimen is mentioned in the books that had forty-four.

Mild and peaceful in disposition, the Rattlesnake has never been known,
unless provoked, to attack a human being, nor to follow him with
hostile intention. He preys upon small animals, as rats, squirrels,
rabbits and birds, and can always be approached when he is stretched
out, only striking when he is coiled. He is not a climber, seldom,
if ever, being found in trees. His alleged powers of fascination are
purely mythical. The horror his presence inspires often paralyzes
with fear his victim, who, incapable of flight, stupidly awaits his
fate. Men, women and children have been known, when attacked by
these animals, to become rooted to the spot, as it were, by fear and
surprise. All the so-called cases of fascination can be explained by
the fear which the snake’s unlooked-for presence inspires.

Wonderful curative powers are imputed to the oil of the Rattlesnake.
Many snakes are killed during the summer months for this oil, but the
grand gathering of the crop is in the fall, when they have repaired to
their dens and wintering places. Sunny days in October and November
are chosen by snake-hunters for raiding them. The snakes, dull and
sluggish at that time of the year, crawl out of their dens upon the
rocks, huddling together by the score for the purpose of basking in the
sun. Armed with old-fashioned flails the hunters, when they come upon
a group of snakes, proceed at once to thresh them, but few making good
their escape. The Rattlesnakes, assorted from other species that are
frequently massed together with them, are carried home, when the oil is
simply tried out, bottled up and is then ready for the market and the
credulous patient.

No subject connected with snakes, it would seem, has attracted so
much attention as the vexed one as to the care which they take of
their young. Snakes would hardly be expected to show any great amount
of maternal affection, but that they do, and in a most remarkable
manner, by taking their young into their mouths, if alarmed, is a
well-established fact. The mother, when danger is imminent, sounds her
rattle as a signal, opens her very large mouth, and receives in it her
little family.

The bite of nearly all rattlesnakes is extremely dangerous, though not
necessarily fatal in the smaller kinds. Almost all animals succumb to
their bite, and even man himself, if the proper remedy is not at hand.
There is a general belief that the hog is exempt, and acting upon this
belief farmers have been known, where these reptiles are very abundant,
to turn in a few hogs upon them for their destruction. This animal,
though it has a fondness for the reptile, and exercises a great deal
of caution in its attack, has not infrequently been killed by the
reptile’s poisonous fangs. Large doses of whiskey have been successful
in neutralizing the effects of the poison, but it has been practically
and experimentally proved that permanganate of potash is the best
antidote.

But of all the poisonous snakes of this country, the Copperhead,
_Ancistrodon contortrix_, is the most dreaded. In the South, he is
known as the Cotton-mouth, Moccasin and Red-eye, and is just as common
in the Gulf States as in the Atlantic and Middle States. He attains a
length of two feet, is of a hazel hue, the head having a bright coppery
lustre, and loves to conceal himself in shady spots in meadows of high
grass, where he feeds upon small animals, rarely, if ever, attacking
large ones unless trodden on. The mother Copperhead has also been
observed to shelter her young in her mouth when threatened by danger.

_Ancistrodon piscivorus_, the Water Moccasin, that commands so much
respect from the negroes of the South, is, from the pugnacity of
his nature, equally to be feared. While the Rattlesnake will slink
away from danger, the Moccasin will attack man or brute with savage
ferocity. He is essentially a water-snake, chasing fishes and small
reptiles in the streams of his native haunts, and may be recognized
by the dark-brown colors on the upper portion of the head and the
yellowish line that passes from the snout to or over the nostril. His
length rarely exceeds twenty inches, and he is stout in proportion.
The Moccasins show the same curious care for their young already
mentioned. A low, blowing noise apprises them of danger, and into the
slightly-opened mouth of the mother, which is held close to the ground,
they hurriedly disappear.

[Illustration: MOTHER BLACK SNAKE.

Her Affection for Newly-Hatched Young.]

One of the commonest of the non-poisonous snakes is the Striped Garter
Snake, ten species of which being known in the United States. Upon
the earliest appearance of spring they are almost the first to roll
out of their holes, where they have lain dormant in balls or clusters
during the cold winter months. Though easily excited, and striking
quickly, yet their bite is little more than a scratch. Their appetites
are now quite vigorous, and they have been seen to chase a toad for
more than fifty feet over a gravelly road, effecting its capture. They
are remarkably prolific, and their numbers about pools are sometimes
astonishing. It would seem that they are viviparous as well as
oviparous, from the fact that some young ones have been free and others
in sacs in the abdomen of the mother. With a brood of forty or fifty
young, which a single female has been known to produce, it would seem
that the Striped Snake would have a difficult time in protecting her
offspring by taking them into her mouth. They have this habit, however,
as abundance of evidence could be adduced to show. One witness observed
a Striped Snake upon a hillside, and noticed something moving about her
head, which proved to be young snakes. He counted twenty little ones
from one and a half to two inches long. Led by curiosity, he made a
move towards the spot, when the old one opened her mouth, and they went
in out of sight. He then stepped back and waited, and in a few minutes
they began to come out. Another witness came across a female with some
young ones near her, who, perceiving him, uttered a loud hiss, and the
young ones jumped down her throat, when she instantly glided away to a
place of concealment beneath a huge heap of stones.

The Black Snake, _Bascanion constrictor_, the mortal enemy of the
Rattlesnake, is a familiar species, and one that is widely distributed.
As winter approaches, these snakes come from far and near to some
apparently appointed place of rendezvous, where, rolling themselves
up into a matted ball, they sleep the days and nights of winter away,
and come out in the spring-time, when the common mother of us all has
conditioned things to their habits and ways of life. In appearance,
from a decorative point of view, they are very attractive, being of
a uniform steel-blue color, with a rich tessellated arrangement of
scales. They are of wild and untamable natures, powerful and active as
foes, often engaging in encounters with other snakes, especially the
Rattlesnakes, whom they kill or force to disgorge their prey. In their
movements they are so rapid that they are often called the Racer. It
is in the breeding season that they manifest their greatest boldness,
and have often been known to go out of their way to attack a passer-by.
They will chase an intruder for a long distance, and will even descend
a tree to attack the one who is teasing them.

It is the Black Snake that appears the most frequently in the guise
of a charmer. But, as has been remarked before, this power, so often
imputed, is merely imaginary. The reptile preys upon birds in their
nests, penetrating the thickets in quest of them, and often the
cat-bird and the red-winged blackbird, which are so prone to attack,
are seen acting strangely, crying and fluttering before the reptile in
fear and rage, while thus _charmed_, and frequently falling a victim
in their endeavors to protect their young. At such times the cries of
distress of the old birds bring birds of different genera together,
who join their forces against the common enemy, finally compelling him
to retreat. Like other snakes mentioned, the Black Snake has the same
remarkable habit of taking her young into her mouth for protection.

Among the most attractive forms are the Green Snakes. _Leptophis
æstivus_, so common in the South, and occasionally to be met with in
Southern New Jersey, is of a brilliant green color, and so perfectly
mimicking a vine that it would rarely be taken for a living creature
when lying around the branches of a tree. They have a habit of coiling
in the nests of birds, often surprising the egg-hunter by bounding
swiftly away. Allied species, further to the South, have been observed,
when approached, to leap twenty feet in the air, falling to the ground
and making their escape. They are perfectly harmless creatures, and,
like the Green Snake of the North, can be handled with not the
slightest risk of danger. We once knew a gentleman who had one in
confinement, whom he had trained to eat from a dish and to come to his
hand at the sound of his voice. The beautiful creature, which was a
female, showed the most marked affection, and would often twine her
little form about his neck or glide her smooth head, lazily as it
seemed, along his face and forehead.

[Illustration: SUMMER GREEN SNAKE.

Manner of Mimicking a Vine.]

An extremely common snake in the Eastern United States is the
Water Snake. _Nerodia sipedon_ is the name by which it is known to
the naturalist. There is in Michigan an allied form, known as the
Red-bellied Water Snake, which is quite as common, while several other
species abound in other localities. They are all inoffensive creatures
and prey upon small animals. The female shows the same regard for her
young as other kinds, suffering them, even when three or four inches
long, to take shelter in her throat, when she will clumsily turn in
search of some place of concealment.

[Illustration: WATER SNAKE.

Swallowing Her Young.]

Water-snakes generally affect water-courses, often hanging from the
branches of trees over streams, into which they drop when disturbed.
Dr. Bell, an English naturalist of distinction, once tamed a European
species of this genus. This pet could distinguish him among a crowd,
and would crawl to him, passing into his sleeve, where it would curl up
for a nap. Every morning found it at the doctor’s table for its share
of milk. For strangers it had an aversion, flying and hissing at them
when any familiarities were attempted.

Were these grovelling creatures better known, there would be found
much in them to admire and commend. They are not the hideous beings
they are represented to be. The feeling of hatred against them, an
instinctive and unappeasable enmity, is perfectly natural, and has
grown out of religious superstitions. Fear, disgust and aversion are
man’s experiences at the sight of a snake, and there is at once a
disposition to seize a stick or stone, or to make use of his heel, if
well protected, to deal a fatal stroke. War to the death seems to be
the cry between the highest of the mammals and the serpent tribe. It is
not at all surprising, therefore, that the snake, seeing a human enemy,
should either glide hastily off into the bushes, or, being thwarted,
should coil itself up and hiss or throw itself forward in attack. Man
would do well to protect the snakes about his domains, and treat them
as friends, for they do him invaluable service in the destruction of
vermin that make havoc with his crops.

Ants, bees, spiders, and many fishes, animals that are lower down
in the scale than the snake, it is claimed, show far more forecast,
ingenuity and architectural ability than it, but asserters of such
an opinion forget that the snake is never studied under favorable
conditions. Long ages of persecution have made him fearful of man,
from whose presence he flees as from a pestilence or scourge, and
there is consequently no chance to learn his better nature. Even man,
until recently, has shown no inclination to make his acquaintance,
being controlled by a dread which it appears well nigh impossible
to overcome. Where the animal has been made to partake of the milk
of human kindness, and has learned to regard man as a friend and
not an enemy, he has shown remarkable susceptibility to culture and
enlightenment. Let it be hoped that a modicum of the wisdom which has
been attributed to him from the earliest of times, when he was made the
object of homage and the insignia of the physician, shall at least be
found to remain to the credit of science and truth.

HOUSE-BEARING REPTILES.

Turtles are four-legged reptiles, with short, stout, oval-shaped
bodies encased in bony boxes, from which they are able to protrude
their heads, legs and tails, and into which they can withdraw them, at
pleasure. Considerable diversity exists in the size and shape of the
box-like covering in the different species. The Box Tortoise can retire
into his shell or house, closing the under part or plastron into a
groove of the upper edge of the carapace, as the upper part is called,
thus constituting for his security an impregnable retreat. There are
species only partly enclosed by the shell, which cannot bring their
heads and feet under cover.

With his house upon his back the turtle wanders about as the snail
does, and against his enemies can close its doors and be emphatically
not at home. He has acute sight and hearing, but is devoid of teeth,
the jaws being, like those of birds, simply cased in horn. Turtles
are not altogether silent creatures, for many of them are capable of
producing very loud sounds.

Their eggs, which have a parchment-like covering, are buried in earth
or sand, and left to themselves to hatch. The sea-turtle, our largest
variety, is sometimes found to lay as many as two hundred eggs in a
heap, and in tropical regions has been known to attain a weight of
a thousand pounds. Even on the Atlantic Coast of the United States
individuals, weighing upwards of eight hundred pounds, have not
infrequently been captured.

In the four species of sea-turtles, the feet are flat and
paddle-shaped, and the shell of one rather leathery than horny. Some
of these marine forms are carnivorous, living on fish, mollusks and
crustaceans, while others are strictly vegetarians, subsisting only
on roots and the various sea-weeds. The flesh of some is rich and
delicious, and a favorite and costly article of food, but of others
it is coarse and ill-flavored, and necessarily not edible. The eggs,
however, are always sweet, good and wholesome food. Valuable articles
of commerce, such as boxes, cases, knife-handles, jewelry and other
delicate ornaments, are made from the shell, for it is susceptible of a
very high polish, which brings out with surprising clearness its rich
brown and golden shades and markings.

Next to the sea-living turtles, come the fresh-water species, which eat
both animal and vegetable foods. They enjoy much better than aught else
a bed of soft mud, their heads lifted above the surface of the stagnant
water, their long necks moving snake-like as they gulp in mouthful
after mouthful of air. They are generally gregarious in habits, large
numbers often being found huddled together in the sun on logs or banks,
close to the water, into which they quickly slide upon the first
intimation of danger. Timid as they are, yet they will snap and bite
most furiously when taken in the hand.

Salt- and fresh-water terrapins are varieties of turtle, although some
scientists restrict the latter term to marine animals that do not
hibernate, and that cannot draw their head and feet inside the shell.
The tortoise never goes to sea they say, can draw himself within his
shell, although the Box Tortoise only can close the shell fast when
thus withdrawn, and finally, that the tortoise hibernates. Some of the
best and latest writers on the subject call all these animals turtles,
applying the name tortoise only to the familiar Box Tortoise of the
wood.

Awkward as turtles appear in their box-like covering, yet they can walk
rapidly on land, are climbers of some note, and all are able to swim.
The head, neck, and legs of a turtle are of a bronze, blackish green,
or deep-brown color, and the shells are beautifully marked, glossy,
ridged, or carved, and made up of closely-united, many-sided plates,
arranged upon a thickened, lighter-colored and apparently uniform
bony plate, which is capable of being separated into many independent
pieces. The shell, or epidermic covering, is not brittle and lime-like,
as the shells of all mollusks are, but is of the nature of horn. In
general the plastron is of a lighter color than the carapace, being
light-brown, yellow or cream, with yellowish lines dividing the plates,
and with bordering bands of red, yellow and purple. The upper plate
is usually of a very dark color, marked and lined with darker and
lighter tints, and often displaying a bevelled yellow edge. _Chrysemys
picta_, the Painted Turtle, receives his name from the beauty of his
many-colored shell, while the Spotted Turtle, _Nanemys guttatus_, which
is often called the Wood Turtle, is distinguished by the round yellow
spots that are regularly distributed over his dark-colored carapace.

But of all our turtles none is so well known or so interesting in his
ways as the Common Box Tortoise--_Cistudo clausa_. He affects dry
woods, and dislikes the water, and is a long-lived creature, some
individuals having been known to live more than a hundred years. Box
Tortoises in confinement have been found to eat meat, insects and bread
and milk from the hand, but if berries were put into their mouths they
wiped them out in a very funny manner with their front feet, which they
used after the fashion of a hand.

BOX-TORTOISE FEEDING ON FUNGUS.]

When foraging in the woods, especially during the rainy season, at
which time manifold varieties of fungi prevail, they make their meals
largely upon these plants. We have seen a huge toadstool that had been
gnawed off so evenly, the central pillar only being left intact, that
appeared as though it had been cut away by a knife. This had been the
work of the Box Tortoise, for on looking around we soon descried,
moving leisurely over the leaf-strewn earth, the creature himself
making a fresh attack upon another species in a little opening in the
woods.

[Illustration: COMMON BOX TORTOISE.

Breakfasting on a Toadstool.]

Very amusing it was to watch him, as with praiseworthy deliberation
he ate round after round of the cap of the fungus. He would bite off
a mouthful of the toadstool, chew it carefully until he had extracted
the whole of the juice, then open his mouth and drop out the masticated
fibre, and take a fresh mouthful, not biting inward toward the stem,
but breaking off the morsel next beside that which he had just eaten.
He paced round and round the fungus as he took his bites, and as the
fungus decreased in regular circles, the chewed fragments increased. In
less than an hour he had eaten all the disk of the fungus to the stipe,
and then walked slowly away to seek for another. The discarded parts of
the fungus appeared quite dry when examined, nothing nutritious being
left in them. There must have been some very good reason for rejecting
the central part and the stem, which were left in every instance,
but what that reason was we could not imagine. If a decayed or wormy
portion of a toadstool was encountered in the feeding process, he did
not bite round it, but abandoned the plant altogether, and went off in
quest of a fresh specimen.

Coming, in his travels, to a steep gully or ravine which he desires to
cross, he does not attempt the undertaking without counting his chances
of success. He seemingly revolves the matter over and over for some
time in his mind, and, when at last he has reached a conclusion, draws
his head and feet under cover, and by some quick, sudden jerk flings
himself down to the bottom, trusting to good fortune and his own wits
to making his way over the further incline. Observation teaches that
his deliberations are generally attended with the accomplishment of the
result to be attained.

There is a very common turtle, quite abundant in the small lakes and
streams of our Western States, where he is trapped in great numbers for
the market, which country people dub the Snapping Turtle, or which,
from the resemblance which the head and neck, when stretched out, bear
to the same parts of the alligator, takes the name of Alligator Turtle,
or _Chelydra serpentina_, with the more learned naturalist. He has a
shell too small to close over him and hide him completely, but nature,
to make up for this deficiency of covering, has given him a bold and
hasty temper, which leads him to snap vigorously when disturbed.
Snapping Turtles live rather harmoniously together, even when confined
in the same pen, and only manifest their ugly dispositions towards each
other when excited by causes from without, with whose origin they have
nothing to do. Contests of a very vicious character are often thus
precipitated, which sooner or later end in the death of one or more of
the belligerent parties.

Down in the pine countries of our Southern States lives a large, stout
animal, with a shell fifteen inches in length, which is denominated the
Gopher, or _Testudo Carolina_. These animals dwell in troops, several
families digging their dens or burrows near together, the entrance
thereto being about four feet long and expanding into a spacious
apartment. In each burrow resides a single pair of Gophers. By day
the Gophers keep close house, but by night they wander out in search
of food, devouring yams, melons, corn and other garden produce. They
dislike wet weather, and always go in-doors when it rains. Gophers’
eggs, which are as large as pigeons’ eggs, and also their flesh, are
highly esteemed as articles of diet by the negroes.

In Europe, a near cousin of the Gopher is kept about the house for
a pet. If allowed, in the autumn, to find his way into a garden, he
digs a hole and hibernates, coming out in the spring. An English lady
had one of these animals which lived in the kitchen. He was fond of
creeping into the fireplace and getting under the grate, where he would
contentedly lie until the hot coal and ashes dropped upon his back and
burnt his shell. When winter came this little creature wanted to take
his long sleep, and dug so persistently into baskets, drawers, boxes
and closets, that finally a box of earth was given to him, into which
he worked his way until out of sight, and there he remained until
April sun and showers called him from his winter retreat. His fare was
potatoes, carrots, turnips and bread and milk, which he especially
liked.

SUMMER DUCK.

Perhaps no species of North American water-bird is more highly esteemed
by lovers of the beautiful in nature than _Aix sponsa_--the Summer
Duck, or Wood Duck--and, when obtainable, is one of the first to find
room in the collection of amateur naturalists. With the epicure,
however, he is of rather inferior standing, lacking as he does the
delicacy of flesh which makes the green-winged teal and others of his
tribe of such immense gastronomic value.

Though truly an American species, yet this bird is more generally found
throughout the United States than any other, nesting wherever suitable
localities present themselves. North of the Potomac River, and in the
various States situated above the parallel of latitude which cuts its
head-waters, at least so far as the country east of the Rocky Mountains
is concerned, it is chiefly a migrant, arriving towards the close of
March, or in the beginning of April. South of this line, from Maryland
to Florida, and thence south-westerly through the Gulf States into
Mexico, the birds are found in more or less abundance during the entire
year.

Pairing commences in the South Atlantic and Gulf States, we are told,
about the first of March, but in New England and the Middle States in
favorable seasons from the first to the fifteenth of April, whereas
in the country bordering on the Great Lakes and in the Western States
generally, it does not take place till the last of May or the beginning
of June.

Upon their arrival in our Northern States these birds, strange to say,
unlike many of their numerous family connections, seldom frequent the
sea-shore or the adjoining salt marshes, but manifest a predilection
for the ponds, mill-dams and deep muddy streams of the interior; and
the same is true in more southern latitudes, for they prefer to place
their nests along the creeks and bayous of the land where the orange
and palmetto charm the eye with perennial verdure.

Between the time of their appearance in March and the plighting of
their vows at the accustomed trysting-places, the sexes consort
together in flocks of four or more, but never in very large numbers,
and fatten on acorns, the seeds of the wild oats, and such insects as
they can procure from the tree-branches or the muddy borders of the
streams and ponds which they so delight to visit.

On each recurrence of the mating season there is reason to believe
that the same couple come together and pledge anew their fidelity
and affection, unless debarred by death, or some other of the many
vicissitudes to which life is prone. The troth-plight sealed, and a
union effected, the happy couple soon start off in quest of a spot
for a home. In the case of old birds the same locality, where no
interference has been experienced from beast or man, has been known
to be visited for four successive years. For obvious reasons, Wood
Ducks delight to live in close proximity to bodies of water, such
places affording conveniences to the young, when they are sufficiently
matured to betake themselves thither, for food and exercise. Situations
remote from water entail unnecessary labor upon the female, who is then
required, at considerable risk and peril, to carry them one by one to
the pond or stream in her bill. When the distance is not too great,
and the ground underneath the nesting-tree is amply covered with dry
leaves and grasses, the young scramble to the mouth of the nest, drop
themselves down, and under the maternal leadership wend their way to
the much-loved fluid. Often the tree or stub which contains their home
is found to overshadow the water. All that is necessary then is for the
tender little creatures, after reaching the entrance, to spread their
ill-feathered pinions and oar-like feet and fling themselves down, a
feat which can be performed without jeopardy to life or limb.

[Illustration: SUMMER DUCKS AND YOUNG.

Female Carrying Young in Her Bill from Nest in Hollow Tree.]

Almost any tree, or tree-branch, containing the essential hollow, and
suitably located, is utilized. Broken branches of high sycamores,
seldom more than forty or fifty feet from water, are, according to
Audubon, favorite places, while Wilson claims to have met the home
of a pair of these birds in a fork composed of branches, and built
out of a few rude sticks. In the South, the forsaken retreat of the
gray squirrel and the hole of the ivory-billed woodpecker are common
nesting-places. Often the entrance to the nest is apparently so small
when compared with the bulk of the occupant that it is a matter of
surprise to many that she can manage to make her way into it without
suffering bodily injuries. But she does, nevertheless, which is an
evidence that she either knows how to conform to circumstances, or
is a better judge of dimensions than many of the would-be-wise lords
of creation. All nests of our finding have been wide enough at their
mouths to admit of easy passage, and have been from four to six feet in
vertical direction. Soft decayed wood, and a few feathers, doubtless
plucked from the breast of the builder, were their only contents. Dry
plants, down, and feathers of the wild turkey, wild goose and the
common barnyard fowl, have been observed, in addition to the foregoing
articles, by other writers. The height of the entrance above the ground
varies from fifteen to thirty feet, but probably a less, or even a
greater elevation, may sometimes be attained.

Wilson speaks of a nest which he observed in an old grotesque white
oak, which stood on a slope of one of the banks of the Tuckahoe River,
in New Jersey, just twenty yards from the water’s edge, that had been
occupied for four consecutive years. At the time of his visit the nest
contained thirteen young birds, which the maternal head was engaged
in carrying down to the water to give them, perhaps, their first
experience in the art of swimming. So carefully, and yet so adroitly
and quickly, did she perform this seemingly difficult task, that she
was less than ten minutes in its accomplishment. Although the male
usually stands sentry while the processes of laying and sitting are
going on, and signals the approach of enemies by a peculiar cry which
has been likened to the crowing of a young cock--œ-ēēk! œ-ēēk!--yet
from the silence of one writer upon the subject we infer that the duty
of rearing the rather numerous family is left to the mother, while
he--her friend and consequential partner, as though disdaining such
ignoble and degrading work, because of its slavish character--is off
with his gay companions, disporting themselves in mid-air, or trimming,
while perched upon some sheltering bough, their rich and varied
plumage. So intent, however, was the mother-bird upon the faithful
discharge of her home-duties, that she heeded not the stately sloop,
then nearly completed, as it lay upon the stocks close-by, with its
hull looming up within twelve feet of her home, darkened with the
presence, and reverberating with the noise of workmen, but continued to
pass in and out as though utterly unconscious of the so near approach
of danger. Audubon claims that the male deserts the female when the
period of sitting commences, and joins his sterner brethren, who
unite into flocks of considerable numbers, and keep apart from their
partners until the young are fully matured, when young and old of
both sexes come together, and thus remain until the return of another
breeding-season.

The female, it is evident from what has just been said, assumes the
entire charge of incubation. For more than twenty-one days she is thus
busied, with nothing, it would seem, to relieve the monotony of her
task. How often she despairs and bewails the hardship of her lot, none
can know. It is the inexorable decree of fate that she should perform
the duties alone and unassisted, and most willingly she submits. But
the _ennui_ of the labor is, in a measure, forgotten in the vision
that hope holds out to her patience, for her persistent assiduity is
ultimately rewarded by a whole nest-full of happy ducklings. While the
hatching process is going on the patient housewife only leaves the
nest when pressed by the pangs of hunger, and but for a short time.
Before leaving, however, she takes the precaution to see that her
creamy-white, elliptical treasures, to the number of ten or thirteen
eggs, are carefully covered with down.

Like the young of our domesticated species, the little Wood Ducks
follow the mother almost as soon as they are hatched, and gather
whatever of vegetable and insect food they happen to encounter. They
are passionately fond of the water, and best show their real character
when gracefully floating upon its glassy bosom, or diving into its
azure depths. At an early age they respond to the parent’s call with
a soft and mellow _pee, pee, pee-e_, which is uttered quite rapidly,
and at repeated intervals. The call of the mother, when addressing the
young at such times, is rather low and soft, and resembles that of the
young, being only a little more prolonged.

These beautiful birds have often been domesticated. They become at such
times so unsuspicious and familiar as to allow themselves to be stroked
by the hand. No handsomer bird could be chosen for introduction into
our yards. The male, some nineteen inches in length, and with a scope
of wing of two and one-third feet, is a being of no mean proportions.
But it is the richness and variety of his colors that render him an
object of admiration. A conspicuous green and purple crest adorns
his head, while the sides, which are iridescent purple, are relieved
of their monotony by a streak of white from base of bill to occiput,
and by another, back of the eye, of a pure white color, which is
continuous with that of the throat. The sides and front of the lower
neck and the forepart of the breast are a bright chestnut, with five
white spots, while the lower parts are generally white. Beautifully
iridescent metallic hues set off the upper surfaces of the wings, which
show most effectively in the blaze of the noonday sun. To the female
nature has not been, it would seem to the casual observer, quite so
propitious. Her grayish head, with lengthened hind-feathers, white
throat, brownish-yellow fore-neck, upper breast and sides, striped
with grayish and generally dark-brown upper parts, glossed chiefly
with purple, contrast most markedly with the rich, gorgeous attire
of her other half. While less showy in dress and lacking the dignity
of demeanor that characterizes her lord, she is none the less fitted
to perform her part in the drama of life. Her dress, sober in color,
and with just enough of ornament to relieve the oppressiveness of its
sameness, is so accordant with her home-surroundings as to afford her
the protection and security she requires in the trying and perilous
duties of brood-raising.

AMERICAN WOODCOCK.

Quite as interesting in habits is the American Woodcock, the _Philohela
minor_ of Gray, which belongs to the grallatorial, rather than to the
natatorial, family of birds. In distribution he is somewhat restricted,
differing in this respect from his numerous congeneric brethren, which
have a wide dispersion. He is chiefly a denizen of the eastern parts of
the United States, and of the British territory immediately adjacent.
Fort Rice, in north-western Dakota, and Kansas and Nebraska in the
West, appear to be the limits of his range in these directions. In the
Middle and Eastern States Woodcocks are found in greater abundance than
anywhere else. While the bulk pass North to breed, a few remain in the
South and raise their happy little families in spite of the ardor of
the climate.

Few migrants arrive earlier at their breeding-grounds. They usually
appear from the fifth to the tenth of March in New England and the
Middle Atlantic States, although instances are recorded where they have
been observed as early as the twenty-fourth of February. These cases
are rare, however, and only happen, if at all, when the weather has
been remarkably auspicious for a lengthy spell. As a few birds have
been known to winter in the North, when the season has been unusually
mild, their emergence from sheltered localities so early might be
construed by persons not cognizant of their presence, or of their
occasional winter sojourn, as a case of recent arrival. In view of this
fact, it would be difficult to prove that a bird seen in winter had
just come from the South, unless discovered _in transitu_.

Small companies, from four to six in number, start together upon
the migratory tour. Low, swampy thickets invite their presence upon
reaching their destination. Here they conceal themselves during the
day, but when night has gathered dark they come out of their grassy
retreats and wander about in quest of food. From the setting of the
sun behind the western hills to the appearance of the first streaks
of dawn in the east, they pursue their nocturnal rambles. Few persons
have visited these birds in their accustomed haunts while foraging.
Let me take the reader to some neighboring swamp, or by the side of
some lonely woodland, which these birds delight to frequent. The utmost
silence must be maintained, or they will be frightened away. While it
will be difficult to see the creatures that have called us hither, yet
we know they are not far away by the rustle they produce among the
dry leaves, and by the peculiar notes they emit. _Chipper, chip-per,
chip_ may be heard from the right, and almost at the next instant it
is varied to _bleat_ or _bleat ta bleat ta_, produced in the contrary
direction, or off in the distance, showing that the authors of these
sounds have changed their positions. While these birds have a habitual
fondness for humid thickets, they not infrequently betake themselves to
corn-fields and other cultivated tracts in close proximity, and even to
elevated woods.

For more than a fortnight after their arrival the sexes, though feeding
in company, do not apparently manifest a disposition to assume conjugal
relationship. The desire for food seems to outweigh every other
consideration. The inclemency of the weather, and the coldness of the
earth, may have much to do with holding the amatory forces in check.
But when the opportune period arrives, which it does in the course
of events, the sexes desist in a measure from their riotous living
and give the nobler instincts of their being a chance to assert their
power. The males are the first to feel the changes which are being
wrought in their natures. For more than a week from the incipiency
of this feeling, in the early morning and evening hours, they may
be seen exercising themselves by means of “curious spiral gyrations”
in mid-air, and uttering, as earthwards they descend, a note which
has been likened to the word _kwank_. This note may be a call to the
female in the spring, but as it is often uttered in the fall after the
breeding-season is past, it may also be a summons for the gathering
together of the members of the same household. The production of these
sounds seems a labor of very great effort. But the movements of the
males at these times must be seen to be appreciated. The head and bill
are bent forward until the latter comes into contact with the ground,
and, just as the sound is being emitted, the body is urged violently
forward. These spasmodic exertions having ceased, the actor in this
drama twitches his abbreviated, half-spread tail, assumes an erect
attitude of listening, and, if no response is elicited, repeats his
characteristic cry with all its accompanying movements. If the call
awakes an answering note, the happy lover flies to the presence of
the one he seeks and lavishes upon her the most endearing caresses.
Sometimes, as Audubon affirms, the male awaits the arrival of the dear
one, and does not fly to meet her. The summons, according to the same
eminent authority, seem sometimes to be replied to by one of the same
sex, which is always the prelude to a fierce encounter between the
two, for, on such occasions, when the feelings are in a high state of
tension, the most intense enmity exists between the males. But these
contentions are ordinarily short-lived, and cease with the assumption
of matrimonial relations.

The happiness of the male is now complete. With his homely but
prepossessing bride by his side, he soon journeys off in search of a
home. This is a matter of great consequence, and tasks the patience to
the utmost. But their labors are eventually crowned with success. The
most secluded resorts are visited, and in some low, dense and swampy
woods or brake, difficult of access, and one that none but the cruel
collector would be likely to find, they hide away their nest. The
structure is generally placed on the ground, at the foot of a bush or
tussock, in the midst of small birches or alders, or on a decayed stump
or prostrate log. In certain localities, it is snugly nestled in the
midst of a meadow. It is by no means an elaborate affair, but merely
consists of a few dried leaves or grasses which are scratched together
by the female, and the work of a few brief hours at the most.

WOODCOCK ON NEST (Showing protective coloring)]

Being ready for occupancy, the female soon commences to deposit her
eggs. These, to the number of three or four, are laid one at a time on
consecutive days. Oviposition, in the Southern States, commences in
February or March, while in the northern limits of the bird’s range
from the tenth to the fifteenth of April, seldom later. Both birds
perform the labor of incubation, and so attentive are they to the
business that it is an unusual occurrence to find both absent from
the nest at the same time. When the female is sitting the male busies
himself in attending to the demands of hunger; and when her turn has
come the care of the nest is resigned to her noble, conscientious lord.
So faithfully do they keep to the nest that nothing short of the most
menacing danger will compel them to leave. The approach of a team or
a pedestrian, even when within a few feet of its location, has not
been known to startle them. But when the danger is quite imminent the
sitting bird slips out of the nest and makes her way into the tall
grasses, where, hidden from view, she becomes a silent and sorrowful
witness of any disaster that may befall her home. Should no destruction
be perpetrated, and the intruder has gone his way, she cautiously comes
out of her place of concealment and resumes her labors. But she has
learned a very impressive lesson, for on a second visit to the nest no
bird is to be seen. Apprised of the coming of danger, she has slipped
out in time to escape detection. Thus, patiently, persistently and
unweariedly these faithful creatures apply themselves by turns to the
task of sitting until success has crowned their willing labors. The
time spent in hatching is, under the most favorable conditions, from
seventeen to eighteen days.

[Illustration: AMERICAN WOODCOCK.

Mother Flying Away With Young Between Her Feet.]

The young are very timid creatures and keep close to their parents.
Considerable solicitude is shown by the latter for their well-being.
Their helpless infancy, so to speak, is watched over with all the
care that a human mother bestows upon her offspring, and when their
lives are endangered recourse is had to many a _ruse_ to deceive their
enemies and bring them into places of security. When severely pressed
by foes, the mother, by a peculiar alarm, warns them of the state of
things, and while they are scattering in different directions seeks
to attract attention to herself in many a well-feigned artifice. In
her anxiety for their safety, she has even been observed to seize
between her two feet a youngling and fly with it away--a behavior
whose purpose seemed to be the diversion of the enemy from the rest
of the brood, thus giving them a chance to flee from impending peril
to places of security in the surrounding verdure. After all danger
has disappeared, she summons them together again by a familiar call,
and doubtless relates to them the story of her adventures and the
dangers from which they were saved. Worms, animalcula, ants and other
soft-bodied insects, which the parents assist them in procuring from
the soft earth, and from beneath the grass and dead leaves that abound
in the places they frequent, constitute their food. Later on they are
able to obtain their subsistence, with all the address of older birds,
by thrusting their bills into the soil and in such other places as
would be likely to contain the objects desired. Their tongues, covered
with a viscid saliva, adhere to the food, and when drawn into the mouth
carry it with them without danger of being lost. All who have made
these birds a study have often discerned holes made in the soft mud
by their bills. The presence of these “borings,” as they are called,
is always an indication that game is not far distant, which a careful
exploration of the locality soon verifies. The young, when matured,
continue to occupy the same haunts with their parents, and, unless
brought to an untimely death by the merciless gun of the hunter, repair
to the warm, sunny, smiling South with the return of frost. In the
Middle States--and the same is doubtless true of other sections of our
great country--there is never more than a single brood raised, although
the early breeding of the species would certainly afford time for a
second hatching before the close of the season. Less pyriform are the
eggs of the Woodcock than waders’ mostly are, being, in some instances,
almost ovoidal. Their ground-color varies from a light clay to one
of buffy-brown, and the markings occur in the form of fine spots and
blotches of chocolate-brown, interspersed with others of obscure lilac,
more or less thickly scattered over the surface of the egg, their size
and intensity of color bearing, in general, a direct correspondence
with the depth of the background. Remarkable variations of size exist
throughout the species’ range, some being short and broad, while others
are long and narrow. A set of three from Pennsylvania, which the writer
carefully measured, showed an average measurement of 1.54 by 1.21
inches.

So familiar a bird as the Woodcock, which is sometimes termed the
Bog-sucker or Wood-snipe, hardly needs description. He has a thick,
heavily-set body, short and thick neck, and large head, bill and
eyes, and ears beneath the visual organs. His wings are short and
rounded, the first three primaries being very narrow and shorter than
the fourth, and the fourth and fifth the largest. The tarsi are about
one and one-fourth inches long and rather stout, the tibiæ feathered
to the joints, and the toes long and slender, and without marginal
membranes or basal webs. More than two and a half inches in length is
the bill, straight, tapering, and stout at base, with ridge at base of
maxilla high, and the upper mandible a little larger than the lower,
and knobbed at the end. Three long grooves, one on ridge above, and the
others on each side of maxilla, complete the structural details of the
bill. The sexes are alike, the female being larger than the male. Adult
specimens vary from ten to twelve inches in length, and have an expanse
of wings of from fifteen to eighteen inches, and a weight ranging from
four to nine ounces. The eyes are brown, legs and bill of the dried
skin pale-brownish, upper parts black, gray, russet and brown, chin
whitish, and rest of under parts different shades of brownish-red.

So exquisitely sensible is the extremity of the bill, as in the
snipe, that these birds are enabled to collect their food by the mere
touch, without using their eyes, which are set at such a distance
and elevation in the back part of the head as to give them an aspect
of stupidity. The eyes being situated high up and far back is a wise
provision of nature, as, by this peculiarity, they escape many of
their enemies, their field of vision being greatly augmented by such an
arrangement. Obtaining their sustenance, as they largely do, by probing
with their bills, so amply endowed with nerves, they have comparatively
little use for their eyes, unless to keep watch for their numerous foes.

Though well known to the sportsman, yet by the casual observer this
bird is frequently confounded with the Wilson’s snipe. But the error
can readily be avoided, if it is borne in mind that the Woodcock has
the entire lower parts, including the lining of wings, a reddish-brown
color, while the snipe has the abdomen white, the throat and upper
parts of the breast speckled, and the lining of the wings barred with
white and black.

PIPING PLOVER.

Have you ever been to the sea-shore? Then, of course, you have met the
Piping Plover, but, perhaps, not to know him. He is of the size of
the robin, not quite so robust, but stands much taller, being mounted
on rather long, stilt-like legs, which admirably fit him for the life
which he is designed to fill in the world. He belongs to the family
of wading birds, and seeks the principal part of his food in or by
the water, which could not possibly be were his walking appendages
curtailed the least bit of their fair proportions. But to be more
precise in my word-picture, let me describe him to you as of a pale
ashy-brown color, fading into grayish upon the under parts, and as
having his head set off with some narrow black bands, that on the neck
rarely, if ever, forming a perfect ring. His bill will be found to be
short and stout and blunt, and there will be an appreciable lack of
webbing between the middle and inner front toes.

Now that it is plain what the bird looks like, you are certainly
prepared, more than ever, to take some interest in him in his brief
stay by the sea. So strongly is he attached to the scenes rendered dear
by past associations and memories that, from his winter home in the
sunny South, and even from over the waters beyond our southern borders,
he hails with delight the return of the vernal equinox, for he knows
full well that it brings with it the summer’s heat and all its varied,
priceless wealth of insect life.

So with the first spring signs of open weather he quits his brumal
retreat, winds his way up along the trend of the Atlantic seaboard,
and at last reaches in the nights of early April the sandy beaches of
our Jersey coast. In flocks of a dozen individuals they run about the
sand in a most lively manner, and utter all the while a variety of
notes more or less pleasing, blending as they do with the deep-toned
bass of the ocean. When this sound, welling up from a dozen throats, is
heard in the dark it is particularly striking, as wild and weird as the
whistling of a wind at sea through the rigging of a ship.

But these flocks soon disperse into pairs to breed. Slight depressions
in the dry sand, and always in the midst of groups of broken colored
shells, but out of the reach of the maddened waves, rather than in
muddy, marshy places back of the beach-line, serve them for nests.
This nesting among clustered shells seemingly points to a love for
the beautiful. But may it not be that the shells but mark the various
nest-positions in the unbroken waste of sand? We incline to this
opinion. There is so much diversity manifested in the size of the
groups and in the arrangement and coloration of the individual shells
that comprise them, that no very great difficulty should be experienced
by the several pairs nesting in the same locality in knowing each
other’s nest.

While the birds are concerned with the cares of brood-raising, which
is usually towards the close of May or the beginning of June, they
confine their feeding to the damp, wet sand. Between it and the dry a
clear line of separation is plainly noticeable. It is only when they
are ready for the home duties that they are seen to resort to aerial
navigation. Even when on the very boundary-line of the two stretches
of sand, the wet and the dry, and with the nest almost in sight, they
are known to assume wing, taking due care, however, to alight before
they have fairly reached the spot. In flight an advantage, that of a
more commanding view, is acquired, which walking does not give. But in
leaving the nest for food, or for any other purpose, they, as before,
walk some distance away before they venture to fly. There is a seeming
purpose in so doing, the object to be gained being the deceiving of man
and other enemies as to the real location of the nest.

[Illustration: FEMALE PIPING PLOVER.

Nest in Midst of Broken Shells.]

All these precautions are undertaken for the sake of the eggs, although
in color and markings these so closely resemble the dry sand and
intermingled bits of foreign substances, that such actions seem all
unnecessary. When birds have been flushed from the nest, and its exact
position has been noted with the greatest care, I have failed, after
several minutes of the closest searching, to detect the eggs, so true
has been the color-harmony between them and the surrounding sand. This
resemblance in coloration must be seen to be fully appreciated. In
ground the eggs are the palest possible creamy-brown, but marked all
over, quite sparingly, with small blackish-brown dots and specks, the
largest hardly exceeding a pin’s head. Four is the usual number, and
these, from their peculiar pear-shaped form, are placed with their
points together in the centre of the nest. They are objects of more
than ordinary solicitude, the little Plovers making most violent
demonstrations and pleading piteously when they are approached.
The mother employs all the well-known artifices, such as lameness,
inability to fly, to draw the intruder away from the nest. The young
run as soon as they leave the egg, and are great adepts at hiding,
squatting, and remaining motionless. Their downy plumage so assimilates
them to the sand that unless they reveal themselves by moving, it
requires a very keen eye to distinguish them from the numberless tufts
that are scattered about the higher reaches of the beach.

Although so essentially a bird of the sea-shore, yet in August many
scores of these birds come up the Delaware River as far as tide-water
extends, feeding upon the mud-flats and gravel-bars, and occasionally
wending their way up along the courses of the creeks until they find
themselves well into the country. It is interesting to watch them as
they run in and out among the little hills and hollows of the mud in
quest of their prey. They are happy, light-hearted fellows, who do not
begrudge, when some racy tidbit has rewarded their hunting, to pipe a
few notes of thanks to Him who watches as tenderly over them as over
the mighty lords of the earth.

BOB WHITE.

Somewhat related to the grouse is the Quail, as he is called in
the Northern States, or “Bob White,” his universally recognized
appellation. His scientific name is _Ortyx Virginianus_. Differing
from the Old World partridges, he has been assigned a place in the
sub-family Odontophorinæ, of which five genera are said to exist, most
of them being restricted to the extreme south-west of our country. His
habits and history are full of interest to everybody.

Quails are restless, uneasy birds, attached to one place while
rearing their family, but immediately upon the brood becoming able to
travel, commencing their wanderings. There is no accounting for these
movements, which sometimes deprive a whole district of their presence
for a time, to populate a neighboring region previously without them.
When such journeys are undertaken, a large number of birds participate,
travelling on foot, and passing steadily through districts where food
is plentiful, and seemingly without any definite destination in mind,
so loath are they to use their wings, that in attempting to cross wide
rivers and inlets immense numbers are said to perish. A limited and
partial migration, it is highly probable, takes place annually from
the more northern to warmer latitudes, influenced in its extent by the
comparative severity of the seasons, being more distinctly migrating
west than east of the Delaware River.

About the middle of March the winter flocks break up, and the mating
begins. Although not indulging in the noisy and seemingly meaningless
antics of the grouse to call attention to his personal attractiveness,
Bob White, it would appear, becomes suddenly conscious of his comely
looks and excellent voice. In a dignified manner, with head erect, he
walks proudly about, inviting the opposite sex to view him at his best.
From the orchard gate he calls a saucy good morning to the farmer,
knowing that the law holds its _ægis_ over him at this time, but he
keeps an eye to hawks, cats and other predatory animals that respect
neither time, place nor season. He is polygamous, willing to assume any
amount of family responsibility, and will help to rear two, or even
three, broods a year, a successful pair often turning out twenty-five
young in a season. It is not an uncommon occurrence to find a covey of
little cheepers, scarcely able to fly, as late as November.

Although paired so early, the Quails do not proceed to the business of
nidification in the central part of their range until about the middle
of May. The leeward side of some dense tussock of grass, a mouldering
stump in a wild, matted meadow, the woody margin of a clover field
or orchard, or an old pasture overgrown with bramble thickets, are
situations commonly chosen, the female, as is her undoubted right,
taking the lead in fixing upon the site. An artificial bed of grasses
and vegetable trash, filling a shallow depression, is the nest.
Sometimes it is placed so as to be concealed by overarching grasses,
through which a regular tunnel, several feet in length, conducts to the
sanctum; and, at other times, is only covered with leaves and straw,
which the birds themselves have rudely adjusted. The nest, which is
constructed solely by the females of the family, varies in dimensions
according to the number of this sex that anticipate using it, the male
in the meantime going about in quest of food, or sitting upon a low
twig close by, cheering his wives by his trisyllabic note, and very
faithfully warning them of the imminence of danger.

The work is prosecuted with considerable zeal, three days at farthest
sufficing to make the nest ready for the first egg, which is
immediately laid, and which is followed by one on each consecutive day,
until seven or eight have been deposited. As many as thirty eggs are
sometimes found in a single nest, which is due to the polygamy of the
male. Two, and often three and four females, are taken by a male, and
two have been known to occupy simultaneously the same nest.

When a pair of birds has established itself in a locality from the
first, and has been successful in rearing a family of young during the
ensuing spring, if the females are in the majority the unprovided ones
still continue, as a general thing, to linger with the parents after
their more specially favored companions have mated and moved elsewhere.
This is particularly noticeable in a new locality where the covey
consists entirely of members of a single family. In cases where several
families congregate in the fall, the chances are greatly in favor of
monogamy. Small flocks are more decidedly polygamous than larger ones.
We have never observed the converse--that is, more than one male to a
female--but where several pairs are found in the same field, at slight
distances from each other, there is sometimes a noticeable tendency to
associate.

The eggs of the Quail are crystal white, sometimes slightly tinged with
yellow, and pyriform in shape. Eighteen days are required for their
hatching. Where the father is not fortunate enough to possess a harem,
a part of the work devolves upon him, while the mother seeks food and
recreation; but where there are several females, the work is divided
very amicably among them, each sitting about half a day at a stretch,
then calling her relief with a low note, if there be only two, the
male taking no part in the labor of incubation whatever. Should the
family be larger, two females will sit side by side on the eggs, there
being too many in number for one breast to cover. Meanwhile the husband
remains close by, chirping encouragement in a low tone, and betimes
making the field vocal with his loud, clear whistle. He is exceedingly
vigilant, and if a human being approaches the nest gives the alarm to
his partners, who secretly withdraw from the nest, while he, thoughtful
husband as he is, flings himself upon the ground in front of the
intruder, feigning lameness or injury, and seeking by every device
known to him to attract attention and pursuit, till having beguiled the
enemy far away from his home he seeks safety for himself in flight. The
experienced oölogist pays no regard to this deceit, seeing in it only a
sign of the nearness of the coveted prize, but patiently continues his
search until he has discovered its whereabouts.

[Illustration: HOME OF BOB WHITE.

Two Wives on Same Nest.]

Two broods are invariably raised and often a third, but the last
appearing late in the summer, and scarcely attaining their growth
before the coming of snow. If unmolested, it is evident, therefore,
that the species would increase with great rapidity, as shown by
the celerity with which regions, where the birds had been well nigh
exterminated, have been replenished when a period of quiet for a season
or two has been allowed them. The young run about in a very lively
manner as soon as they have left the shell, and in a few days are given
over to the care of the father, whom they follow and obey as readily as
they did the mother, possibly because they do not recognize the change
of guardians, while she returns to the cares of rearing another family.

During the spring and early summer both old and young find an
abundance of food for themselves in the larvæ of various insects, the
succulent shoots of growing plants and such seeds as abound. Later on,
strawberries, blueberries, huckleberries and other wild fruits supply
their demands. In August they grow fat upon grasshoppers, and as this
is the time when seeds ripen, acorns and beech-nuts fall, and the
stubble-fields are full of scattered wheat, rye, barley and maize, and
insects are plentiful upon the ground, they feast themselves to satiety
before the winter begins, until they have reached that delectable
plumpness so highly esteemed by _bon vivants_. Attaining their full
growth by the end of September, at least in the case of the earlier
broods, the season of play for the partridges and sport for the gunner
has come. Quail-shooting is regarded as a test of marksmanship in the
United States. So rare and wild have the birds become by reason of
incessant hunting, that it certainly requires skill and fine shooting
to make a bag. Bred in the open fields, and feeding early in the
morning and late in the evening, a man may beat a field all day, and
put up only one or two birds, when he is certain that twice as many
lay concealed, huddled up in little knots in out-of-the-way places,
which the best of dogs might easily pass without discovering. Their
inconspicuous colors, too, which are in keeping with the objects around
them, so conceal them from the vision of the hunter, that, trusting to
them, they will sit immovable until he has gone some distance beyond,
when they will spring up and away like so many arrows, requiring a
quick eye and a steady hand to turn and drop a brace.

When ultimately flushed, they fly to some particular covert, and
so long as this thicket or fern-brake remains undiscovered, will
repeatedly repair to it for safety and security. A rather curious
circumstance, which has created no little discussion among American
sportsmen, materially aids their concealment. When alighting, after
being flushed, the Quail is said to give out no scent for some little
time. This is supposed to be a voluntary act of retention of odor on
the part of the bird, as a conscious method of protection. Some, while
admitting the fact, believe it to be a power belonging to particular
bevies, at least in a far greater degree than to others, like the
custom of alighting upon the branches of trees when frightened, while
others restrict the faculty to particular individuals rather than
bevies. Our earlier ornithologists do not mention the retention of
scent. It is probable, as claimed by a few, that Quails’ swift running
over the dry leaves of upland woods or meadows allows little time and a
poor surface for the transmission of the scent, and that when they drop
suddenly and remain quiet no effluvium escapes, but which only becomes
disseminated the very instant they move.

The open fields being smitten by the wild winds of November, and the
reeds bruised and broken, the Quail retreats to the depths of the swamp
or the shelter of a dense thicket, where he keeps life in him as best
he can during the cold, stormy days, hunting the stubble and swamp
for soft-shelled nuts and seeds, torpid beetles, and the hard fruits
and seed-cases of grasses and weeds, some of which, the skunk cabbage
for example, tainting his flesh with their flavor. Huddled together
the forlorn covey allow the snow to cover them, trusting to shake it
off on the return of the morning, but occasionally a crust freezes
upon the surface, and the poor birds find themselves in a prison from
which they cannot break out before they starve to death. The habit of
huddling is peculiar to Quails the whole year round. They select at
evening some spot of low ground, where the long grass affords shelter
and warmth, and there they encamp, sleeping in a circle, shoulder to
shoulder, with heads turned out, keeping each other warm, and ready
to escape at a moment’s warning without stumbling over one another.
A suitable roosting-place once found, night after night they repair
thither, leaving it in the morning before sunrise to seek their
breakfast.

Unless the winter be unusually mild, they may be seen associating in
the pasture with the cattle, and even following them home to glean
the grain that falls into the barnyard, and pick up the scraps that
are thrown to the chickens. This delightful confidence is not always
abused, for many persons take pains to foster the bevies they find
spending the winter in some brushy hillside near the house by daily
scattering grain or clover-seed upon the snow where the hungry birds
may come and get it. The pert air with which one of the cocks will
perch himself on a fence-rider or walk sedately along a stone wall in
the early sunlight of a glistening January morning is reward enough
to the benefactor, if he cares not to preserve them for the selfish
pleasure of shooting them the following autumn.

As a delicate article of food the Quail is highly esteemed, and during
the time the law allows the markets are filled with bunches of them.
Various devices in the form of snares, nets and traps are called into
service to effect their capture, and in some parts of the country, New
England especially, fresh importations have been necessary to preserve
a sufficient number for sport. Bands of beaters in the Southern and
Western States cautiously drive immense flocks into nets, but there
is less danger of exterminating this than almost any other species of
game-bird, it would seem, on account of its sequestered habits and
prolificacy.

Taming and domestication is an easy matter with these birds. In all
cases, however, where the eggs have been hatched under a hen at
liberty, the Quail chicks have run away to the woods as soon as the
leaves have turned sear in the fall and never come back. They sang
their “Ah, Bob White!” just as clearly before they had ever heard one
of their kin as any woodland-bred Quails could do. It is quite common
to re-colonize portions of the Eastern States when they have become
depopulated, and an effort made some years ago to introduce these birds
into the Salt Lake Valley of Utah was eminently successful. Within the
past few years some of the West India Islands have been colonized, but
attempts to acclimatize the birds in England and Ireland have proved
most signal failures.

RUFFED GROUSE.

Considerable misapprehension exists in relation to the popular
appellation of this species. In some parts of the country it is dubbed
the Partridge, while in others it goes by the name of Pheasant. It is
neither. All its affinities point away from these families, in the
direction of the True Grouse, of which it constitutes a useful and
interesting member. Pheasants are never found in the United States, but
are indigenous to Southern Asia. Their nearest representative here is
the Wild Turkey. Almost as much may be said of the Partridge, a group
of birds which are exclusive denizens of the Old World.

But now to our subject. Few Grouse are so well known as the Ruffed
Grouse, the _Bonasa umbellus_ of Stephens. Everywhere throughout the
timbered regions of Eastern North America it is more or less plentiful,
ranging from the Atlantic seaboard to the Rocky Mountains, and from
Georgia to Nova Scotia. In all our Southern States, Louisiana excepted,
these birds exist to some extent, and are also to be found over limited
portions of the Missouri region, but, doubtless, more especially
about the mouth of the river, and in the contiguous country. In the
western parts of the region it is represented by a form which passes
with ornithologists as a well-defined, genuine variety. It seems to be
wanting in California, but in the wooded sections of the Cascade Range,
as well as in the valley of the Willamette in Oregon, where it exists
under a new varietal name, it is by no means an uncommon occupant. In
the New England, Middle Atlantic and Northern Central States it is that
these birds are to be seen to the best advantage, and in the greatest
numbers. West of the Mississippi, if we exclude Eastern Kansas,
Southern Iowa and the whole of Missouri, they occur, if at all, in
comparatively small and isolated parties.

In regions which these Grouse inhabit, they are permanent residents,
and are never known to move southward with the retreat of warm weather.
They are capable of adapting themselves to climatic variations with
ease, but not so readily to surface irregularities and their natural
concomitants. Dense woods, craggy mountain-sides and the borders of
streams are noted places of resort. Lowlands, especially such as are
invested with thick growths of small bushes and tall, rank grasses, are
not infrequently chosen. When in search of food and gravel, they are
known to quit their favorite haunts and betake themselves to the open
road, where groups may be seen absorbed in feeding, but not to that
extent, however, when the rustle of a moving leaf or the crackling of
a twig would pass unnoticed. The slightest noise causes a temporary
suspension of labor and a momentary shudder of surprise. All of a
sudden, and in the most perfect harmony, all heads are raised and
pointing in the direction whence the noise emanated. The keen vision
of these birds is not slow in discerning, through the gloomy recesses,
the presence of danger; but should nothing of an alarming nature
manifest itself, a short parley ensues and business is resumed, though
not with the same earnestness and lack of care, however, as before.
Greater caution is now observable, and every effort taken to prevent an
ambuscade. But let the cause of the alarm, a dog or a man, be close at
hand, and the birds immediately strike for the cover, either on foot
or by means of flight, the latter method only being adopted in extreme
cases, when the other course would be attended by disaster and probable
ruin. In the exercise of their cursorial powers, they move with
remarkable swiftness, as with head depressed and tail expanded they run
for their lives. A pile of brushwood or an impenetrable jungle, when
near, is rendered subservient. There they manage to conceal themselves
for a time and thus recover breath. Closely pursued, and in danger
of being trampled upon by the foot of the huntsman or lacerated by
the fangs of his quadrupedal friend, they await the opportune moment,
when, with sudden whirring wings, they cleave the elastic ether and
vigorously press forward to some transitory haven of security, but only
to fall once more in the way of their relentless persecutors. These
flights are so well timed and so unexpected that many an experienced
gunner is thrown off his guard, and when, at last, he has recovered
from his surprise and collected his thoughts, feels vexed at himself
for allowing his equanimity to become unsettled by so familiar a
stratagem. He finds it useless to repine, but endeavors to choke down
the bitter sigh of disappointment that arises as he presses forward to
further adventures.

Like the common barnyard fowl, these Grouse are strictly gregarious,
especially during the autumnal and winter months. The flocks they form
vary in numbers, and when disturbed, while feeding, scatter in all
directions, each member seeking only its own individual safety and
well-being. But after the lapse of a few minutes, becoming reassured,
they gather simultaneously about the same spot, travelling the entire
distance on foot. The utmost circumspection and vigilance are always
exercised in these backward movements. Scarcity of food occasionally
causes these birds, where very numerous in mountainous districts, to
migrate to other places. These journeys are usually undertaken about
the middle of October, they then being in excellent order and in
great demand for the table. Audubon witnessed, in the fall of 1820,
an immense number _in transitu_ from Ohio, Indiana and Illinois to
Kentucky, many of whom became a prey to man. This disposition to lead
a roving, migratory life is, as a general thing, not hereditary, and
consequently is seldom undertaken, plenty of food usually being found
in localities which these birds affect.

Where there is a paucity of food-materials, such as acorns, the seeds
of the beech and of the various species of birch, they do not hesitate
to devour the buds of the mountain laurel, which impart a poisonous
character to their flesh. When severely hunger-pressed they feed upon
dry bark, the insects that harbor in the creviced trunks and branches
of trees, and even stray to the roads that wander through their gloomy
retreats and peck at the hard, frozen horse-droppings they chance to
encounter. But when spring returns and renews her bond of faith with
Mother Earth, they more than make up for their scanty winter fare and
feast with fastidious appetites upon the now tender and juicy buds
of the black birch, which give a peculiar and toothsome flavor to
their flesh that has acquired for them in some localities the name
of Birch Partridge. For a brief spell every other interest is now
absorbed in that of unrestrained feasting, to which the sexes submit
themselves with all the _abandon_ of civilized humanity. The middle
of March, or the close of the month dedicated by the ancient Romans
to purifications and fastings, when the weather is favorable, marks a
change in their life. This era is announced by a loud drumming noise,
which is everywhere heard. Standing upon a tall rock or a prostrate
log in some secluded woods or other locality, the author of this
noise may be found. His attitude and demeanor needs must be seen to
be appreciated. Once seen, he can never be forgotten. Arrayed in a
brand-new spring suit, he is a being not to be despised. But this is
not all. His beautifully-contracted neck, broad, expanded, fan-like
tail and elevated feather-tufts that ornament both sides of his neck,
as he struts about with all the grace and dignity of some pompous
lord or duke, render him of no mean importance and greatly add to his
attractions.

But it is his final actions that impress the beholder with wonder
and admiration. The hitherto trailing wings now assume a condition
of rigidity, and commence a firm, but slow, downward and forward
movement, which steadily increases in power and rapidity, until the
swiftly-vibrating wings appear only as a semi-circular outline of mist
above the bird, thus giving rise to a sound which may be appropriately
likened to the reverberations of distant, muttering thunder. These
sounds are most generally heard during the cool hours of the morning,
when his spirits are buoyant after a night of refreshing slumber. But
as the day advances, they are less frequent, and irregular. So nicely
can they be imitated, that many a bird is drawn to his doom, when
advancing, as he supposed, to meet an antagonist.

As the drumming is as often heard in the fall as in the spring, it has
long been a mooted question as to its significancy as the call-note
of the male during the period of breeding. But there can be no doubt
of the correctness of this interpretation, for incontestable proof
exists of it in the responsive actions of the female. Nuttall is
probably correct in ascribing the autumnal exhibition of the power to
self-gratification, and in affirming it to be, in many instances, “an
instinctive expression of hilarity and vigor.”

Besides the peculiar drumming sound which the males produce during the
love-season, they give expression to other vocal utterances no less
remarkable. These are generally enunciated when about to arise from the
ground, and consist of two well-defined and characteristic notes. The
first may be described as a sort of cackle, repeated several times in
lively succession; and the other, which closely follows in its wake,
as a peculiar lisping whistle, which has not inaptly been compared to
the cry of a young bird. These notes doubtless play a considerable part
in the reconciliation and bringing together of the sexes after their
temporary separation.

[Illustration: RUFFED GROUSE IN SPRING-TIME.

Two Males Displaying Their Graces Before a Lone Female.]

While the courting-season lasts, it is not an uncommon occurrence to
find a single male in the midst of several females before whom he is
engaged in showing off his many good qualities and graces, or two
males displaying, upon the same fallen log, the excellent beauties of
their person and movements. In the former dilemma, enamored of so
many, he is sometimes disposed to be gay and trifling, dallying with
the affections of some pure, simple-minded female. The most cruel
flirtations are often indulged in. But when he does bring himself
earnestly down to the business of choosing a partner, he does not go
about it in an uncertain, hesitating manner, but makes his selection
with promptness and dispatch. The successful female, proud of the honor
conferred, at the call of her lord, forsakes the group of her unmarried
sisters, and follows wheresoever he leadeth. The warmest tokens of
affection and regard are lavished upon the elected bride, and woe to
the rival who should appear upon the scene while these amours are being
enacted. Should this event occur, the intruder is instantly assailed,
and a long and bloody battle ensues, which results in the death of
one or other of the combatants, but never in the complete vanquishment
of the defensive party. Instances are known where males have treated
their first loves with cruel indifference, and subsequently deserted
them, but such things could not otherwise be, as will be seen when
the question of polygamy comes to be considered, for it is a fact,
not generally known, that both birds are slightly promiscuous, the
tendency being more pronounced, however, upon the part of the male. In
the case where a single female is courted by two males, the successful
competitor for the honor of her hand, so to speak, is he whose
movements are marked by the greatest elegance and grace. So intense
does the desire to please become, that the slightest disposition upon
the part of the lady to favor one of the rivals rather than the other,
leads to the most unhappy consequences, a quarrel being precipitated,
the contestants seeming determined to settle the result by the gage of
battle.

The time of mating varies somewhat with climate and with the conditions
of the season. In the warm, sunny South it occurs late in March or
early in April. But further North, where winter still lingers with
frosty coldness, the latter month is well nigh verging to its close, or
gliding into the succeeding, before this essential business is thought
of. When, however, it does happen, the female, with but little waste
of time, withdraws from the society of her partner, and repairs to a
secluded spot in the midst of a woods, where, usually beneath a clump
of evergreen, or a pile of brush, or perhaps a fallen log or projecting
rock, she hastily scratches a few dry leaves together for a nest. There
she deposits, one by one, on as many consecutive days, her complement
of six to twelve eggs, and immediately enters upon the duties of
incubation. In this she is alone, the male lending no assistance, not
even indirectly by attending to her demands for food. While she is
thus occupied he seeks the company of others of his sex, with whom
he remains until the young are nearly full-grown, when he joins the
family, and dwells with it until spring. The period of incubation
ranges from nineteen to twenty days.

When first hatched the young follow the mother, and soon learn to
comprehend her clucking call, as well as to act responsively thereto.
Few mothers are more devoted to their children, and it is rare to
find one more courageous and wily in their defence. Let the family
be surprised by friend or foe, a single note of alarm is all that is
necessary to cause the brood to scatter, and with the most clever
adroitness to hide themselves beneath a bunch of leaves or grass.
So successfully is the concealment accomplished, that a careful and
protracted search is often necessary to discover their whereabouts.
Often, when squatting by the roadside with her brood, the parent is
taken unawares. This is the trial which she of all others seems to
dread. To save her little ones she perils her own life by venturing
upon an assault. Her first impulse is to fly at the face of the
intruder, but sober thought comes to her rescue and teaches her the
folly of such a course. She yields to the thought and the very next
moment we find her tumbling over and over upon the ground, apparently
in the deepest distress, but soon to recover her self-possession in
time to carry out the final piece upon the programme, a _ruse_ in which
lameness is imitated with wonderful ingenuity. While the mother is
thus agitated, the birdlings are seen to scamper in every direction
to places of shelter. Having accomplished her part, the happy mother
now flies away, and by her well-known cluck soon gathers her brood
together. The cry of the young is a simple _peet_, which is heard
repeatedly during feeding, but only occasionally while nestling.
Their food consists of the seeds of various plants and berries. While
able to search for their own food, they derive, however, considerable
assistance from the mother.

Such cunning, wee creatures, when first they leave the egg, can only
be compared with the young of the domestic hen. Dressed in a simple
garb, they look but little like their parents. Above they show a
reddish-brown or rufous coloring, which fades into a rusty-white below.
Excepting a dusky streak which starts from the posterior part of the
eye and crosses the auricular regions obliquely downward, and a whitish
bill, they have nothing to diversify the monotony of their plumage. But
when they have attained the age of four or five months, they show their
heredity so plainly that their identity cannot be disputed or mistaken.

In the adult, the tail is reddish-brown or gray above, with narrow bars
of black. Terminally, it is crossed by a slender band of pale ash,
which is preceded by a broader one of black, and this by another of an
ashy color. The upper parts are ochraceous-brown, and finely mottled
with grayish markings. The lower parts are chiefly white, with broad
transverse bars of light brown, which are mostly hidden from view upon
the abdomen. Upon the shoulders the shafts of the feathers have pale
streaks, which also exist in those of the wing-coverts. The upper
tail-coverts and the wings are marked with pale, grayish cordate spots,
while the lower tail-coverts are pale ochraceous, each being provided
with a terminal delta-shaped spot of white, which is bordered with
dusky. The neck-tufts are brownish-black. The male measures eighteen
inches in length, and has a breadth of wings of seven and two-tenths
inches. The tail is about seven inches long. The female is smaller than
the latter, with similar colors, but has less prominent tufts upon the
sides of the neck.

The eggs of this species are usually of a uniform dark-cream color,
but sometimes show a nearly pure-white ground. In most specimens there
are no markings at all, but when they do occur, are either quite
numerous and conspicuous, or few in number, and obscure. They are
usually ovoidal, but forms are occasionally met with which are nearly
spherical. Their average dimensions, as obtained from specimens from
the most diverse localities, are about 1.64 by 1.18 inches. As far as
known the species never produces more than a single brood annually,
usually nesting, as has been previously stated, on the ground, but
instances are recorded by Samuels, where the female has occupied a
crow’s nest, or the shelter of some tall broken trunk of a tree.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

Little is known of the early history of the domestic Turkey. Writers
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries seem to have been ignorant
about it, and to have regarded it as the guinea-fowl or pintado of the
ancients, a mistake which was not cleared up until the middle of the
last century. The name it now bears, and which it received in England,
where it is reputed to have been introduced in 1541, was given to it
from the supposition that it came originally from Turkey. As far back
as 1573 we read of it as having been the Christmas fare of sturdy
British yeomanry.

Oviedo, a Spanish writer, speaks of it as a kind of peacock that was
once very abundant in New Spain, as Mexico was called in his day, and
which had already, in 1526, been transported in a domestic condition to
the West Indies and the Spanish Main, where it was maintained by the
Christian settlers.

Among the luxuries possessed by Montezuma, the proud, dignified,
semi-cultured monarch of the Aztecs, was one of the most extensive
zoölogical gardens on record. Representatives of nearly all of the
animals of the country over which he reigned, as well as others,
brought at great expense from long distances, were to be found within
its walls. Turkeys, it is said, were daily supplied in large numbers to
the carnivores of his menagerie.

Respecting the time when this bird was first reclaimed in Mexico from
its wild state, there can be no idea. Probably it has been domesticated
from remote antiquity. No doubt exists, however, as to its being reared
by the Mexicans at the period of the Spanish Conquest, and of its
subsequent introduction into Europe, either from New Spain, or from the
West India Islands, into which it had been previously carried.

[Illustration: MEXICAN WILD TURKEY.

Ancestor of the Domestic Bird.]

Audubon, one of the early pioneers of American ornithology, supposed
our common barnyard Turkey to have originated in the wild bird so
prevalent in the eastern half of our great country. But it has always
been a matter of surprise to naturalists that the latter did not
assimilate, by interbreeding and reversion, more intimately in color
and habits to the domestic form. No suspicion, until recently, appears
to have been entertained that the two birds might belong to different
species. That such is the true _status_ of things, there is now no
reasonable doubt.

Our common Wild Turkey, once so plentiful in Pennsylvania, is now
restricted to the more eastern and southern portions of the United
States, while in the parts of Texas, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona
adjacent to the southern Rocky Mountains, and thence stretching
southward along the eastern slope of Mexico as far as Orizaba,
there exists another form, essentially different, which, by way of
distinction, has been popularly called the Mexican Turkey. It is from
this species, and not from the other, as has been erroneously supposed
and taught, that the domestic fowl has been derived. Even in this
enlightened age, with so many ornithological teachers on every hand, we
see this mistake propagated by such as know better, and whose business
it is, or ought to be, to have a care that truth shall prevail.

Between the wild bird of Eastern North America and the Mexican and
typical barnyard fowls there are differences which must be apparent
even to the most superficial observer. The extremities of the
tail-feathers, as well as the feathers overlying the base of the tail,
are in the latter creamy or fulvous white, while in the former they are
of a decided chestnut-brown color. Other characteristics exist, but
these only become evident to the keen-sighted ornithologist.

The difficulty experienced in establishing a cross between our wild
and tame birds, shows that they are not as closely related as was once
supposed. Did a near kinship subsist, interbreeding could most readily
be accomplished. With the Mexican Turkey, matters are otherwise. That a
relationship does obtain between the domestic bird and the latter--its
wild original--there can be no question, as specimens of the
naturalized species are often met with which are nearly the counterpart
of its Mexican progenitor, differing only in the greater development
of the fatty appendages of the head and neck, differences which may
be accounted for as the effects of the influences to which the birds
have been subjected by man. No well-authenticated instances of similar
reversions to our once familiar Eastern bird have been known to occur,
which would necessarily have been the case had they been so closely
related as was once maintained.

_Meleagris Mexicana_ affects sparsely-overgrown savannas, and occupies
in Mexico the region of the oaks and the coast--the _tierra caliente_
of geographers. It is a very wary bird, and lives in families. Insects
of divers kinds, but chiefly of a coleopterous character, as well as
the seeds of grasses, constitute its bill of fare. When searching for
food, especially in perilous localities, a sentinel is stationed on the
outskirts of the flock, whose duty it is to announce the presence of
danger. Flight is seldom resorted to at such times, for these birds,
being fleeter of foot than the swiftest dog, are able to escape their
enemies by running.

Toward the close of March, or in the beginning of April, the hens
separate from the males, and seek for themselves nesting-places in
secluded localities. The nest is anything but an elaborate affair,
consisting of a few dry leaves or grasses scratched into a depression
by the side of a prostrate log. Here the eggs--twelve beautiful, oval,
speckled treasures--are laid, and for thirty long, weary days and
nights they are sat upon by their author in her efforts to warm them
into life. When she leaves them, which she does a short time each day
for food, she always takes the necessary precaution to cover them
with leaves, as a protection against cold and intrusion. Nothing will
tempt her to quit the nest when the young are about to be hatched. So
absorbed does she then become that she has been known to submit to
capture rather than endanger the lives of her offspring.

No human mother manifests deeper affection for her children than does
this bird of the prairie for hers. She fondles and dries them after
they have escaped from their prison-houses, and tenderly helps them out
of the nest. It is now that her cares may be said to commence. Where
their interest and well-being are concerned, hardly any responsibility
is too great for her to assume. She leads them into pleasant pastures,
teaches them to know good from bad foods, and acquaints them with
all the devices and subterfuges practised for eluding man and other
enemies. But it is not long that they are thus subservient to maternal
wisdom and forethought, for in fourteen days they are old enough to
scratch for a living, and to seek shelter and security from lawlessness
and cruelty. Their _menu_ consists of wheat, berries, grasses,
earth-worms, and all kinds of terrestrial insects.

When summer is over, the different families of the same neighborhood
come together, unite in one large flock, and travel over the country
for food. The males emerge from their meeting-places and join the
moving army, and parents and young have nothing to do but to feed
vigorously and grow fat. Late in October, or early in November, they
begin to attract the attention of gunners, and thousands are killed
for the market, where they are in eager demand by all lovers of good
living.

AMERICAN OSPREY.

_Pandion haliætus_, as the Fish Hawk or Osprey is called in
ornithological language, is found from the fur region surrounding
Hudson’s Bay to Central America, and from Labrador to Florida,
excepting Boston Harbor, on the Atlantic Coast, and almost from Alaska
to the southern extremity of the peninsula of Lower California on the
Pacific seaboard. Birds have been known to nest on the rocky islands
of California, and about Sitka, according to Bischoff, as well as
along the small streams in the vicinity of Nulato. From Long Island to
Chesapeake they breed in vast communities, which often number several
hundred pairs, but away from the sea-coast they are only occasionally
met with on the margins of rivers and lakes. Dr. Hayden found several
pairs nesting on the summit of high cottonwood trees in the Wind River
Mountains, and Mr. Allen observed the birds particularly abundant
about the lakes of the Upper St. John’s River in Florida, six nests
being noticeable within a single circle of vision. Salvin claims that
they nest on both coasts of Central America, but more especially about
Balize, although on the islands of Trinidad, St. Croix, Jamaica and
Cuba they are seen at all times except during the breeding-season.

Below Philadelphia, and in the south-eastern counties of Pennsylvania
bordering on the Delaware, individuals have been occasionally observed.
Their arrival is about the beginning of March, often when the streams
which they frequent are fettered with icy bonds, and their departure
occurs about the twenty-fifth of September, and frequently, especially
when the weather is remarkably fine, as late as the fifteenth of
October. Well-established communities, numbering more than fifty pairs,
have been met within the swamps of Southern New Jersey, among whom the
best order and most perfect harmony prevailed. Few species display
less shyness and greater confidence, or are more eminently social, as
is particularly shown when these birds take up their quarters in close
proximity to occupied dwellings, or by the side of frequented by-paths
and highways. Where undisturbed, the same localities are visited year
after year. Their exclusive piscine habits secure for them free and
unlimited sway in their carefully chosen abodes, for the poultry has
nothing to fear, and the smaller birds are not intimidated by their
presence and sent screaming to their coverts as they do even when
pursued by the little sparrow hawk. Wilson cites a case where four
nests of the common purple grackle were built within the interstices
of an Osprey’s nest, and a fifth on an adjoining branch, and the
Osprey was quite tolerant of such intrusion and freedom. The writer
has observed a nest of the grackle built in a similar position, while
all around the great Hawk’s home, and scarcely five rods distant, were
nests of the robin, wood thrush, red-winged blackbird and others, and
no annoyance was known to occur, the Ospreys carefully attending to
their own business and scarcely noticing their more humble brethren.

Their bitterest enemy is the white-headed eagle, against whom the
united attacks of many of these birds are concentrated when he has the
audacity to venture within their hunting-grounds or breeding-quarters,
for they are too familiar with his powerful muscularity and courageous
disposition to attempt a single attack. When an Osprey is pursued by
this king of the forest and hunting-ground, his loud, vociferous cries
of distress, resounding far and near, evoke an army of defenders,
who come with all possible speed to wreak vengeance upon the great
arch-enemy of their pleasures and happiness. These attacks are made
for the purpose of compelling the Osprey to drop his prey or disgorge,
which the superior bird, if his efforts have been successful, pounces
down upon and seizes before it has had time to reach the water or
ground.

[Illustration: NEST OF AMERICAN OSPREY.

Manner of Securing Food for Young.]

Powerful as the flight of the Fish Hawk is, yet it is never very high,
nor much protracted. While skimming over the water’s surface, even at a
moderate elevation, his quick eye soon descries his quarry, and, in an
instant, he pounces down with tremendous force below the water’s level,
often to a great distance, but seldom missing his prey. Arising from
his watery bath, he moves off to a suitable perch to digest his meal at
leisure. But should the movement attract the keen vision of the bald
eagle, who is generally waiting in some secret covert, or sailing so
high up in the air as to be almost invisible, the Osprey swallows his
victim if small, or seeks to bear it away in his talons to a position
of shelter and safety, but, rather than endure the too near approach of
his more powerful relative, drops it to the infinite delight and great
satisfaction of the latter. Where a suitable tree, or a commanding
stump, presents itself by the side of his chosen fishing-grounds, he
may be seen perched thereon for hours together, gazing into the liquid
depths below for the finny tribes that sport therein, and ever and anon
swooping down with amazing velocity and bearing up in his resistless
talons the squirming victim. In shallow places his mode of capture
is regulated in conformity with their character, gliding over their
surface and clutching at his victims as they come within sight.

The food of the Osprey consists mainly of fish, although the reptiles
and batrachians that inhabit the swamps and marshes wherein he builds
do not escape his vigilance. Almost all kinds of fish, except the
very largest, which would be more than a match for his strength, are
captured and devoured with avidity. We have watched with a great deal
of interest and pleasure his piscatorial pursuits on the shores of
Delaware Bay, and have often seen him bear from great depths fish much
larger than the common shad. The latter, together with the herring,
striped bass and black bass, are favorite articles of diet, while his
catchings from fresh-water streams, the larger cyprinidonts, cat-fish
and pumpkin-seed, are quite as great luxuries.

When the nesting-time comes around, the last of April or the beginning
of May, these birds are not so engrossed with the thoughts of feeding
as to be utterly oblivious of the duties which it imposes. Generally
the same nest is selected year after year, but when a new one is to
be constructed it is not uncommon to find many pairs engaged in its
building, the friends of the destitute assembling and laboring with the
most determined energy till its completion. A more sociable disposition
could hardly be conceived. The spirit which would lead these birds
to fly to the assistance of a distressed companion would certainly
induce them to co-operate with their brethren in the difficult task of
nest-building, especially when such a bulky structure as the species
is known to construct would severely task both the time and patience
of the pair which is to occupy it. The vast amount of labor and time
expended in rearing such a fabric is a sufficient inducement for them
not to want to indulge in such employment any more than is absolutely
necessary. Hence these nests are constructed for durability. Unlike
his European congener, whose nest is placed upon a high cliff, the
Osprey almost invariably builds on trees. All nests taken by the writer
have seldom been at a greater elevation than fifteen feet, although
instances have been recorded where they were twice that height. It is a
remarkable fact that the trees supporting these nests are always dead
and generally placed in the midst of marshy ground, either completely
isolated or surrounded by a dense growth of bushes. At all events, they
occupy rather conspicuous positions. It is probable that the excrement
of the birds or the saline character of their food has much to do with
killing the nesting-trees. Trees which seem vigorous and thrifty at
first manifest after a year’s occupancy unmistakable signs of death.
Not always are trees selected for nesting purposes, for a Mr. W. H.
Edwards describes a nest built on a tall cliff on the banks of the
Hudson River, not very far from West Point.

Externally the nest is composed of large sticks piled to a height
varying from two to five feet, and measuring fully three feet in
diameter. Corn-stalks, mullein-stocks and bark are occasionally
intermingled with the sticks, but within there is a rather profuse
lining of sea-weed and the long grasses which grow so luxuriantly in
salt-water marshes. The cavity ranges from fourteen to fifteen inches
in diameter, and is unusually shallow in proportion to the size of the
nest.

Three eggs constitute the usual nest-complement, although two
are sometimes laid, and rarely four, and these are deposited
on consecutive or alternate days, at the rate of one egg a day.
They measure about two and one-half inches in length and one and
three-fourths in width, and are of a yellowish-white color, thickly
covered with large blotches of different shades of brown. Incubation
follows close upon the last deposit, the task being begun by the
female, and devolving principally upon her, although the male
occasionally relieves her for a brief spell each day. While she is
on the nest, he is a jealous husband and a most faithful provider.
The choicest catch of his piscatorial exploits is carried directly to
the nest and ungrudgingly administered to the patient sitter. When
not engaged in providing for their wants he stations himself upon an
adjoining tree, if such should happen to be present, or somewhere in
the immediate neighborhood, and exercises the closest surveillance over
the nest and its occupant. All attempts at intrusion are most summarily
punished. Dr. Brewer mentions a case where a lad essayed to reach the
nest in order to rob it of its eggs, when he was assailed with so much
violence that the male’s talons were driven through a cloth cap that he
wore and laid bare the scalp. Experience has proved the risk incurred
in visiting these nests with hostile intentions. You may pass and
repass underneath the nest, the authors criticising your every movement
the while, without calling forth the slightest opposition. When,
however, you attempt to mount the tree that contains their cherished
treasures, you virtually invite the full measure of their wrath. That
the male is affectionately devoted to his partner is shown by Wilson in
a case which he cites of a female who was prevented from fishing by a
broken leg and that was abundantly supplied with food by her mate.

When the young appear they are objects of more than common parental
solicitude, the parents vying with each other in rendering them every
needed attention and in providing them with a plentiful supply of
suitable food. But one parent is absent from the nest at a time, the
other remaining at home to guard against danger. They are ravenous
feeders, and soon attain to full development, when they resemble
very closely in dress their parents, having the upper parts spotted
with pale reddish-brown or white. Adult birds are dark-brown or
grayish-brown above, with most of the head, neck and under parts white,
the chest in the female, and sometimes in the male, being spotted with
brown. The tail, usually paler than the back, has six or seven dusky
bars, and is tipped with white.

That these birds may be fitted for powerful flight they are provided
with long and pointed wings, the second and third quills being the
longest. They have a stout bill, with a very long hook and sharp end.
Their feathers are oily to resist water, those of the head being
lengthened and pointed, and of the thighs and a little of the front
parts of the tarsi short and close together. The legs, tarsi and feet
are very strong and robust, and the claws all of the same length and
very large and sharp. Rough scales completely invest the tarsi, and
the toes are padded below and covered with numerous hard-pointed
projections to aid in holding their slippery prey. The iris in some
specimens is reddish, but mostly yellow; the bill and claws blue-black,
and the tarsi and toes grayish-blue. Male birds are not so large as the
females, the latter measuring twenty-five inches in length, and with an
extent of wings of fifty-two inches.

TURKEY BUZZARD.

Few species, if any, have a wider distribution in America than the
Turkey Buzzard. It is found more or less abundantly to the Saskatchewan
throughout North America, from the Atlantic to the Pacific Coast,
and in all portions of South America as far south as the Strait of
Magellan. Individuals have been met with in Nova Scotia and New
Brunswick, though these birds are generally not common north of Central
New Jersey. From Eastern Maine, in the neighborhood of Calais, to
Connecticut, specimens have occasionally been captured. In a single
instance, Mr. Lawrence observed a small company of nine at Rockaway,
Long Island. West of the Alleghenies, from Central America nearly to
the Arctic regions, it occurs more abundantly. Without exception, it is
found in greater or less numbers in all the Middle, Western, Southern
and North-western States. From Lower California to Washington, along
the Pacific, numerous parties attest to its common occurrence. The West
Indies, the islands of Cuba, Jamaica and Trinidad, the last-named in
particular, include it within their faunæ. Honduras and Guatemala, as
well as the Falkland Islands, off the eastern coast of Patagonia, are
permanent residing-places.

In Pennsylvania and New Jersey, where the writer has had abundant
opportunities for studying the species, these Vultures summer quite
plentifully. From their first appearance, in March, large numbers
may be seen high up in the air, moving in large circles, apparently
exploring the ground below for their favorite articles of food. In
rural districts they are, however, more frequently observed than
in the vicinity of densely-populated towns, the greater abundance
of carrion to be met with in the former places doubtless being the
cause of this preference. But in California and Oregon, according to
Dr. Newberry, they are quite as common near towns as about the large
rivers. In our Southern States they visit cities and large villages,
and play the part of scavengers in company with the black vulture. They
are said to be so tame and unsuspicious in Kingston, Jamaica, that they
roost upon the house-tops or prey upon offal in the streets. In country
places they are no less familiar and trustful, as is evidenced while
feeding. So intent upon their business are they at this time that the
presence of human beings is unnoticed, and even when forced to forsake
their booty they sullenly repair to a short distance, only to resume
their feeding when the annoyance has passed. The common crow has been
observed to gather around the same food, and the utmost good-feeling
prevailed. A small flock will often settle down upon a dead horse
around which several dogs have gathered. The snapping and snarling
of the dogs, when they approach them too closely, do not cause the
Vultures to retire, but only to step a few paces aside, when, nothing
daunted, they continue their feeding, apparently oblivious of their
whereabouts and surroundings.

Although the sense of sight is rather keenly developed in these birds,
yet that of smell is none the less so. This is an advantage, for both
the visual and olfactory organs seem requisite in the determination of
the presence of decaying animal matters. As a proof that smell leads
to food-detection, Dr. Brewer cites an instance, on the authority of
Dr. Hill, where several of these birds were attracted to the house of a
German emigrant who was prostrated by fever, being drawn by the strong
odor escaping from his neglected food which had become putrid. Mr. G.
C. Taylor, whilst a resident of Kingston, sufficiently tested their
power of smell. He wrapped the carcass of a bird in a piece of paper,
and flung the parcel into the summit of a densely-leaved tree, that
stood in close proximity to his window. A moment or two only elapsed,
when the keen smell of these birds scented something edible, but they
were unable to find it, obviously for the reason that it was hidden
from view by the enveloping paper.

Generally their food consists of all kinds of animal matter. They are
often accused of sucking eggs, and also of eating the young of herons,
as well as those of other birds. In Trinidad, they are said to live
on friendly terms with the poultry. As no breach of faith has been
reported to have occurred in this instance, it is not likely that
they would molest in any way our smaller birds, at least we are not
cognizant of any such cases of interference from our own observation,
nor do we find them in the recorded experiences of friends. They
are worse-disposed, it seems to us, to their own kith. When several
are feeding together, most violent wrangles occur over the booty.
Each strives to get the lion’s share. It is amusing to witness their
manœuvres. Some luckless fellow has just discovered a choice and racy
bit, which he is endeavoring to make off with in a somewhat hurried
manner, when instantly he is beset by a near companion, who has
scarcely swallowed his own morsel. A conflict ensues. The latter, being
the stronger, succeeds after a little in defrauding the other of his
rightful property. When gorged, these birds are stupid and indisposed
to exertion, the period of digestion ordinarily being passed in a
motionless, listless attitude, with half-opened wings.

Recovered from their semi-stupid condition, they do not at once go to
feeding again, but spend a long time in the healthful exercise of their
volant appendages. Few birds are more graceful, easy and dignified
while on the wing. On the ground they may seem awkward, but it is
while soaring at a great height above the earth that they are seen in
all their glory. When prepared for lofty flights, they spring from
the ground with a single bound, and, after a few quick flappings of
wings, move heavenward. Attaining a great elevation, they cleave the
ether in ever-widening circles, or sail on nearly horizontal wings, the
tips being slightly raised, with steady, uniform motion. These aerial
diversions, for such they seem to be, are never performed singly, but
in small parties of a dozen or more, being more common in early spring,
and at the close of the breeding-season, than at any other time. It is
to be observed further that these movements are executed in silence,
the only sounds which the Buzzards are capable of producing being a
kind of hiss, which has not inaptly been compared to the seething noise
emitted by plunging a hot iron in a vessel of water.

When ready to breed these birds look about for a hollow tree, or some
stump or log in a state of decay, either upon the ground, or slightly
above it. Generally, there are no indications of a nest. In occasional
instances a few rotten leaves, scratched into the hollow selected for
the deposition of the eggs, constitute the nest, these treasures being
laid without any previous care for their preservation and shelter
being taken. In Southern New Jersey the nest has been inadvertently
strayed upon in the midst of a deep and almost impenetrable morass,
where it was found placed upon a hollow stump. Within the rocky
caverns along the wide, shallow Susquehanna, as many as a dozen nests
have been counted in a few hundred yards of space, often as early as
the last week of March in favorable seasons, but generally not till
the middle of April. When the winters are not extremely rigorous, a
few individuals remain in the vicinity of their breeding-quarters
throughout the entire year. We have found the birds breeding in
Delaware County, Pa., towards the latter part of April or the beginning
of May, but in Philadelphia they rarely do, if they breed at all. In
Southern Ohio they are a common summer sojourner. Speaking of the birds
in Jamaica, Mr. Gosse says they nest in depressions in the rocks and in
the ledges thereof, in retired localities and also upon inaccessible
cliffs. On Galveston Island Audubon found the birds nesting in great
numbers, either under wide-spreading cactus branches or underneath low
bushes in the midst of tall grasses in level saline marshes.

In the vicinity of Cheraw, S. C., Dr. C. Kollock met with the black
vulture and our present species in swamps and dense forests, where they
congregate in vast numbers throughout the entire year. These places
are commonly designated Buzzards’ roosts. Audubon once visited one of
these roosts in the vicinity of Charleston, which covered more than two
acres of ground, and which was completely denuded of vegetation. On the
banks of many of the rivers of Southern Texas, Mr. Dresser found them
nesting in large numbers, the timber along their borders constituting
comfortable and secure shelter; but, contrary to what has always been
entertained, he affirms that they build large and bulky nests of
sticks, which they place at great heights in an oak or cypress, close
by the river-banks. Captain C. C. Abbott says that in the Falkland
Islands the eggs are deposited in the midst of bushes beneath high
banks, or on the summits of decayed balsam logs, during the early
part of November. In certain localities, where the birds are not very
common, paired individuals are not infrequently found.

Two eggs generally constitute a nest-full, although instances are known
where but a single egg was deposited. On the Falkland Islands they
are said to lay three occasionally. In the West Indies, especially
in the Bahamas, the complement is the same as in the United States,
and there does not seem to be any difference in the habits of the
birds in the two places. Specimens from New Jersey, Texas, Florida
and South Carolina are creamy-white in ground, and are variously
marked with shades of brown, intermingled with splashes of lavender
and purple, which are often so faint as to be perceptible only upon
close examination. Brewer mentions a variety from near Cheraw, S. C.,
that was nearly pure white, and which showed but a few small red and
slightly purplish lines and dots about the larger extremity. Recently
we have met with some from Texas answering the same description. In
dimensions these eggs vary but little, and have, on the average, a
length of 2.78 inches, and a width of 2.00, or rather less.

_Cathartes aura_, as the Turkey Buzzard is known by the scientific
naturalist, is far from being demonstrative in the expression of her
feelings. When her home is assailed, she makes no ado, but quietly
slips out, and seemingly contemplates its desecration with indifference.

Though manifesting a passive disposition in the face of human
interference, yet she is not always the gentle being she would have us
believe, as shown by the spirit of dominancy she displays over her own
household.

Unlike many of her neighbors, she does not entirely assume the
responsibilities of brood-raising, permitting her partner the happy
enjoyment of a life of luxurious ease, but, believing in the doctrine
of a proper division of labor, forces upon him his share of the work.

Whilst she thus appears unduly exacting towards him, she is equally so
to her offspring. Few mothers know better than she the right training
of their children, so as to fit them to become useful and respectable
members of society.

This is no figment of the imagination, as will presently be seen. It
was while exploring a section of Delaware County of this State for
minerals in the summer of 1894 that some interesting facts were learned
of the relation subsisting between her and the rest of her family.

Having accidentally strayed upon a young ground hog which had but
recently been killed, the writer resolved to carry it home and place
it where it could be seen or scented by the Buzzards, so that he might
have an opportunity of making a more intimate acquaintance with these
birds than he had ever before been able to make.

Accordingly the dead animal was transported to a meadow overlooked by
the house he was occupying. The resolution was well taken, for on the
fourth day after the deposit had been made several Buzzards were seen
circling high overhead, mere specks against the blue dome of the sky,
evidently scanning the earth beneath with their telescopic vision for
the presence of food, or endeavoring to scent it with their keen sense
of smell.

Nearer and nearer the flock drew earthward, till finally, a full
hour being spent in graceful manœuvring, the birds settled down upon
the green-carpeted meadow, but a few yards from the carrion that lay
festering with vermin.

Their feathers adjusted, and folded to rest their wide-spreading
pinions, the young, in obedience to orders, as it seemed, leaped on
to a huge pine log that lay near by, while the old folks surveyed,
wistfully and long, from their standpoint of observation on the ground,
the odorous carrion a few feet away, as if whetting their appetites for
the feast they were soon to enjoy.

With a few quick steps, that were meant to be graceful, the female
drew near, but the male lingered doubtingly behind. In a trice she was
busy at work, tearing with claw and with bill the daintiest morsels.
Rendered mad by the smell of the food the male, no longer seeming
backward, pressed forward to her side, but only to retreat before her
savage assaults. Again he essayed the attempt, and was beaten back as
he had been before. Convinced that further effort would be useless,
he strode sulkily to a distance, where, in moody contemplation, he
nervously awaited her ladyship’s sweet pleasure.

Being filled to the full the female now moved lazily away to a clean
patch of grass, where she immediately set to work to arranging her
toilet,--wiping her bill and her claws upon the green carpet before
her, craning her neck and stretching her pinions, yawning and gaping
and gaping and yawning,--and finally ending all by seeking the topmost
rail of a near-by fence for rest and composure.

With nothing to fear, the male now stalked complacently forward, and
was soon hard at work at what was left of the carcass. His appetite
less capacious than that of his lady, his dinner was soon over, and
off strode he too to a fresh spot of grass, where he went through the
same process of wiping his mouth and stretching and yawning, which,
being finished, he mounted the rail by the side of his mistress.

[Illustration: FEMALE TURKEY BUZZARD DINING.

Male and Young Awaiting Her Ladyship’s Pleasure.]

More interesting far than either the parents were the three black
creatures that stood upon the pine log. Fixed to the spot as though
they had grown there, with scarcely moving heads and downcast eyes they
eagerly watched the food disappearing, wondering, mayhap, as children
are prone to do, if it would all disappear before they had a chance of
testing its virtues, but maintaining their souls the while in perfect
serenity of repose. But their time had at length arrived, and down from
the log they cast themselves _instanter_, three lusty fellows as large
as the parents, but one of them, from his limping gait, proving to be
lame. Great consideration was shown the disabled one by the others,
who permitted him to feed first, while they stood aside until he had
satisfied his hunger, when, without the least bit of ceremony, or the
least indication of ill-nature or selfishness, they too set to work,
finishing in quick order whatever edible was left of the dead animal.
Their actions after feeding were exactly the counterpart of those of
the parents. Having finished their toilet, the three sought the rail
by the side of the father, where, like their illustrious heads, they
were soon occupied with the most self-satisfying thoughts, utterly
oblivious, as it seemed, of time and surroundings.

More than an hour was thus spent in drowsy meditation, when, as by
common consent, they all, one after the other, leaped to the ground,
where they busied themselves preening their feathers and preparing
for departure. The time being ripe, the female set the example. With
a run of a half-dozen yards to gain a good start, she was soon on the
wing, and in fifteen minutes or more was lost in the ether. The male
followed suit, and when he had vanished from sight, the young, one
after another, mounted the atmosphere, and gradually circling their way
through its limitless depths, were also soon lost to the earth-chained
beholder.

Concluding this brief chapter of bird-history, we have a few brief
comments to make. To the uninitiated in science matters, the
statements just made must seem well nigh incredible. But there were
other witnesses of the facts, just and reliable observers, too,
whose testimony could be appealed to, to settle all doubts of their
authenticity. From all that has been said, it cannot but be evident
that the female was the acknowledged head of the family, a sort of
feathered autocrat, whose will was the law by which the family was
governed. Even the male, who did not always respect her authority,
especially where her interests conflicted with his own, was made to
see that might makes right when confronted with her stronger and
more powerful nature. But it was the patience and orderly behavior
that characterized the nearly-grown young, and their sweetness and
gentleness of disposition under the most trying circumstances as well,
that impressed us as extremely wonderful, and led to the opinion that
man-born offspring might here learn a lesson of filial obedience and
respect that would greatly redound to the honor and glory of the race.

When captured, these birds offer no active resistance, but very
effectually warn off their aggressor by vomiting up the half-putrid
contents of their crop. They will often simulate death at such times.
On one occasion an individual having been shot by Dr. Coues was picked
up for dead. While being carried to the Doctor’s tent, it was perfectly
limp. On reaching his quarters, he carelessly threw it upon the ground,
and went to work at something else. After a little, upon looking
around, he beheld to his great surprise that the bird had changed
position, and was furtively glancing around. On going up to it, its
eyes instantly closed, its body became relaxed, and it lay perfectly
motionless, and apparently lifeless. After compressing its chest for
several minutes until he fancied life extinct, he dropped the bird and
repaired to supper. Upon his return the bird was gone, it evidently
having scrambled into the bushes as soon as he had turned his back upon
it.

The young, when first hatched, are covered with a whitish down, and are
fed upon half-digested matter which is disgorged by their parents. When
taken from the nest and kept in captivity until fully grown they become
exceedingly tame, and will feed on fresh meat, earthworms, crickets,
grasshoppers, and other large insects, which they apparently relish,
and oftentimes will also eat bits of bread, cake and particles of
apples or pears which are thrown before them. The benefits which these
scavengers render are too well known to need any comment. In the mature
state the plumage of the Buzzard is brownish-black, and more or less
glossy, the quills being paler on the under surface. The skin of the
head and neck is red and wrinkled, and with scattering bristle-like
feathers, the bill whitish, legs and feet pinkish, iris grayish-brown,
and nostrils large and oval. Their length is about thirty inches,
extent of wing seventy-two inches, wing being about twenty-five, and
tail twelve.

RARE AND CURIOUS NESTS.

From time immemorial it has been the current popular belief that
birds of the same species never varied their style of architecture,
but constructed the same form of nest, and out of the same materials,
as their remotest progenitors did, instinct being the principle by
which they were guided. This opinion, though long since exploded by
scientific research, is still, I am sorry to say, entertained by
persons who should know better. An examination of nests from different
and widely-separated localities affords evidence of the most convincing
character of its erroneousness. Most marked differences will always be
found to exist in composing materials, as these are sure to vary with
environment, and in a wider degree in the nests of some than in those
of other species; even configuration, which is less prone to change, is
often influenced by circumstances of position and latitude.

Among the Thrushes, the nest of the Robin is the most addicted to
variation, and this is not wholly restricted to the constituents of
its usually mud-plastered domicile, but is quite frequently observed
to occur in the arrangement of materials, and in contour and position
as well. Where low marshy woods abound on the outskirts of towns and
villages, as is the case in Southern New Jersey, nests of this species
have been taken that contrasted in a most wonderful manner with those
one is accustomed to see in more northern localities. The great masses
of grayish-green fibrous lichen, which depend from shrub and tree in
sylvan marshes, are most freely used, and from its very nature to mat
when pressed together all necessity for mud is precluded.

[Illustration: NEST OF THE ROBIN.

Built Upon a Railroad Cutting.]

But the most curious nest I have ever met with was built upon a
railroad cutting, where the ground had a slope of more than forty-five
degrees. Such a position for a dwelling of the kind the Robin is known
to build, to one not conversant with the facts, must appear incredible.
But that it was accomplished, the nest itself was the monument of the
builders’ thoughtful skill and labor. A semicircular wall of mud,
eight inches in diameter and five inches in height, constituted the
groundwork, and within the cavity thus formed was reared a coarse,
substantial, bulky fabric, that was entirely composed of the stems of
grasses, leaves and roots, loaded down and held in place by pellets of
mud.

NEST FROM THE TOP.

SECTION OF TWO-STORIED NEST.

RED-EYED VIREO’S TWO-STORIED NEST WITH COW-BIRD’S EGG BENEATH]

A more remarkable position, and one that seemed as difficult to manage,
I shall now relate. Few birds care so little for position as the common
House Wren. Almost any place answers its purpose. Near the little town
of Thornbury, in the State of Pennsylvania, a pair of these birds, in
the summer of 1882, took possession of a derrick, and, as a site for a
home, selected the space over a sheave in one of the stationary blocks,
where, in due time, was deposited their rude, yet comfortable, nest of
sticks and feathers. A similar structure occupied the spot the previous
year, and a brood of eight birds was raised. It was not the elements
of composition of these nests that excited interest and surprise, for
they are not materially different from the usual form, but the strange,
anomalous situation which they occupied. So dexterously were the
materials arranged within the space that the revolution of the wheel
was not in the least interfered with. The nest was approached on the
side facing the rope that moved the pulley. The opposite side could
have been used for this purpose, and doubtless with less danger to life
or limb, but preference seemed to be shown for the other. Why this was
so was for some time a mystery. But when the birds were seen to alight
upon the rope at the top of the derrick and ride down to the nest, the
explanation at once became apparent.

Never did linnet enjoy the rocking twig, or bobolink the swaying
cat-tail, with half the zest than did these eccentric creatures their
ride down the rope. A hundred times a day, when necessity arose, they
treated themselves to the pleasure, the rope all the while moving at
the rate of thirty feet in a second. Six of the seven days, from early
morn till night, they availed themselves of this strange conveyance,
and never a danger occurred to mar their delight. In due time a family
of happy, rollicking children was raised, and the nest on the derrick
deserted.

More beautiful are the nests which the Red-winged Blackbirds build.
These are the birds that affect our swamps and marshes, and make the
air ring with their loud, clear, resonant notes. Before me is a nest
that surpasses in beauty the average structure. It is a bulky affair
for the species, but so symmetrical in contour, and so quaintly,
deftly woven, that the eye never tires in looking at it, nor the mind
in contemplating its wonderful mechanism. Broad ribbons of grasses are
its composing materials, and eight of them are so woven into the nest
as to securely fasten it to the tall typhas in the summit of which it
was placed.

[Illustration: RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD’S NEST.

Located in a Field of Timothy.]

But a more clever nest of these birds, and one that is as unique in
shape as it is in texture and composition, was found in the summer
of 1879 in the vicinity of Philadelphia. It was built in a field of
timothy, many of the stalks of which being wrought into the fabric. Its
shape is that of an inverted cone, and so beautifully, symmetrically
and compactly put together is it, that one could hardly credit the
builders with the possession of the skill necessary to the production
of so perfect a domicile. Externally the nest is formed of grasses
and rushes, neatly and intricately interwoven, with here and there a
head of the dry pappus of some species of hawkweed. Sedges and fine
grasses make for it a cosy and comfortable lining. This nest shows
quite conspicuously in the drawing, but in its natural position, in the
centre of a large field, the authors had spared no pains to have its
concealment as perfect as possible.

Typical nests of these Blackbirds are somewhat irregular in outline,
and rather coarsely and rudely built of stubble and broad grasses,
variously intermingled, and lined with soft meadow grass. Usually
they are placed in clusters of weeds or in the tops of small bushes
alongside of streams of water. High positions are seldom chosen for
nesting purposes, as they offer poor facilities for food-collecting,
the aquatic larvæ, may-flies, dragon-flies and mosquitos, which
constitute a prominent part of the diet of these birds, being only
found in marshy situations. Small bushes along the margins of streams,
from the double advantage which they possess, are almost exclusively
adopted in certain localities. Being convenient to appropriate
food-stuffs, they are, at the same time, out of the reach of snakes,
especially water-snakes, which have a decided fondness for young birds.

Of the sub-family of Orioles, to which the Red-wing belongs, no member,
unless it be the namesake of Maryland’s distinguished proprietor,
builds a more magnificent nest than the one that inhabits the orchard.
In the books it is known by the no means euphonious title of _Icterus
spurius_. Its nest is shaped like a pouch, and generally pensile. Soft,
flexible meadow grasses, neatly and compactly woven together, make up
the outer fabric, while within is a lining of vegetal or animal wool,
or one of fine grasses intermingled with horse-hair. But the handsomest
ever seen was one that was found in the vicinity of Nazareth, Pa., by
Richard Christ, in the summer of 1883. It is of the usual size, five
inches in height, three in external diameter, but differing from the
normal form only in materials of composition. The proverbial meadow
grasses are absent, and in lieu thereof are the headed stems of such as
grow by the roadside, notably conspicuous for their golden brightness
in a state of desiccation.

[Illustration: DOUBLE NEST OF ORCHARD ORIOLE.

Female Sitting, Male Standing Guard.]

More noteworthy, however, than the Nazareth nest, is one that was
removed from a silver maple-tree. It is a double structure, composed
of long, flexible grasses, and is firmly bound by the same to several
small, slender branches. The larger nest, inversely sub-conical, is
joined to the smaller, somewhat similarly shaped, but less compact in
structure, by ribbons of the same kind of grass that composes the nest.
A circular opening, one inch in diameter, is a noticeable feature of
the smaller. That the additional structure served some useful purpose
there can be no doubt. I am inclined to believe that it was built for
the accommodation of either parent while the other was sitting. The
aperture was a convenient outlook for the non-sitting bird, who, from
this position, could with little difficulty, like a sentinel from an
outpost, detect the approach of an enemy.

But nothing can exceed in beauty and skill the nest of a female
Baltimore Oriole in the writer’s possession. It was built under
peculiar circumstances, the builder being a prisoner, having been
taken from home when quite a fledgling. A male companion was brought
away at the same time. These birds, the property of Dr. Detwiler, of
Easton, Pa., in 1883, were a source of considerable pleasure to that
elderly gentleman in his leisure moments. Under his careful, kindly
management, they became quite tame, the female manifesting greater
familiarity than the male. That either would become so accustomed to
confinement as to evince a desire to build never entered the mind of
the Doctor. They had, when he was alone, the freedom of his studio. One
lovely June morning, the outside world brimming over with life and joy
and sunshine, the door of their cage was thrown open, and the Doctor
settled himself into a soft easy-chair to read. Hardly had he scanned a
dozen lines, when something pulling at his hair caused him to drop his
paper and look around. He was not slow to detect the offender in the
person of his female feathered friend who was seen flying towards the
most distant corner of the room with something, resembling hair, in her
bill. The reading was resumed, and again the culprit stole cautiously
to where he was sitting, and, seizing another hair, was off in a
twinkling.

[Illustration: FEMALE BALTIMORE ORIOLE.

Nest the Exclusive Work of Her Bill.]

Permitting for a while these liberties, and noticing that bits of
strings were, when placed in positions to be seen, quite as much the
objects of interest as the hairs of his head, the Doctor was not
slow in divining the motive which led to this strange and unexpected
behavior. Convinced by actions, as significant as words themselves
could be, that his little friend was desirous to build a home, he
began to cast about for a corner where she could be free to carry out
her intentions without fear or interference. The attic furnished the
place, and after fitting it up with a large tree-branch for a perch,
and plenty of new white strings for building purposes, he bore his
favorite and her partner to their new quarters. Soon the female became
at home and entered into her voluntarily-imposed labor with alacrity,
and at the end of a week had constructed a domicile which her untamed
prototypes of field and roadside would strive in vain to excel. But
the male would have nothing at all to do with the matter, but remained
the same cold, indifferent being as I found him to be upon my first
introduction.

Some nests are curious on account of shape. The birds often, it would
seem, try their very best to see how oddly they can build their homes.
The little Acadian Flycatcher, so common in Eastern Pennsylvania during
the breeding-season, sometimes appears to be controlled by cranky ideas
with regard to building. Dry blossoms of the hickory are the materials
it ordinarily uses, and they can always be obtained whenever needed,
but in a nest discovered by the writer in 1882, not a blossom was to
be found, but in place of them there were long, stringy fibres of the
inner bark of some species of herbaceous plant, which the birds had
modelled into a compactly-built, shallow, saucer-like cavity, and from
which they had caused to depend a gradually tapering train of the same
for nearly nine inches.

[Illustration: ACADIAN FLYCATCHERS.

Nest Curious on Account of Its Train.]

The King Bird, a distant relative of the Flycatcher, often displays as
much eccentricity. Once upon a time a pair of King Birds took a fancy
to an old apple-tree that stood within a few yards of my Germantown
home. It was certainly not a place of quiet and retirement, for scores
of noisy, dirty children daily resorted to its leafy shelter for
coolness and pastime. But the birds were not the least disquieted.
They had fixed their minds upon the spot, and build they did. The
nest was posed between a forked branch, just out of the reach of the
urchins. It was a crazy affair. Black, slender roots, wrinkled and
knotted and tendrilled, made up the body of the fabric. As it was
nearing completion, the opportune discovery of a bunch of carpet rags
was hailed with delight. They were instantly appropriated, and promptly
adjusted to the outside, but in such a manner that long ends, some
fourteen inches in length, were made to project from the sides and
bottom. Whether all this was for ornament or protection, or for both,
I could not say, but I am inclined to think that safety was uppermost
in the minds of the builders, for, looking from below at the nest it
seemed but a mass of rags that had been thrown into a tree-crotch,
which, the birds perceiving, and its close resemblance to an entangled
bunch, had utilized.

LONG BILLED MARSH WREN’S NEST.]

Certainly no more beautiful nests in shape exist than the spherical
in form. The Long-billed Marsh Wren builds a nest of this type. Upon
its arrival in the spring it seeks the inland swamps, or the brackish
marshes of the sea-shore, where, amid the splatterdocks of the former
and reeds of the latter, it finds suitable shelter and protection.
There, day in and day out, during its entire summer stay, it pursues
the even tenor of its life, happy and contented, never caring, like
many of its remoter kin, for the charmed circle of man. Active,
energetic and buoyant with hope, it skips about the tall rank herbage,
in every direction, in quest of insects, making its presence known
and felt by the lively chattering song, which resembles more nearly
the sounds of an insect than those of a bird, which emanates from
its grassy haunts. As these birds reach their breeding-grounds early
in May, nest-building is soon begun, but so secret and mysterious
are their movements at first, that we hardly know anything of their
presence, except when they are colonized for the summer. The labor of
building is entered into with considerable alacrity, and is mainly the
result of the combined labor of both birds. Their nests are usually
placed in low bushes, a few feet above the ground, or woven into the
tops of sedges out of the reach of ordinary tides; but in very rare
instances upon the ground in the midst of a clump of grasses. Ground
nests are loosely-constructed affairs, which is not the case with
those that are elevated to the tops of tussocks, or to the branches of
shrubs and trees, which require more compactness and a better finish.
The most beautiful, as well as artistic, nest which I have ever seen
is the one shown in the cut. This nest was discovered in the vicinity
of Philadelphia in the summer of 1878. A willow-branch, some fifteen
feet above the ground, which was bifurcated, was made to do service.
No ordinary skill was that which surmounted the seemingly insuperable
difficulty of building a nest, not pensile in character, to such a
swaying branch. That the birds accomplished the feat the nest itself
was the evidence. In form this nest was nearly globular, four and a
half and five inches in the two diameters. It was woven of the broad
leaves of a species of scirpus, closely and evenly, and had its
interstices well seamed with brownish cottony down. A thin delicate
curtain of gauze, of the same material, hung around the opening, and
this was continued within, forming a thick bedding of the softest,
fluffiest nature, of which the most voluptuous sybarite might envy its
fortunate possessor.

[Illustration: LONG-BILLED MARSH WRENS.

Nest Placed Out of the Reach of Tides.]

But the little Golden-crowned Kinglet, a mere mite of flesh and
feathers, but with a great deal of spirit, builds a much handsomer
nest. It is the perfection of symmetry. Man could not make with all
the appliances at his command any thing more nearly globular. But its
beauty! It looks like a ball of green moss, the delicate patches of
moss being so artfully arranged as to completely hide the dry stems of
grasses that constitute the walls. No moss ever spread itself over the
ground, or over a stump or tree-trunk, more evenly. When it is known
that this Kinglet builds its nest among the slender feathered branches
of the hemlock spruce, there is manifestly a reason for the fern-like
tracery upon the exterior, so necessary for the preservation of its
home. Such a handsome and imposing structure would be far from complete
were the inside not in keeping with the outside. But the birds have
left nothing to be desired in this particular. The softest and purest
of down lines the little bed-chamber, and even swells in its lightness
till ready to overflow the neat circular door-way.

[Illustration: GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLETS.

Nest the Perfection of Beauty and Symmetry.]

Perhaps the most graceful thing you may ever expect to find when on the
quest, fitted to be considered the work of the fairies, is the pretty
lace hammock of the Parula Warbler. You must search for it early in
June, in remote but thin woods, but never far from running water. Often
you will see it upon a branch overhanging a stream. The slender twig
of a birch is sometimes chosen for its suspension, the terminal spray
of a hemlock spruce, or a horizontal branch of a white oak. Like a
watch-pocket, with the opening in the side, it is lightly suspended.
It is made of a delicate lace-work, the grayish-green usnea moss, that
grows on old trees. The whole fabric is the work of two little birds
with slate-blue backs and yellow breasts. No other bird of our fauna
builds a nest akin to its swinging, eery nest. It is true much of the
material is found in position when the builders commence their labor,
but the exquisite outline and finish, as well as the cozy interior,
are due to the skill of the birds themselves. Even when the structure
is just so far completed that occupancy by the female is possible, the
male never wearies of its adornment by additional filaments of usnea
brought from a distance. He is the happiest of fellows, for his little
beak always finds something to do while his patient wife is busy with
the duties that lead to maternity.

[Illustration: LACE HAMMOCK OF PARULA WARBLER.

Female Entering Nest and Male Adding to Its Adornments.]

Coming like whirling leaves, half autumn yellow, half green of spring,
their colors blending like the outer petals of grass-green daffodils,
no more sociable and confiding little creatures are to be found in our
midst than the Yellow Warblers. They are as much at home in the trees
by the house as in the fields and woods. Wherever they wander, the
glints of sunshine that flash from their backs should make the most
miserable complainer feel the summer’s charm. But in spite of their
seeming preference for man, they are prone to build in lonely fields
and by-ways. In such places it becomes one of the especial victims
which the Cow Bird selects to foster its random eggs. But the Warbler
puts its intelligence effectively to work, and builds a second story
to its nest, thus flooring over the unwelcome eggs. This expedient
is repeated as long as the Cow Bird continues her mischief, until
sometimes a three-story nest is achieved. The outside of the nest,
composed of glistening milkweed flax, is pressed into a felt-like case,
the fibres serving at the same time to lash the nest to its support.
Within, to the depth of an inch, is a soft sponge-like material, which
the birds have made from the wool they have gathered from the stems
of young ferns. A few horse-hairs, to give shape and stability to the
nest, are to be found in the inside of the felt-like lining.

[Illustration: THREE-STORY NEST OF YELLOW WARBLER.

Showing the Builder’s Manner of Out-witting the Cow Bird.]

Hundreds of nests, quite as novel as any that have been described,
might be instanced, showing varieties from so-called normal forms, but
I shall content myself with only another example. Everyone is familiar
with the Ruby-throated Humming Bird, so common in the eastern half of
the United States. It is the smallest of all our birds. But its nest,
which is by no means scarce, is a rare sight to the average man and
woman. No nest can be compared with it. It is a thing of beauty and a
joy forever. A mass of cotton, with a hole in the top, and thatched all
round with blue-gray lichens, and just as big as a walnut, conveys a
good idea of its appearance. But all nests are not made of cotton. The
yellow wool that forms the dress of the undeveloped fern-frond, or the
red shoddy that is wind-swept into heaps outside some woollen factory,
is often made to take the place of the down of the seed of the poplar.
Not to be mentioned in the same breath with these, is the nest I am now
about to describe. It was saddled upon the horizontal bough of a small
white oak-tree that grew on the side of a thicket, and was peculiar
from the nature of the material that composed its inner fabric. This
substance resembled burnt umber in color, and was as soft as the finest
wool, or the fluffiest down, and proved, upon examination, to be the
mycelium of a fungus which the builders had gathered from decaying
stumps or mildewing tree-branch.

STRANGE FRIENDSHIP.

Somewhat widely distributed throughout temperate North America, but
nowhere very abundant, is the little Acadian Owl, or Saw-whet Owl, as
he is popularly designated. In Eastern Pennsylvania he seems notably
scarce, but this may be attributed to his pre-eminently nocturnal
and secluded habits. Being a denizen of dense pine forests, and only
venturing abroad in quest of food at the close of the day, his presence
and numbers remain to many a mystery. Hollow trees, and the dark
caverns of rocks, are his natural retreats, and as these are to be met
with largely in densely-timbered regions and sequestered localities, he
is seldom, if ever, seen in close proximity to human habitations. He
seemingly shuns rather than courts the society of man. When routed from
his burrow in the broad glare of day he becomes very much bewildered,
and is scarcely able to escape the approach of danger.

The common appellation of Saw-whet Owl, which is applied to the
species, owes its origin to the close resemblance which the notes of
the bird bear to the noise produced by the filing of a saw. These
notes are so deceptive, that persons unacquainted with their source
have fancied themselves in the vicinity of a saw-mill, or in near
presence to a woodman occupied in whetting a saw. Audubon, hearing
these notes in a thicket for the first time, was thus deceived. The
same distinguished writer gives, on the authority of Mr. McCullock, an
interesting description not only of the notes of this Owl, but also
of his remarkable powers of ventriloquism. On a certain occasion his
informant was aroused by what appeared to be the feeble tones of a
distant bell. But in nearing the spot whence the sounds emanated, they
apparently shifted from point to point, being heard at one time close
by, and at the next moment in the distance, now on the left, then on
the right, and as often in the rear as in the front. Finally the author
of these sounds was discovered at the entrance of his burrow in a
birch-tree. Stationing himself at the base of the tree in full view of
the bird who was calling to his partner, Mr. McCullock had a splendid
opportunity of observing an exhibition of his singular and exceptional
ventriloquial powers.

Smooth, gliding and noiseless is the flight of this Owl, and but
slightly elevated and protracted. When seeking for food he may be seen
sailing over low meadows in the neighborhood of his accustomed haunts,
or, perched upon a stump or fence-rail adjoining thereto, quietly
gazing in every direction for whatever of life may chance to manifest
itself, which he seizes with remarkable adroitness, even sometimes
venturing to assail prey larger than himself. The smaller birds,
awakened from their perch by his cries, fall ready victims to his
rapacity.

Hollow trees, or the deserted nests of other species, are selected
for breeding-quarters. The eggs, varying from four to six in number,
are pure white, sub-spherical, of crystalline clearness, and measure
one and one-eighth by one and seven-eighths inches. The food of this
interesting little Owl, which is not so large as a robin, though
appearing bulkier, consists of small quadrupeds and birds, but chiefly
of various species of insects.

When taken quite young, and held in confinement, this Owl becomes quite
tame, permitting strangers as well as his keeper to handle him with
the utmost freedom, without so much as resenting such familiarity. But
a greater attachment is manifested towards the master whom he is able
to recognize by the sound of his voice, and in whose presence he is
peculiarly fascinating and agreeable.

Like _Scops asio_--the Red Owl--he leads a solitary existence, save on
the approach of warm weather, when the sexes are discovered together,
or are heard calling one to the other. Mating commences early in April,
and about the middle of the month the birds have located their nests
in the hollow of a tree, about twenty feet from the ground, where the
female lays her complement of eggs. The entrance to the hole is very
small, scarcely two inches in diameter. Upon the female devolves the
whole work of incubation, although the male takes a hand in raising the
young. The latter leave the nest about the first week of May, and when
disturbed make a noise that sounds like a dog sniffling the air, which,
when heard, especially at night in heavy timber, is quite certain to
startle one and make him fancy a bear or some such animal up a tree
near by.

Some years ago there lived in the hollow of an oak tree, not far from
Germantown, a common Chickaree Squirrel--_Sciurus Hudsonius_--with
this little Owl as his sole companion. This association reminded me
of the connection of the burrowing owl of the West with the singular
settlements of the prairie dog, the life-relations of the two creatures
being really intimate in very many localities, although the owls are
simply attracted to the villages of the prairie-dogs as the most
suitable places for shelter and nidification, where they find eligible
ready-made burrows and are saved the trouble of digging for themselves.
Community of interest makes them gregarious to an extent unusual among
rapacious birds, while the exigencies of life on the plains cast their
lot with the rodents. That the owls live at ease in the settlements,
and on familiar terms with their four-footed neighbors, is an undoubted
fact, but that they have any intimate domestic relations is open to
question. That the quadruped and the birds are often seen to scuttle
at each other’s heels into the same hole when alarmed is no proof that
they live together, for in such a case the two merely seek the nearest
shelter, independently of each other. In the larger settlements there
are thousands upon thousands of burrows, many of them occupied by the
dogs, but more, perhaps, vacant. These latter are the homes of the
owls. It is possible that the respective retreats of a dog and an owl
may have one common vestibule, but this does not imply that they nest
together. There are fewest owls in the towns most densely populated by
the dogs and the greatest number in the deserted villages, and this
is strong evidence in point. But the owls are by no means confined to
the dog-towns, nor even to the similar communities of other gregarious
spermophiles. They sometimes occupy the underground dens of wolves,
foxes and badgers. When the subject has been carefully investigated,
the owls never appear to enter the same hole or burrow with a squirrel,
and a squirrel is never seen to enter a burrow that was occupied by
owls, however strongly he may be tempted by fear to enter the first
hole he should come to. The spermophile never likes to enter any burrow
but his own, and has been known to run past any number of inviting
entrances in order that he may hide himself in his own domicile.

[Illustration: SAW-WHET OWL AND CHICKAREE SQUIRREL.

Living Together in Perfect Harmony and Mutual Good-will.]

In the case of the Chickaree Squirrel and the Saw-whet Owl, they
occupied the same hole together in perfect harmony and mutual
good-will. It was not an accidental occurrence, the Squirrel merely
seeking the cavity to escape a danger that impended, for the bird and
the Squirrel had been repeatedly observed to enter the hole together,
and in the most amicable manner possible, as though they had always
shared the apartment. Ordinarily the Chickaree is a very pugnacious
creature, attacking with the greatest fierceness the gray and black
squirrel whenever they had the temerity to cross his path. He seems to
be ever bent upon blood. Though strictly by nature a rodent, subsisting
principally upon nuts and the bark of trees, which his powerful
incisors enable him to manipulate effectively, yet he has not always
remained true to his instincts, for he has been frequently detected
in eating the eggs of birds, and also in the seizure of the feathered
denizens of our lawns and woods, which he will capture with all the
skill of the blood-thirsty weasel. His method of operation is peculiar.
He will lie in wait, concealed from view by the dense foliage of the
trees which he is wont to affect when in quest of game, and when some
unsuspecting bird hovers near pounces upon it with unerring precision,
and effecting its capture proceeds to suck, sitting up in true squirrel
fashion, the life-sustaining fluid through a wound inflicted in the
side of the neck. Having satiated his thirst, which may have been the
prime object of the capture, the dead body of the bird is dropped, and
the little monster, upon erect haunches, poses, the embodiment of
perfect contentment.

But in the case of the Owl it was otherwise. Perhaps it was too large
for the monster to attack, or, knowing from rumor of gossiping friends
the reputation of the former for cruelty and murder, a conciliatory
spirit was thought the best to adopt. No one knows the bitter character
of the first interview, or whether a liking for each other sprang up
from the beginning. Be this as it may, there can be no denying the
fact that a friendship was cemented between the two animals, widely
divergent in structural peculiarities as they are known to be, that
gave hope of becoming long and enduring.

NATURE’S LITTLE STORE-KEEPER.

One of the most familiar of North American quadrupeds is the Hackee, or
Chipping Squirrel, as he is sometimes termed, from the strange, quaint
utterances which he emits while rollicking with his fellows or in quest
of something to eat. He is a beautiful little creature, notable alike
for the dainty elegance of his form and for the pleasing tints with
which his dress is arrayed. His general color is brownish-gray upon the
back, warming into orange-brown upon the forehead and hinder quarters.
Five longitudinal black stripes and two streaks of yellowish-white
adorn the dorsum and sides, which render him a most conspicuous being
and one readily distinguishable from any other animal. His abdomen
and throat are white. He is slightly variable in color according to
locality, and has been known to be so capricious of hue as to become
a pure white or a jetty black. But for the commonness of the species,
which is found in great numbers in almost every place, his fur, from
its extreme beauty, would long since have taken nearly as high rank as
sable or ermine.

No quadruped is so brisk or so lively. His quick, rapid movements have
not inaptly compared him to the wren. As he whisks about the branches
of the brushwood and small timber among which he is chiefly met, or
shoots through their interstices with his peculiar jerking movements,
and his odd clicking cry, like the chip-chipping of newly-hatched
chickens, the analogy between himself and the bird is strikingly
apparent. Occurring in great plenty, and being a bold little creature,
he is much persecuted by small boys, who, with long sticks, and
well-directed blows, manage to fell to the earth many a luckless fellow
as he endeavors to escape his pursuers by running along the rail fences.

Hackees delight in sequestered localities. There they tunnel their
homes, preferring some old tree, or a spot of earth sheltered by a
wall or a bank. Their burrows are rather complicated affairs, running
often to great lengths, so that the task of digging the animal out
of his retreat becomes one of no easy accomplishment. Sandy patches
of ground, on the outskirts of a woods, are not unusually chosen for
burrows. A hole, almost perpendicular, is drilled into the earth to a
depth of three feet, and is thence continued with one or more windings,
rising a little nearer the surface until it has advanced some nine or
ten feet, when it is made to terminate in a large circular nest, made
of oak leaves and dried grasses. Small lateral galleries branch off
from the main burrow, in which these provident little creatures lay up
their winter’s provisions. Wheat, Indian corn, buckwheat, hazel-nuts,
acorns and the seeds of grasses have been found in their underground
receptacles, a proof, were further evidence lacking, that they do not
pass the cold famine months in a sluggish and benumbed condition.
Several layers of leaves, aggregating nine inches in thickness, are
often found over the entrance, as a protection from frosts, which are
further prevented from intrusion by the sealing up of the mouth from
within.

Everything is done by the Hackee in a business-like manner. In
gathering his food, lest the sharp beak of the nut may injure his
cheeks when he places the fruit in his pouch, he nips off the point,
and then by the aid of his fore-paws deliberately pushes the nut
into one of his pouches. Another and another are similarly treated,
and taking a fourth between his teeth, he dives into his burrow,
and, having packed them methodically away, returns to the surface
for a fresh cargo. Four nuts are his load at each journey. With his
check-pouches distended to their fullest capacity, and laboring most
truly under an embarrassment of riches, the little fellow presents a
most ludicrous appearance.

CHIPPING SQUIRRELS FEEDING.]

When menaced by foes, by which so defenceless and conspicuous an animal
is sure to be surrounded in great numbers, the Hackee makes at once for
his burrow, and is there secure from the attacks of nearly all enemies.
One foe there is, however, that cares naught for the burrow, but
follows the poor Hackee through all of its windings, and never fails
to attain his sanguinary object. This remorseless foe is the stoat, or
ermine, whose only _penchant_ is the blood, and not the flesh, of his
victim.

[Illustration: HACKEE, OR CHIPPING SQUIRREL.

Laying up Food for the Famine of Winter.]

Early in November the Hackee moves into his winter-quarters, excepting
in occasional instances when the sun shines with peculiar warmth, and
is not seen again until the beginning of spring. The young, to the
number of four or five, are produced in May, and there is generally a
second brood some time in August. A rather pugnacious animal is the
male Hackee, and during the combats which are frequently waged when
several males meet, their tails have been known to snap asunder from
the violence of their movements, for these members, it is undoubtedly
true, are wonderfully brittle in their structure.

Pretty as he is, and graceful as are his movements, it hardly pays
to keep the animal in a domesticated state, for his temper is very
uncertain, and he is generally sullen even towards his keeper. But
could he be induced to take to the life of a captive kindly and
pleasantly, he would, by his cunning little ways, prove a most
agreeable companion.

Some years ago an American writer of note had a pair of these animals
which made their home in the foundation wall of her house. A row of
wild cherry trees stood near the lawn in the rear of the building,
which the little fellows were wont to visit many times daily, carrying
off in their pouches quite a number at a time of the numerous cherry
pits that lay scattered over the ground.

The season being dry, one morning early the person to whom reference
has been made repaired to the lawn and poured a pitcher of water over
some plants that grew near her porch, when one of these squirrels was
observed to pass among them on his way to the trees. He paused from
his journey, sat up on his haunches, took one of the wet leaves in his
hands, pressed the sides together for a trough for the moisture, and
holding it to his mouth drank from it the water in the most comical
fashion imaginable. He then went to another and another, drinking
from five or six leaves in all, while she stood watching near by. A
large saucer filled with water was placed near the plants, which the
little fellows quickly discovered, and both thereafter drank and washed
regularly at the dish.

A practice of testing their knowledge of nuts was then made. When
cracked hickory nuts were given them, they at once sat down and picked
out of them the meats, which they eagerly devoured. Cracked nuts, it
would seem, were deemed worthless for storage. But, on the contrary,
when whole nuts were given, they tested them, evidently by weight, to
see if they were sound. Sound nuts were promptly transported to their
burrow, but the poor ones were dropped. They were never known to be
mistaken in their judgment, for the rejected nuts on being cracked were
always found to be worthless.

Although the food of the Hackee is mostly vegetal in character, yet,
like his English relative, he is occasionally carnivorous in his
appetite, for he has been detected in the cruel act of robbing birds’
nests and devouring their callow young.

Some Squirrels are remarkable for their extreme agility in climbing
trees, and in making extraordinary leaps from one bough to another or
from some elevated spot to the earth. The Ground Squirrels, however,
are intended to abide on the earth, and are seldom known to ascend
trees to any great height. As they possess cheek-pouches, they are
placed in a separate genus under the name of Tamias, which is a Greek
word, signifying a store-keeper, and are distinct from the others
in being furnished with these appendages. _Tamias striatus_ is the
appellation by which the subject of our sketch is known to the books.

CANINE SAGACITY.

Many years ago, two decades or more, the writer was the possessor of a
little dog--a French poodle by breed. A more knowing animal of his kind
never lived. He was a pretty creature, with hair as white as driven
snow, and manners the most agreeable. Great pride was taken in his
appearance. That his dress should maintain its natural purity, he was
weekly subjected to a warm-water bath. This task devolved upon a little
brunette, for whom the canine had contracted a strong affection.

Frisky, for such was our pet’s name, had never before coming into
the family known what it was to receive a good washing. His first
experience was as uninteresting as it was novel and strange. It was
anything but pleasant to him, but the little fellow bore it like a
martyr.

Such treatment, by the ordinary cur, would have been resented with
snaps and snarls, but his was a gentle nature that knew no such
untoward manifestations. But there was, all the same, an aversion to
the bath, as looks only too plainly indicated. So pronounced was the
dislike, that the very sight of water caused his delicate frame to
shake like a child’s with the cold.

Had not the greatest care been taken in the preparation of the bath,
it might have been thought that the tremors that shook his by no
means robust frame were induced by the water’s chilliness or by its
undue warmth. But this could not be the case, as the fluid was always
tempered to the most sensitive touch.

But there came a time, however, when Frisky was determined to evade
these kindnesses upon the part of his mistress. He had pleaded
immunity from them in pitying glances, but without avail. Something
must be done, his looks would seem to say, as he lay cuddled up by the
cosy kitchen fire. One could almost read the thoughts that were shaping
themselves in his mind.

For three long years Frisky, who had been allowed to sleep at nights
in the sitting-room, was accustomed, when morning broke, to visit the
different members of the family in their respective dormitories, and
have a lively, rollicking time. These visits were always looked forward
to, and in no instance, during the whole of that period, were they
ever intermitted. To have missed one of these exciting romps, would
have been a keenly-felt deprivation. But that we were to be doomed to
such disappointment and affliction, subsequent events only too clearly
showed.

One Saturday morning, for it was always on the Jewish Sabbath that the
bath was given, Frisky failed to make his accustomed calls. This was
noticed by everyone, and no amount of comment was provoked. Loudly
his name was spoken, but no response was elicited, and it soon became
evident that the cunning little elf was beyond the reach of calling.
Search was instituted, but to no effect. His absence was lamented, and
it was feared some calamity had befallen him. A silence, like unto
death, filled the house. There was weeping and wailing about, for
Frisky was not.

But just as the shadows of night were deepening, and hope was dying
out of the bosoms of all, the patter of little feet was heard upon the
pavement leading to the back-door. The sounds were too familiar to
be those of a stranger. All listened with breathless silence. “’Tis
Frisky, ’tis Frisky,” went up a chorus of voices, and we all rushed
to the door to welcome the runaway back to the fold. Not a chiding
word was spoken, not a look of reproof given, as with outstretched
arms the culprit was received to our hearts. A more crestfallen,
conscience-stricken being, however, could hardly be conceived to exist.

Things resumed their wonted sway. Happiness reigned once more in
the family. Frisky’s matutinal visits were as though they had not
been interrupted. His frolics had all their former vivacity. The sin
committed had been condoned, and he in splendid repute again.

[Illustration: MY DOG FRISKY.

How He Greeted His Master.]

A week since his first wrong-doing had elapsed. Would he repeat his
plan of getting rid of the obnoxious bath?--had never entered our
minds. The day dawned bright and lovely. All was bustle outside,
and the slamming of shutters told that the servant was astir in the
kitchen. As was her usual custom, the entry door was left open for
Frisky. All ears were on the stretch. There were no familiar signs.
The sharp, glad bark that always heralded his coming was wanting, and
so, too, the timing of little feet upon the stairs. Not a sound of
breathing, not a rustle of counterpane, was heard. Still and motionless
we all lay, till the minutes seemed hours, and then came the thought
that it was Saturday and Frisky had again disappeared. Search was
everywhere made, but the missing one was nowhere to be found. That he
had slipped out when the door was opened, was now most obvious. No
effort was made to find his hiding-place, for we all knew that he would
come back with the shadows.

His coming was later this time than before. The sun had long gone to
rest. It was pitch dark when the pawing of little feet against the door
announced his return.

This second offence was passed over as the first had been, and Frisky
was his jolly, frolicsome self once more. A score of Saturdays was thus
managed and the hateful bath escaped, for well this cunning bit of
flesh and fur knew that the seventh was the only day of the week when
it was convenient for his mistress to attend to his ablutions.

That Frisky was able to count, or had some means of determining the
coming of the day he so thoroughly detested, there can be no question.
But the exceeding cuteness of his nature not only showed itself in his
manner of getting rid of the hateful bath, but in various other ways.
He seemed equal to every emergency that could arise. Oftentimes I have
watched him, as he lay upon a rug by the kitchen-hearth, or upon the
pillow of a new-made bed, for he was at liberty to go where he pleased
about the house, and I have fancied that I could see him thinking, or
read the train of thoughts passing through his mind, so human-like
seemed he in these reflective moments.

When scolded for some trifling misdoing, or threatened with denial of
some expected pleasure, no so-called brute could show more pitying
glances. His grief was often heart-rending to behold. Prostrate upon
the ground or carpet, or in what place soever he chanced to be,
he would moan and moan for hours together, and only consent to be
comforted when the burden was lifted from off his soul by a kind word
spoken, a smiling look given, or a quick, hearty shake of his delicate
paw. When happy, and it did not take much to make him happy, he was
full of life and vivacity, capering and prancing about with the utmost
_abandon_, and doing his very best to show off his happiness and
pleasure. His eyes seemed kindled with a holy affection, and a blaze of
heavenly sunshine would appear to play over his features. I have seen
him, when in such mental agony, to actually shed tears, a sight that
never could fail to reach and melt the flintiest hearts. He knew and
understood every word that was spoken to him, and responded by a shake
of the head, or a low, soft bark. A conscience within told him the
right from the wrong, and though he sometimes knowingly erred, yet he
was always truly sorrowful for his sins afterwards.

There came a day, however, when the idol of the household went out
and never returned. Some unlucky event had doubtless befallen him, or
he had been spirited away to parts unknown. If living, I trust he is
being cared for as he richly deserves. He was a kind, gentle, loving
being, and I cannot help thinking that some day I shall meet him in the
beautiful world beyond the grave.

FELINE INTELLIGENCE.

Probably no creature has been more calumniated by man than the Domestic
Cat. While wonderful intellectual powers, as well as the most amiable
traits of character, have been accredited to the dog, and rightly so,
it seems rather strange that so little of good has been found to exist
in the subject of our sketch. She has been held up to reprobation as a
thoroughly selfish animal, seeking her own comfort rather than that of
others, and manifesting a stronger attachment to places than to owners.
Sly and treacherous as her untamed kindred of the forests and jungles
are known to be, she receives no higher commendation, and is even
accused of concealing her talons in her velvety paws when matters go
pleasantly with her, and ready to use them even upon her best friends
when crossed in her purposes.

Whatever may have been the experience of those who have so grossly
libelled the Cat, my own large acquaintance with the animal has led
to different conclusions. Nearly all the Cats with which I have been
most familiar have been as docile, tractable and affectionate as any
dog could be, and have exhibited an amount of intellectual ability
unsurpassed by few dogs. There is as much to be said about the good
and bad temper of the Cat as of the dog, while, as to her mental
capacities, the advantage is not so decidedly upon the side of the
dog as is generally supposed. Nor is my own experience exceptional,
for in all instances where friends have possessed favorite Cats their
experiences have been similar to my own.

Self is not always paramount to everything else with Cats. Some are
generous to a fault. Mothers have been known, whose devotion to their
young has been so strong that they have hunted all day for their
benefit, even when the latter were full-grown, scarcely taking any
nourishment for themselves. But such feelings are perfectly natural.
When, however, we see a Cat that is willing to share its food with a
stranger, one cannot resist the thought that here is a case of real
generosity. A friend once possessed a fine black Cat. He was dainty in
his eating, scrupulously exact in his dress, and well-mannered in his
deportment. No Cat ever received better training. Unlike the average
Cat, he could be trusted in the presence of tempting viands, and was
never known to abuse the confidence reposed in him. Beauty, for so
he was called, was a model fellow, and well deserved the name. The
education he received, while it made him gentle, kind and affectionate,
and gave him reliability of character, did still more, for it endowed
him with a soul that was not a stranger to the noblest impulses. Life
had few luxuries that he did not enjoy; but a sprig of catnip was more
to him than the choicest steak or raciest tidbit, and to this luxury he
was weekly treated. Notwithstanding his fondness for the herb, he was
never reluctant to share it with another, whom Fortune had less favored.

Cats, at least such as are well circumstanced, possess some knowledge
of the uses of things. We once knew a Cat that would, when out of
doors, make its presence known by a few loud raps upon the closed door,
administered by its right front paw. If the call was not immediately
answered, a few more raps, louder than before, would be given, and then
the Cat, unable to restrain its impatience, would spring up to the
latch, striking it a downward blow, as though endeavoring, human-like,
to effect an entrance.

But quite as interesting as any of the foregoing cases is that of a
female Cat that had run a spine into one of her hind feet. Limping upon
three legs she made her way to her mistress, and, raising her foot,
implored with a piteous look and sad, distressing cries the removal of
the offensive spine. A child could not have made its suffering better
understood, nor supplicated the needed relief more intelligently, than
did this poor creature, which thoughtless man in his self-glorification
is so prone to regard as a senseless, unintelligent and unreasoning
being, which has no existence beyond this sublunary sphere.

[Illustration: TOM ON DUTY.

Guarding His Master’s Cows.]

While Cats are useful in the destruction of vermin, and afford man
no little amusement by their wonderful antics, yet they seldom put
themselves to any practical use. The Cat, about which we shall now have
something to say, is an exception to the rule, and quite a marvel in
his ways. He is a resident of a far-away town in New Jersey, and came
to his present quarters a long, gaunt, wild-eyed, unfed creature. But
something in his looks told of a soul within that fore-shadowed a great
deal of good, and so the Cat, which at first seemed an unwelcome guest,
began to be looked upon in an appreciative manner. And now Tom, as the
Cat is called, is a fixture in the household.

Almost from his advent into the family Tom began to give an exhibition
of his common-sense. This first remarkable show of intelligence was on
the Sunday succeeding his adoption. The family had repaired to church,
leaving Tom contentedly snoozing in a corner of the kitchen. But their
surprise can hardly be pictured when in the midst of the sermon Tom
came flying down the aisle to the place where his master was seated,
and clawing the legs of the trousers of the latter, began yelling at
the top of his voice. The minister stopped in the midst of his talking,
and everybody got up to see what the trouble was, but Tom, utterly
oblivious of them all, continued his strange behavior.

Convinced that the actions of the Cat were not the result of an
epileptic fit, but foreboded something wrong at the house, the male
portion of the congregation started thither, and when the house was
reached a dense column of smoke was seen pouring from the kitchen
window. The door was thrown open, and the carpet on the floor was
found burned to a cinder. A coal of fire had evidently fallen from the
stove-grate and started the fire. That Tom had understood the danger,
was shown by his actions.

One day, a horse, belonging to a neighboring farmer, ran away, and tore
down the road past Tom’s home at a thundering gait. Tom was sauntering
around the yard, and his attention being drawn to the rattling of
the wagon, he was soon in the road to see what the trouble was, and
observing that the team was unaccompanied by a driver, he leaped upon
the head of the runaway horse and hung on with teeth and claws until
the animal was secured. On another occasion a tramp, happening along
the road, descried a bicycle that belonged to one of the inmates of the
house. He was soon astride the wheel, and might have made his escape
had not he fallen under the eyes of Tom, who, as quick as a flash, was
after the thief. Leaping into the air, he fell on the man’s shoulders
and set his teeth firmly into his neck. There was a howl and a crash
that brought the family to the yard, and there they found the tramp
rolling on the ground and making desperate efforts to get away from
Tom’s rigid jaws. Finally the Cat was induced to relax his hold, and
the wounds of the tramp being cared for, he was allowed to proceed on
his way.

More wonderful still is what follows: When the master wants to bait
his cows and keep them within a certain area he instructs Tom to watch
them, and the allotted task is performed with all the faithfulness and
wisdom of a shepherd’s dog. Any disposition to stray outside the limits
is checked, the erring animal being hustled back by Tom, who, attaching
himself to her caudal extremity, remains there until she is brought
back to where she belongs.

No animals seem to require human sympathy so much as Cats, or to be so
capable of giving sympathy in return. Where they have formed a strong
attachment to a person they are loath to be away from his society and
follow him wheresoever he goes, giving caresses and expecting a liberal
share of the same in return. I have been upon a bed of sickness and a
favorite Cat, which I always addressed as Puss, would, whenever the
opportunity occurred, make her way into my room, and, jumping upon the
bed, lay her head against my face in the most endearing manner, and
purr her sweetest and gentlest, ever and anon stopping to express her
sympathy by licking my forehead or uplifted hand. Even when Puss has
been suffering from maladies to which all flesh of her kind is heir, I
have sat by her side and stroked her head, and have read in the look
which she gave me that she felt my sympathy and appreciated it beyond
any power of expression of hers to declare. She seemed to think at all
times that I was wholly her own, and no other Cat, not even one of
her own offspring, would be allowed such familiarities, as any attempt
was sure to provoke the most intense jealousy. Nor was I permitted
to lavish attentions upon any of her kith, for she would soon become
wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, and instant vengeance would
be wreaked upon the recipient of my favors.

Much more might be said about the Cat. It has its good qualities and
its bad qualities. There is hardly a trait of character which the human
animal possesses that it does not possess. Of course I now speak of
our Domestic Cat. In the long-past times, when the Egyptian nation was
at the head of the civilized world, _Felis maniculata_, which is the
reputed origin of our Domestic Cat, was universally domesticated in
their homes, and it is not unknown the very high position it held in
the love and esteem of the people, for it was deified and worshipped as
a god. Even in England, still later down in time, the Domestic Cat was
so scarce that royal edicts were issued for its preservation. Yet in
those days, A. D. 948, the wild Cat was rife in the British Islands and
was considered as a vicious animal, which must be destroyed, and not a
useful one to be protected by the law. How we came into the possession
of the Cat is a matter of conjecture, the current belief being that it
was imported from Egypt into Greece and Rome, and thence into England.

BRIGHT LITTLE CEBIDAE.

Next to man, in descending the scale of animal life, come the
Quadrumana, or Four-handed Animals. They are represented by the Apes,
Baboons, Monkeys and Lemurs. Excepting the last, and a few other
species, these animals are not very pleasing in aspect or habits, some
of them, the larger apes and baboons, being positively disgusting.
The air of grotesque humanity that characterizes them is horribly
suggestive of human idiocy, and we approach an imprisoned gorilla
or baboon with much the same repugnance that we do a debased and
brutal maniac. This aversion seems not to be produced so much by the
resemblance that the ape bears to man, as by the horror felt lest man
should degenerate to the condition, character and physiognomy of the
ape. But to the naturalist, who sees wonder or beauty in all things
animate, these creatures are no less pleasing than others that are not
so repugnant.

Were we to take a survey of the varied forms which the Quadrumana
of the Old World assume, we would find that the forms would show
such diversification that there would hardly seem scope for further
modifications. Yet the prolific power of nature is so inexhaustible,
that the depth of our researches would only bring to light objects
of such infinite variety of form as to overwhelm the mind with
surprise and admiration. Thus it would be found to be with the
Cebidæ, or American Monkeys. While they would be shown to possess
the chief characteristics of the monkey nature, thus establishing
their close relationship with the Old World monkeys, yet they would
be seen to exhibit the strangest modification of details. Their four
hand-like paws, and other quadrumanous peculiarities, would indicate
their _status_ in the animal kingdom, while sundry differences
of conformation would show that they were intended to live under
conditions that would ill suit their relatives on the other side of the
globe. Curious it is to observe how the same idea of animal life is
repeated in various lands and climates, even though seas, impassable
to creatures unaided by the light of civilized reason, intervene. So
we have the Simiadæ of Asia and Africa represented by the Cebidæ of
America. Nor is this wonderful idea restricted exclusively to the
man-like animals. The lion, tiger and other feline races of the Eastern
Continent find Western representatives in the puma and jaguar, and
the same circumstance may be observed of nearly all the mammalia, the
birds, the reptiles, the fishes, and, in short, through the entire
animal kingdom.

But of all the monkeys of the New World, and they are numbered by
hundreds included in several genera and species, there are none that
deserve more consideration than the Capuchin Monkeys. They are active,
little animals, lively and playful. So similar are all the species
in general habits, that a description of one will equally serve for
any other. Their youthfulness and sportive manners make them very
desirable companions, and hence we frequently find them domesticated
by the native Indians and European settlers. Like other small monkeys,
the Capuchin often strikes up a friendship for other animals that may
happen to live in or near its home, the cat being one of the most
favored of its allies. It is sometimes the case this familiarity is
carried so far that the cat is turned into a horse by the monkey, who,
seated upon her back, perambulates the premises. More unpromising
subjects, we are told, have been pressed into similar service. Humboldt
cites the case of one that was accustomed to catch a pig every morning,
and, mounted upon its back, was known to retain its seat during the
entire day. Even when the pig was feeding in the savannas its rider
remained firm, and bestrode the animal with as much pertinacity as one
skilled in equestrianism would the most rampant steed.

No little difficulty is experienced in settling the species of
the Capuchins, for their fur is rather variable in tint, and some
individuals differing so greatly as to cause them to look like another
species. The general color of the Capuchin--_Cebus apella_--is a golden
olive, a white fur bordering the face in some, though not in all
individuals. _Cebus fatuellus_, commonly called the Horned Sapajou or
Capuchin, is much more conspicuous than the last, as the erect fringe
of hair that projects so prominently from the forehead indicates it
at once: hence from the front, the hair assumes the appearance of two
tufts or horns, from which peculiarity the animal derives its name.
These horns are not completely developed until the monkey has attained
maturity. There is also a manifest difference in color of hair, the
Sapajou having a constant tinge of red in its fur. It is usually of a
deep brown color, but in some individuals there is a marked resemblance
to that peculiar purple-black which is obtainable by diluting common
black ink with water, while in others the ruddy hue is so pronounced as
to impart a chestnut tint to the animal’s hair. The fringed crest is
tipped with gray.

Perhaps no more interesting form of the Capuchins exists than the
Weeper Monkey, or Sai, or, as it is called in the books, _Cebus
capucinus_. As in the case of the two preceding species, it is an
inhabitant of Venezuela and Brazil, and as lively as any of its
congeners. Like its brethren, its tail is invested with a dense growth
of hair, but this does not interfere with its prehensile powers. The
Sai is possessed of a large amount of intelligence, and its quaint
little ways make it a great favorite with those who delight to watch
its quick and agile movements. While things of a vegetable character
constitute the chief part of its food, yet it manifests a fondness for
various kinds of insects, and is sometimes known to ascend to higher
prey, for it has been observed to feed upon birds, which it devours
with avidity, not even waiting to pluck off the feathers. Eggs are also
thought to form a no inconsiderable part of this Capuchin’s diet.

Some few years ago, Prof. Cope had in his possession a tame Sai, which
was kept in a cage, or, rather, was supposed to be kept in it, for the
animal had a strong aversion to confinement, and was sure to break
loose therefrom sooner or later. When in durance vile, and wishing to
break prison, he always directed his attention to the hinges, and no
matter how firmly they were fixed, he was sure before long to extract
the staples, pull out the nails, and so open the door at the hinges,
and not at the latch.

Finding that the cage could not hold him, his master had him confined
by a strap fastened around the waist, after the fashion of monkeys.
The strap, however, proved to be of no more use than the cage, for the
crafty animal soon contrived to open it, and this he did by ingeniously
picking out the threads by which the strap was sewn to the buckle, and
so rendering the fastenings useless.

Again he was confined to the cage and carefully watched. Having rid
himself of the strap, he began to consider how he might apply it to
some useful purpose. So, having perceived that some food had fallen
beyond his reach, he took one end of the strap in his paw, flung the
other over the morsel of food, and so drew it toward him. In this feat
he displayed great accuracy of aim, seldom missing the object which he
desired. Once or twice, when he had to make a longer throw than usual,
he loosened his hold of the strap. The first time that this happened,
some one handed him the poker. He took it, drew the strap toward him,
and resumed its use as before.

No intelligent person can deny that these acts were prompted by reason.
So far from even being aided by instinct, the animal was certainly
acting in direct opposition to it. The instinct of an animal when
confined or tethered in any way is to break loose by main strength, and
the instinct of the monkey would have impelled him to force his way
through the bars of the cage or to strain at the strap until he had
broken it in two. But it was his reason that taught him to look for the
weak part in both cage and strap, and, having found it, to devote his
energies to that part until he had succeeded in his object.

[Illustration: JACK AT DINNER.

Showing His Use of Table Implements.]

Was it possible for instinct to teach him that the hinges were the weak
part of his cage, and that, if he could only remove the staples or
nails, the door would open and he would be free? Could instinct teach
him that the stitches of the strap-buckle were to the strap what the
staples and nails were to the hinges, and that if he could but pick
out the threads, the fastenings of the strap would be rendered of no
effect? Neither could instinct teach him to use the strap after the
manner of a lasso, nor to employ the poker in regaining his lost weapon.

Not only did he thus show his ability to deal with the obstacles
that stood in the way of his freedom, and without even the slightest
suggestion from the mind of his master, but he also gave evidence that
he had the capacity to profit by many of the civilities by which he
found himself surrounded in the life in which he was placed. Monkeys
are remarkable for their power of imitation, and Jack, as this Capuchin
was called, proved himself to be no ordinary fellow in this respect.
He had seen his master eat out of a dish, using knife, fork and spoon
when occasion demanded, and nothing would do but an abandonment of his
old habits--the using of his fingers, which his ancestors were wont
to do--and the assumption of civilized practices. In time he became
quite skilful in the use of these table implements and showed greater
dexterity in handling them than many a man has shown. Accustomed to
their use, he would never have things any other way. The writer has
repeatedly been present when he was taking his meals. Seated upon the
ground, his head and body slightly bent forward, with his plate of
food before him, the ground serving him as a table, Jack would help
himself in a quiet, cool and deliberate manner, all the while evincing
in movement and look an air of the most consequential importance. To
say that he was proud of the success which he had achieved in the
correct use of table implements but tamely expresses the feeling which
would dominate his bosom at such times. No human individual who had
accomplished some wonderful discovery or striking feat at arms that had
caused the earth to resound with his praises, could have felt more of
the emotion than Jack. Indeed, it was a remarkable feat for Jack, and
he had a right to feel vain over its accomplishment. All the while he
was eating he would chatter in his uncouth guttural tongue, as though
he had learned, like his human brethren, that conversation gave relish
to a meal and was a powerful aid to digestion.

While Jack was a very useful fellow to have about, especially where
cats without owners abounded, for he was a terror upon these feline
nuisances, yet he had a few faults which detracted very much from his
otherwise good character. Like some boys, he was addicted to the habit
of throwing stones, but I am more than half disposed to believe that
this was an acquired propensity, which he had learned by seeing his
master engaged in a similar diversion, or perhaps, which is not at
all unlikely, he had been trained to such exercise and pastime by his
master. Well, he could throw stones with considerable force, and with
as much precision as any well-trained lad of fourteen summers could
do. Let the master but give him a stone, and say, “Now, Jack, hit that
fellow,” and Jack needed no second telling. Throwing his right arm
back, just as a boy would do, in order to give the necessary impetus
to the missile, he would send the stone flying in the right direction.
It required no little skill and celerity of movement to dodge the
projectile, as the writer had more than once learned by painful
experience, for Jack’s wonderful and well-directed aim seldom went
astray of its purpose.

Towards his master Jack showed great deference and attention, and was
ever ready to obey his slightest wish. No one’s society he enjoyed
better. It was always a pleasure to be near him, but strangers he
seemed to despise and treat as enemies. He would always eye them with
a suspicious look, and could never tolerate their presence for any
considerable length of time without giving vent to his annoyance by the
most angry vociferations and hideous grimaces. Should this not have the
effect of causing them to retire, he would emphasize his objection to
their presence by pelting them with stones and such other missiles as
were convenient to hand. That he had a considerable affection for his
master, and respected him, no stronger evidence could be given than
what has already been adduced.

After all that has been said concerning Jack, yet the world is full of
people, educated and intelligent as they consider themselves to be, who
cannot see that this bit of flesh and spirit has been endowed by the
same wise Creator with the same traits of character, but differing in
degree, that they themselves possess. Going back to the ingenuity which
Jack displayed in the cases of the cage and the strap referred to, it
may be said to his credit that even Baron Trench himself could not have
shown greater skill in the discovery of the weak parts of his prison
and bonds than did this so-called brute, nor could he have exhibited
more patience and perseverance in working at them. Indeed, there are
many human beings that would not have been half so sensible as Jack,
but still we must believe that such high intelligence, comparatively
speaking, must inevitably perish with the body, through which as
a vehicle it was made to manifest itself. All intelligence is an
emanation from the Divine Intelligence, and, when the life has gone out
of the body from which it was made to shine forth, then it, instead of
perishing with the material, returns to the Source of all intelligence,
not to be re-absorbed, but, as I think, to continue as a separate
intelligence, drawing its life and light from the great Central Head,
like as the planets derive theirs from the centre of our material
universe--the Sun.

UNTUTORED MAN.

Strange and unique as are the plants and animals of Australia, yet
nothing definite can be affirmed of its native human inhabitants. They
are a peculiar people, separated by a wide remove from the Papuans,
the Malays and the Negro. Of a dark, coffee-brown complexion, rather
than actually black, the Australian is but little inferior to the
average European in height, but is altogether of a much slimmer and
feebler build, his limbs, particularly, being very lean and destitute
of calves, a defect which is a peculiarity of the darker races of man.
His head is long and narrow, dolichocephalic in type, with a low brow,
prominent just above the orbital regions, but receding thence in a very
marked degree. The nose, proceeding from a comparatively narrow base,
broadens outwardly to a somewhat squat end, the eyes on each side of
its attenuated root appearing drawn together. His face bulges into high
cheek bones; his mouth is large and grotesque, the jaw-bone contracted,
the upper jaw projecting over the lower, but with fine, white teeth;
the chin cut away, and his ears slightly pricked forward. Not only the
head and face, but the entire body as well, is covered with a profusion
of hair, which, when freed of its enclogging dirt and oil, is soft and
glossy. Like most savage peoples, the effluvium of his skin, offensive
as it naturally is, is very much exaggerated by the fish-oil he uses in
the anointment of his person.

Almost exclusively directed on the means of procuring sustenance, the
intellect of the Australian operates wholly within the range of the
rudest bodily senses. But inside that simple, elementary sphere he
displays no little nimbleness and dexterity. In tracking and running
down his prey he is unsurpassed. His weapons, though of the most
primitive forms, are well adapted for the purposes of the chase. Rude
and uncouth as his culinary and domestic apparatus appear, yet they
serve equally well the objects for which they were designed. Some
imitative facility, or rude sense of elementary art, is possessed
by him, as is evidenced by the crude figures of sharks, lizards and
other animals that may be seen carved in caves in the north-east of
Australia, and on the rocks of New South Wales. That he has some
exuberance of rude sense is still further shown in his language, which,
within its very circumscribed sensuous sphere, is fairly expressive and
complete, and likewise in the ease with which he learns to chatter the
languages of peoples with whom he has been thrown into contact.

Outside the circle described, all is blank to the Australian. He has no
architecture, no pottery and almost no weaving, and may be said to have
no religion. His sensations may scarcely, if at all, be said to have
attained the dignity of sentiments, much less that of sentimentalities.
The man domineers over the woman, who is as much his property as his
boomerang or dingo. Male offspring are held in considerable estimation,
and a father will bewail the death of a son for months, and even for
years. Old men and old, infirm women, on the other hand, are cruelly
abandoned, and left to starve to death, for they are considered
worthless and a burden, and consumers of the food that should go to the
support of the young and physically strong. During the summer they roam
about naked, utterly strangers to shame, which seems not to be innate
to their natures. Wives are accounted an item in a man’s chattels,
the stealing of which being met with some definite punishment. Caves,
where they abound, afford shelter and security for some of the tribes,
but where these are not found, screens of twigs and bushes covered
with leaves or turf, or logs of wood and turf, serve for protection
and cover for a few days or weeks, till the pursuit of food calls them
elsewhere.

[Illustration: AUSTRALIAN AT HOME.

Returned from the Chase with Kangaroo.]

Thrift is unknown to the Australian. His life alternates between
satiety and semi-starvation. In summer he goes naked, but in winter
he wraps himself in kangaroo skins. A girdle of hair bound about his
loins holds his dowak, as his digging-stick is called, and an apron of
skins suspended from the girdle affords a protection from shrubs. His
food consists largely of animals, which he devours alive, and includes
lizards, snakes, the heads being rejected, frogs, white ants, larvæ and
moths. Other animals are roasted, showing that the Australian knows,
contrary to an opinion that once prevailed, the method of kindling a
fire. In seasons of dearth, when there is a paucity of food-material,
cannibalism is general. He then makes an attack upon a neighboring
tribe who is his enemy, and if he cannot obtain food in this manner,
he scruples not to fall back upon his wife and his children. One
obligation of the wife is to keep her husband supplied with vegetable
food, such as the roots of the wild yam, seeds of the acacia, sophoræ,
leaves of the grass-tree, etc. Failing to produce a sufficiency, she is
liberally treated with maulings and spearings, so that a wife generally
appears bruised and gashed all over her body.

Among the different tribes of Australians, the boomerang is the
principal weapon. This is a flat stick, three feet in length, and
curves at the centre. It is thrown into the air among birds, jerks in a
zigzag, spiral or circular fashion, and when thrown by a person skilled
in its use is sure to bring down a few individuals at every throwing.
Besides this weapon they have the throwing-stick, flint-pointed spears,
shields, stone-hatchets, digging-sticks, netting-needles, nets of
sinews, fibres or hairs, water-skins and canoes.

No government exists among this people outside that of the family, and
no laws except certain traditionary rules about property. As for their
religion, they have little save their terror of ghosts and demons,
and certain superstitious traditional rites applicable to epochs in a
man’s life, but more especially so at the time of his burial. At ten
years of age, a boy is covered with blood; at ten to fourteen, he is
circumcised in the north and south of Australia, but not in the west or
on the Murray River; and at twenty, he is tattooed or scarred. Felicity
after death is the reward of proper burial, but a man dying in battle
or rotting in a field becomes an evil genius.

No more perfect example of tribal organization exists than that of
the tribes of Australasia. In a very large proportion of existing
tribes, the tribe is an aggregate of several stocks or distinct
bodies of kindred, the persons composing the tribes being included
in stocks which are, or are accounted, distinct from each other. Two
tribal customs, namely, the prohibition of marriage between persons
of the same stock, and the reckoning of kinship through females only,
so that children are accounted of the stock of their mother, sustain
this organization. Persons of the same stock, too, owe duties to each
other, and are to some extent participants in each other’s liabilities.
An injury done by a man is an injury done by his stock, which may be
avenged upon any member thereof; or an injury done to a man is an
injury done by his stock, for which every member of it is bound to
seek vengeance. As a consequence of these customs, a husband must be
of a different stock from his wife or wives, and therefore must be
accounted of a different stock from his children; and if he has wives
of different stocks, then their respective children are accounted of
different stocks. More than one stock, it will thus be perceived, is
represented in every household. And since a man owes duties to his
stock--the duties of acknowledged blood-relationship--while to those
of his family who are not of his stock, there being nothing but the
accident of birth to unite him, it necessarily follows that the family
among these tribes has very little cohesion.

Wholly sensuous is the language of the Australian, their abstraction
tending only in the way of arithmetic as far as the number five, and
that itself being quite an unusual stretch. Polysyllabic as it is in
formation, and having the accent on the penultimate, it is not at all
inharmonious. Though it comprehends many divergent forms, yet they
seem to be all fundamentally connected, constituting a group entirely
isolated from any of the linguistic families of the other parts of the
world. Within its narrow confines the language is well developed and
sensuously copious and expressive.

Like almost all other savages, the native Australians are rapidly
disappearing before the spread of civilization. The European settlers
crowd them out of all the more fertile and habitable lands, pressing
them more and more into the desert of the interior, where they find
it exceedingly hard to obtain in their roving, unsettled lives the
necessary means of subsistence. Great numbers are thus forced to
succumb to deprivations not of their own bringing, and not a few to the
diseases and vices brought among them by the new possessors of their
domains. The lowest estimate of their number, prior to the settlement
of Europeans among them, gives over 150,000, but the natives still
surviving scarcely figure one-half of that population. It is only a
question of a decade or two when the Australian, like the Tasmanian,
who was once his near neighbor, will have vanished from off the face of
the country, leaving behind him his implements of war and the chase,
his culinary and domestic apparatus, and the rude carvings of his
hands in caves and in rocks, as the principal evidences of his earthly
existence.

By competent critics the Australian is pronounced to be the most
degraded of human beings, and the lowest type of man. In reason, love,
generosity, conscience and mere responsibility he is the inferior of
many of the lower animals, and in the erection of a house for comfort,
shelter and security he is surpassed by creatures even as low in the
scale as the worms and insects. It is true, when hunger has to be met,
that he has shown some skill in the manufacture of implements necessary
to the obtainment of his food, and also in resisting the attacks of his
own kind and of the natural enemies by which he is surrounded. There
is no doubt that he is well satisfied with his condition in life, and
could hardly be induced to exchange it for another. He has doubtless
fulfilled the purpose of his being in the world, and unable to cope in
the struggle for existence with a superior civilization must succumb
to the latter which is better fitted to endure, a sad but impressive
lesson which is the teaching of every chapter of the world’s geologic
story.

LIVING SOULS.

All things were made by the Word of God. In this Word was life, spirit
or energy. Without it was not anything made that was made. Hence, says
Elihu, “the _Spirit_ of God hath made me, and the _breath_ of the
Almighty hath given me _life_;” or, as Moses testifies, “the Lord God
formed man, the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the
breath of lives; and _man_ became _a_ LIVING SOUL.”

Now, if it be asked what the Scriptures define a living soul to be, the
answer is a living natural, or animal body, whether of beasts, birds,
fish or men. The phrase living creature is the exact synonyme of living
soul. The words _nephesh chayiah_ are in Hebrew the signs of the ideas
expressed by Moses, _nephesh_ signifying _creature_, _life_, _soul_, or
_breathing frame_ from the verb _breathe_, and _chayiah_, a noun from
the verb _to live_, _of life_. _Nephesh chayiah_ is the genus which
includes all species of living creatures. In the common version of the
Scriptures, it is rendered _living soul_, and, therefore, under this
form of expression they speak of all flesh which breathes in air, earth
and sea.

From the evidence adduced a man then is merely a body of life in the
sense of his being an animal or living creature--_nephesh chayiah
adam_. Therefore, as a natural man, he has no preëminence over the
creatures God has made. Moses makes no distinction between him and
them, for he calls them all living souls, breathing the breath of
lives. His language, literally rendered, says, “and God said, the
waters shall produce abundantly _sheretz chayiah nephesh_ the _reptile
living soul_;” and again, “_kal nephesh chayiah erameshat_ every
living soul creeping.” In another verse, “let the earth bring forth
_nephesh chayiah_ the living soul after its kind, cattle, and creeping
thing, and beast of the earth after its kind,” and “_lekol rumesh ol
earetz asher bu nephesh chayiah_ to everything creeping upon the earth
which has in it living breath,” that is, the breath of lives. And
lastly, “whatsoever Adam called _nephesh chayiah_ the living soul that
was the name thereof.”

Not even are quadrupeds and men living souls, but they are vivified
by the same breath and spirit. _Neshemet chayim_, or the _breath of
lives_, and not the _breath_ of _life_ as the text of the common
version has it, is said to be in the inferior creatures as well as in
man. _Chayim_ in the Hebrew is in the plural number, and therefore
the words _neshemet chayim_ should be rendered as above. Thus, God
said, “I bring a flood of waters upon the earth to destroy _all flesh_
wherein is _ruach chayim_ spirit of lives.” And in another place, “they
went in to Noah into the ark, two and two of _all flesh_, in which is
_ruach chayim_ spirit of lives.” And _all flesh_ died that moved upon
the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every
creeping thing, and every man; all in whose nostrils was _neshemet
ruach chayim_, BREATH OF SPIRIT OF LIVES. Now, as has been previously
affirmed, it was the _neshemet chayim_ with which God, according to the
testimony of Moses, inflated the nostrils of Adam. If, therefore, this
were a particle of the divine essence, as it is declared, which became
the immortal soul in man, then all other animals have likewise immortal
souls, for they all received breath of spirit of lives in common
with him. Begotten of the same Invisible Power, and formed from the
substance of a common earth mother, man and beasts were animated by the
same spirit, and constituted to be _living breathing frames_, though
of different species, and in God they lived, and moved, and had their
continued being.

Returning to the philology of our subject, it is to be remarked that
by a metonymy, or a figure of speech where the container is put for
the thing contained, and conversely, _nephesh_, _breathing frame_,
is put for _neshemet ruach chayim_, which, when in motion, causeth
the frame to respire. Hence _nephesh_ signifies not only _breath_ and
_soul_, but also _life_, or those mutually affective, positive and
negative principles in all living creatures, whose closed circuits
cause motion of and in their frames. By Moses these principles, or
qualities of the same thing, are apparently styled the _Ruach Elohim_,
or by Timothy the Spirit of Him “who only hath immortality, dwelling
in the light which no man can approach unto, whom no man hath seen,
nor can see,” and which, when the word was spoken, first moved upon
the face of the waters, and afterwards disengaged the light, evolved
the expanse, gathered the waters together, brought forth the green
vegetation, manifested the celestial universe, vitalized the breathing
frames of the dry land, the firmament and the seas, and formed man
in His own image and likeness. This _ruach_, or spirit, was the
instrumental principle commissioned by the glorious Increate for the
elaboration of the natural world, the erection of this earthly house,
and its equipment with living souls of every species; and it is this
same instrumentally formative power that, together with the _neshemeh_,
or breath, that keeps them from perishing, or returning to the dust.
“If God set his heart against man, He will withdraw to himself _ruachu
veneshemetu_, that is, _His spirit and His breath_; all flesh shall
“perish together, and man shall turn again to dust.” “By the _neshemet
el_,” or breath of God, “frost is given.” Speaking of reptiles and
beasts, David saith, “thou withdrawest _ruachem_--_their spirit_--they
die; and to their dust they return. Thou sendest forth _ruheck_--thy
spirit--they are created.”

[Illustration: REPRESENTATIVE LIFE OF WESTERN ASIA.

Illustrating the Scriptural Idea of Living Souls].

From this cumulative evidence it is manifest that the _ruach_ is
all-pervading. It is in heaven, in sheol, or in the dust of the deepest
hollow; in the uttermost depths of the sea; in the darkness as well as
in the light; in all things animate and inanimate. In the broadest, or
I may say, in an illimitable sense, it is an _universal_ principle. It
is the substratum of all motion, whether manifested in the revolutions
of the planets, in the ebb and flow of the sea, in winds and storms and
tempests, or in the organisms of plants and animals. The atmospheric
expanse is charged with it; but it is not the air. Animals and plants
breathe it, but it is not their breath; yet without it, though filled
with air, they would die. _Neshemet el_, or atmospheric air, is the
breath of God, as Job puts it, or the mighty expanse, as affirmed by
Moses. What the _ruach_, or spirit, is, none with certainty can say.
Extending from the centre of the earth, and thence in all directions
through the immensity of space, is the _Ruach Elohim_, whose existence
is demonstrable from the phenomena of the natural order of things.
It penetrates where _neshemet el_ cannot penetrate, but when speaking
of the motivity and sustentation of organized dust, or souls, they
co-exist with them, the _Ruach Elohim_ becoming the _ruach chayim_, or
spirit of lives; the _neshemet el_, the _neshemet chayim_, or breath
of lives, and both together in the elaboration and support of life,
the _neshemet ruach chayim_, or breath of the spirit of lives. Living
creatures, or souls, are not animated, as is erroneously supposed, by
a vital principle which is capable of disembodied existence. On the
contrary, souls are made living by the coetaneous operation of the
_ruach chayim_ and the _neshemet chayim_ upon their organized tissues
according to certain fixed laws, called natural laws. When the as yet
occult laws of the all-pervading _ruach_, or spirit, shall be made
known, men will be astonished at their ignorance respecting living
souls, as we are at the notion of the ancients that their immortal gods
resided in the stocks and the stones they so ignorantly worshipped.

Though lent to the creatures of the natural world for the allotted
period of their living existence, yet the _ruach chayim_ and _neshemet
chayim_ are still God’s breath and God’s spirit, and to distinguish
them from the expanse of air and spirit in their totality, they are
sometimes specifically styled “the spirit of man” and “the spirit of
the beast,” or collectively “the spirits of all flesh,” and “their
breath.” Thus it is written in Ecclesiastes, “they have all _one
ruach_, or spirit, so that man hath no preëminence over a beast; for
all is vanity or vapor.” “All go to one place; all are of the dust, and
all turn to dust again.” And in the sense of supplying to every living
creature, or soul, spirit and breath, Jehovah is styled by Moses in the
book of Numbers,--“God of the _spirits_ of _all flesh_.”

Enough has been advanced to show the Scriptural import of the text
already quoted, that “the Lord God formed man, the dust of the ground,
and breathed into his nostrils the breath of lives; and man became a
living soul.” The simple, obvious and undogmatic meaning of this is,
that the dust being animalized, and then organized, was next set in
motion by the inrush of the air through his nostrils into his lungs
according to natural laws. This phenomenon was the _neshemet el_, or
“breath of God,” breathing into him; and as it was the pabulum of life
to all creatures constituted of dust, it was very expressively styled
the “breath of _lives_,” and not the “breath of _life_.” God breathes
into every man at his birth the breath of lives to this day, and there
can be no reason, Scriptural or otherwise, why we should deny that
He breathed it into Adam as He hath done into the nostrils of his
posterity by the operation of natural laws. Man, as soon as he began to
respire, like the embryo passing from fœtal to infant life, “became a
_living soul_,” that is, _nephesh chayiah_, a living, breathing frame,
or _body of life_. All kinds of flesh, whether of man, beast, fowl and
creeping thing, are made alive by the same breath and spirit. They all
become, in consequence, living souls, so that, having a _oneness of
spirit_, a man hath no superiority over a beast.

Having now proved, as we think, beyond the possibility of a doubt,
that men and beasts “have all one _ruach_, or spirit,” and hence are
all living souls, we now approach a form of life, termed vegetable
life, about which the Scriptures have little to say. _Neshemet el_, or
atmospheric air, is just as essential to plants as to animals. Deprived
of it they wither and die. No less necessary is the all-pervading
_ruach_, or spirit. It is in the air, though not of the air. Plants,
equally with animals, breathe it, but it is not their breath. Without
it, even though filled with air, they would perish. Perhaps it is the
base of each of the elementary constituents of the air. Uncombined,
may it not be that wonderful fluid whose explosions are heard in the
thunder, whose fiery bolts overthrow the loftiest towers and rive the
sturdy monarchs of the woods, and whose influence, though in less
intensity, gives polarity to light, the needle, and the brain?

Living plants are a part and parcel of the life of our globe. They
preceded in the grand scheme of creation animal existences. Low down
in the scale of life are forms about which it cannot be predicated
these are plants and these are animals. Scientists are unable to say
where plant-life ends and animal-life begins. No hard-and-fast line
can be drawn between the two vast kingdoms of life, and it is often
wholly impossible to decide whether we are dealing with an animal or a
plant. There can be no question that the earliest life was vegetable
by nature, and that its habitat was the primeval ocean. This is no
less the teaching of science than that of the Scriptures. From some
such life, originating _de novo_ as the Spirit of God passed over the
waters, the two great branches of animate nature may have taken their
rise. What the form of this life may have been, whether cellular or a
mere mass of formless protoplasm, the mind of man cannot asseverate.
It is a mystery, and will doubtless ever remain as such to finite
intelligence. That this life, no matter how apparently insignificant
it must have been, breathed in its own simple fashion, that is, by the
coetaneous operation of the _ruach chayim_ and the _neshemet chayim_
upon its simple substance in accordance with natural law, there can be
no dispute. Breathing is not always conditioned by the existence of
nostrils. Plants respire, or, in other words, take in carbonic acid
from the air through their stomata, or mouths, which they separate into
its components of carbon and oxygen, appropriating the former, which
they build into solid matter, but usually throwing off the latter into
the great receptacle of atmosphere from which it was extracted. Even
a moner, which has no distinction of parts, may be said to breathe,
but it breathes by means of its whole external surface, for _neshemeh_
and _ruach_ are as necessary to it as to man himself. It will thus
be obvious that plants are living, breathing frames, or bodies of
life, and hence are as much entitled to be considered as living souls
as animals are. Let but God withdraw his _ruach_, or spirit, from
them, and they die and to their dust return. Surely no more could be
predicated of animals.

CONSCIOUSNESS IN PLANTS.

Plants, it has been vaguely asserted, differ from animals by not
having the power of movement. Rather should it be stated that plants
acquire and display this power when it is to their advantage. This
will be found to be of comparatively rare occurrence, as they are
affixed to the ground, and food is brought to them by the air and rain.
Evidence of the very high position a plant may attain in the scale
of organization may be seen when we look at one of the more perfect
tendril-bearers. As a polypus adjusts its tentacula for action, so a
plant places its tendrils. If the tendril be displaced, it sets to
work to right itself. Acted on by the light, it bends towards or from
it, or disregards it altogether, whichever course may be the most
advantageous. For several days the tendrils or internodes of the plant,
or both, spontaneously or otherwise revolve with a steady motion. But
should they strike some object, they curl quickly around it, grasp it
with wonderful firmness, and in the course of a few hours contract into
spirals, dragging up the stems, and forming most excellent springs. All
external movements now cease, and by growth the tissues soon become
surprisingly strong and durable.

Such a movement, as has just been considered, is a widely prevalent
one in plants, and is essentially of the same nature as that of the
stem of a climbing plant, which successively bends to all points of
the compass, so that the tip is made to revolve. This movement has
been called _revolving nutation_ by some writers, and _circumnutation_
by others. In the case of the circumnutating movement of the tip of
the radicle of some plants, there can be no doubt that it is it that
affords the radicle some slight assistance in penetrating the ground.
But whether or not a radicle, when surrounded by softened earth, is
aided in making a passage for itself by circumnutating, one thing is
certain, that is, that this movement, by guiding the radicle along a
line of least resistance, can hardly fail to be of high importance.
Should, however, a radicle in its downward growth break obliquely into
any crevice, or an opening left by a decayed root, or one made by the
larva of an insect, and more especially by worms, the circumnutating
movement of the tip will materially aid it in following such open
passages. Not only our own observation, but also those of such eminent
authorities as Darwin and Hensen, conclusively show that roots commonly
run down the old burrows of worms.

But radicles of seedlings, as well as those of more vigorous plants,
would pass over stones, roots and other obstacles, which they must
necessarily encounter in the soil. This they are abundantly able to do,
for they are exceedingly sensitive just above their apices, and bend
like a tendril _towards_ the touching object. When, however, one side
of the apex is pressed by any object, the growing part bends _away_
from that object, and this seems a beautiful adaptation for avoiding
obstacles in the soil, and for following the lines of least resistance.

[Illustration: SEEDLING OF WINTER GRAPE.

Earth Cut Away to Show Directions Taken by Tip of Radicle in Avoiding a
Stone.]

So feeble is the circumnutating movement of the terminal growing part,
both of the primary and secondary radicles, that it can assist them
but little in penetrating the ground, excepting when the superficial
layer is very soft and moist. But it must aid them materially when
they chance to break obliquely into cracks, or into burrows that
have been made by earth-worms or larvæ. Moreover, combined as it is
with the sensitiveness of the tip of the radicle to contact, it can
hardly fail to be of the highest importance, for as the tip is always
endeavoring to bend to all sides, it will press on all sides, and will
thus be able to discriminate between the harder and softer adjoining
surfaces. Consequently, it will tend to bend from the harder soil,
and will thus take the directions of the least resistance. So it will
act if it meet with a stone or the root of another plant in the soil,
as must incessantly occur. If the tip were not sensitive, and did not
excite the upper part of the radicle to bend away, whenever obstacles
were encountered at right angles to its growing direction, it would
undoubtedly be liable to be doubled up into a contorted mass. But with
radicles growing down inclined plates of glass, as shown by experiment,
it has been observed that as soon as the tip merely touched a slip
of wood cemented across the plate, the entire terminal growing point
curved away, so that the tip soon stood at right angles to its former
direction; and thus, as far as the pressure of the surrounding soil
would permit, would it be with an obstacle encountered in the ground.
Thick and strong radicles, like those of the horse-chestnut, are
endowed with less sensitiveness than more delicate ones, and would
therefore be the better able by the force of their growth to overcome
any slight impediment to their progress. Further, as radicles perceive
an excess of moisture in the air on one side and bend towards this
side, it is reasonable to infer that they will act in a similar
manner with respect to moisture in the earth, for the sensitiveness
of moisture resides in the tip, which determines the bending of the
upper part. May not this capacity partly account for the extent to
which drain-pipes often become choked with roots? The direction which
the apex takes at each successive period of the growth of a root,
ultimately determines its whole course. It is therefore very important
that the apex should follow from the first the most advantageous
direction. We can thus understand why sensitiveness to geotropism,
contact and moisture should all reside in the tip, and why it should
determine the upper growing part to bend either from or to the exciting
cause. Darwin has compared a radicle with a burrowing animal, such as
a mole, which wishes to penetrate vertically into the ground. By a
process of circumnutation, or the movement of his head from side to
side, he is enabled to feel any stone or other obstacle, as well as
any difference in hardness of soil that may exist, and will therefore
turn from that side; but if damper on one side than on the other, will
turn thither as a more suitable hunting-ground. Nevertheless, after
each interruption, he, guided by the sense of gravity, will be able to
recover his downward direction and to reach to a greater depth.

Destruction of the tip of a radicle does not prevent the adjoining
part from bending, if this part has already received some influence
from the tip. As with a horizontally extended radicle, whose tip has
been cut off or destroyed, the part which should bend most remains
motionless for many days or hours, even though exposed at right
angles to the full influence of gravity, we cannot do otherwise than
conclude that the tip alone is sensitive to this power, and transmits
some stimulus to the neighboring parts, thereby causing them to bend.
Direct evidence of such transmission has been obtained. When a radicle
was left extended horizontally for an hour or an hour and a half, by
which time the supposed influence will have travelled some distance
from the tip, and the tip was then cut off, the radicle subsequently
became bent, although it was placed in a perpendicular position.
Terminal portions of several radicles thus treated continued for some
time to grow in the direction of their newly-acquired curvature, for
being destitute of tips they were no longer acted upon by the power of
gravity. New vegetative points, however, appeared, and being acted on
by this influence coursed themselves perpendicularly downward as was
their custom.

Investigation having shown that it is the tip of the radicle that is
sensitive to geotropism in the members of such distinct families as
the Leguminosæ, Malvaceæ, Cucurbitaceæ and Gramineæ, which may be
represented by the Clover, Mallow, Gourd and Rye, we may justly infer
that this character is common to the roots of most seedling-plants.
Whilst a root is penetrating the ground, the tip must take the
incipient step, as it has to determine the direction of the entire
root. When, however, it is deflected by any subterranean obstacle, it
is essential that a considerable length of the root should be able to
bend, particularly as the tip itself grows slowly and bends but little,
so that the proper downward course should be recovered. Immaterial as
it would seem whether the entire growing part should be so sensitive
to geotropism as to effect this movement, or that it should be brought
about by an influence transmitted exclusively from the tip, we should,
however, remember that it is the tip that is sensitive to the contact
of hard objects, causing the radicle to bend away from them, thus
directing it along certain lines in the soil where the least opposition
interposes. It is again the tip that is alone sensitive, at least in
some instances, to moisture, causing the radicle to bend towards its
source. These last two kinds of sensitiveness conquer for a time the
sensitiveness to geotropism, which, however, ultimately prevails. But
the three kinds most often come into antagonism, first one prevailing,
and then the other. It would, therefore, be an advantage, perhaps a
necessity, for the interweighing and reconciling of these different
kinds of sensitiveness, that they should all be localized in the same
group of cells which have to transmit the command to the adjoining
parts of the radicle, necessitating it to bend to or from the source of
the irritation.

Though generally believed by authors that the modification of the upper
or lower surfaces of a radicle, whereby curvature is induced in the
proper direction, is the direct result of gravitation, yet there can be
no question from all that has been said that it is the tip alone that
is acted on and that transmits some influence to the adjoining parts,
causing them to curve in a downward manner. Gravity, it would seem,
does not act in a more direct way on a radicle than it does on any
lowly-organized animal, which moves away when it feels some weight or
pressure.

When we consider what we have written, it is impossible not to be
impressed with the resemblance between the movements of plants and
many of the actions performed by the lower animals. With plants
an astonishingly small stimulus suffices. One plant may be highly
sensitive to the slightest continued pressure, while a closely-allied
form just as highly sensitive to a slight momentary touch. The habit
of moving at certain periods is inherited both by plants and animals;
and other points of similitude have been specified. But the most
striking resemblance is the localization of their sensitiveness, and
the transmission of a stimulus from the exciting point to another,
which consequently moves. Yet plants do not, of course, possess
nerves or a central nervous system. May we not therefore infer, and
wisely so, too, that with animals such structures but serve for the
more perfect transmission of impressions, and for the more complete
intercommunication of their several parts?

No structure in plants seems more wonderful, as far as its functions
are concerned, than the tip of the radicle. Lightly pressed or burnt
or cut, it transmits an influence to the upper adjoining part, causing
it to bend away from the affected side. But more surprising, however,
is the fact that the tip can distinguish between a slightly harder
and softer object, by which it is simultaneously pressed on opposite
sides. Let the radicle be pressed by a similar object a little above
the tip, and it will be noticed that the pressed part does not transmit
any influence to the more distant parts, but bends abruptly towards
the object. Perceiving the air to be moister on one side than the
other, it likewise sends out an influence to the upper adjoining part,
which deflects towards the source of the moisture. When excited by
light, the neighboring part bends from the light; but when excited by
gravitation, the same part bends towards the centre of gravity. In
almost every instance the ultimate purpose or advantage of the several
movements can be clearly perceived. Two, or perhaps more, of the
exciting causes often act simultaneously on the tip, and one conquers
the other, doubtless in accordance with its importance for the life of
the plant. The course pursued by the radicle in penetrating the ground
being determined by the tip, has acquired for it the diverse kinds of
sensitiveness which it possesses; and it is hardly an exaggeration to
assert that the tip of the radicle thus endowed, and having the power
to direct the movements of the adjoining parts, acts like the brain of
one of the lower animals, which organ, seated within the anterior end
of the body, receives impressions from the sense-organs, and directs
their several movements.

In animals possessed of a nervous system, contractions only follow
stimuli, which are carried to the contractile elements by nervous
threads, the internal energy representing the external stimulus being
called nervous energy or neurism. But where a nervous system does not
exist, as is the case in some low animals and in all plants, external
stimuli must be justly supposed to be converted into the same form of
energy, which in such organisms has a general circulation throughout
the contractile protoplasm. The attainment of some position, favorable
for the procurement of relief from some unpleasant sensation, or the
acquisition of some agreeable one, or for both, is the important thing
directly subserved by such movements in the generality of animals.
While we have the best of reasons for believing this to be true in
the vast majority of animals, because fundamentally their structure
is similar to our own, yet the inference that the same is true of the
lowest forms of life is justifiable until it is proved to be mistaken.

Whatever be the nature of any movement, whether the projecting of
portions of its own body-substance as pseudopodia in the primitive
animal, the movement of flagella or cilia in more specialized forms,
or the turning of the radicle of a plant-seedling in overcoming some
obstacle, there is no resisting the conclusion that the functions of
these organs, when once called into existence, are due to stimuli
not unlike those which affect the motions of the limbs of the higher
animals, and that the preliminary to all such movements, which are
not automatic, is an effort. And as no adaptive movement is automatic
the first time it is performed, effort, therefore, may be regarded
as the immediate source of all movement. Now, effort is a conscious
state, and implies a sense of resistance to be overcome. But when an
act is performed without effort, resistance has been overcome, and the
mechanism requisite for its performance has been completed. Automatism
has now been reached. New movements, in their incipiency, necessarily
meet with resistance. How this resistance is overcome, there seems to
be some diversity of opinion among physiologists and metaphysicians,
but it is generally believed that some such mental state as a sensation
or a desire, which may or may not stimulate a natural process as an
intervening element in the circuit, is concerned in its subduement.
That sense-perceptions are stimuli to the immediate appearance
of structural changes or movements is shown by the production of
color-changes in animals through changes in the condition of the organs
of sight and in the bending of the radicle of a seedling-plant a short
distance above its tip in obedience to a communication from the tip of
a sensation of hardness, caused by contact with a stone experienced in
its downward progress in the ground.

[Illustration: TIP OF RADICLE OF SEEDLING MAPLE.

Lower Cells Show Where Consciousness is Supposed to Reside.]

New conditions bring forth new acts in animals. No one can deny this
statement, as instances of its truth are too frequent to believe
otherwise. That such may be predicated of plants, which have not the
ability, as a rule, to meet with new conditions by reason of their
being affixed to the soil, very few persons are willing to admit;
but there is no getting away from the fact. The tip of the radicle of
a plant not only has the power, acting as a brain, as it would seem,
of guiding the root out of the reach of an obstacle that would be
injurious, or in the direction of water when it would be an advantage,
but a tendril has also the ability, in obedience to some inherent
force, of making its way to a support that has been purposely placed
in the near distance for its especial benefit. No external agencies,
which the materialistic naturalist has devised for accounting for the
movements of plants and low types of animal existences that are devoid
of a visible nervous system, can possibly explain these movements,
which are only explicable on the theory that nervous energy may be
elaborated and be distributed without such a system by and through the
general mass of the plant or animal, or by and through such parts as
may be necessary to its good.

No one who has experimented with the Droseras or Sundews, can have
failed to observe the extreme sensitiveness which resides in their
leaves. That these plants manifest a comparatively high order of
consciousness, there can be no question. Try them with insects, or rare
bits of meat, as articles of diet, and in a few hours, if vigorous
leaves have been experimented with, the leaves will have folded around
the food and commenced their curious process of assimilation. Mineral
substances, such as bits of chalk, magnesia and small pebbles, have no
such effect. They seem to ignore these things, just as an intelligent
animal would if they were placed by its side. Some experiments made
by Mrs. Treat, several summers ago, go far to confirm the statement
that plants are endowed with some sort of consciousness. _Drosera
filiformis_ was the species used in her experiments. Some living flies
were pinned one-half an inch from the leaves, but near their apical
extremities. In forty minutes the leaves had perceptibly bent toward
the flies, and in little more than an hour had reached the prey, the
legs of the latter being entangled and held fast by the tentacles of
the leaves. Next, the flies were removed three-quarters of an inch
further from the leaves, but the latter, even though bent away from
the direction of the light, failed to reach them at this distance.
What was it that induced the leaves to stretch in the direction of the
flies? Had the sun been shining from that side, it might be said that
the movement of the leaves was influenced by its light and heat, for
plants as a general rule turn toward that part of the heavens where
these energies are the most effective. It cannot be that they were
produced by some emanation of moisture from the bodies of the flies,
or by any influence that might be exercised by the vibratory movements
of their wings. No vain imaginings of such character will suffice for
their explanation. The energy necessary to explain this phenomenon
must come from within the leaves themselves. There was felt within
them a desire for food, and it was this desire that led the leaves to
bend away from the light and in the direction of the objects whose
presence created in them that sensation. But how they were able, in the
absence of any visible sense-organs, to determine the presence of these
objects, is difficult to surmise. That they are sensitive to contact is
generally conceded. And in them, no doubt, the sense of touch is keenly
developed. Granting this to be the truth, then they see, as a blind
man sees, by the sense of feeling. Currents of air, established by the
vibration of the insect’s wings, impinging upon the epidermis of the
leaves, affect the cells beneath, and a nervous influence is started,
guided by some central agency, of which we know nothing, causing the
leaves to bend in the proper direction. But why the leaves do not
thus bend when impinged upon by currents other than those produced
by insects, I am unable to say. Even as a blind man, though deaf, is
able through the sense of touch to discriminate moving objects by the
currents of air they excite, so it may be presumed that the leaves of
Drosera are endowed with the same wonderful and intelligent capacity.
Such a feeling once experienced would be apt to be known again, for
it would become fixed in consciousness by a process of memory. That
Drosera, whose habits are more animal-like than plant-like, must occupy
a high position in the scale of vegetable life, there can be no reason
to doubt from what has been said, and this assumption receives a most
remarkable confirmation from the fact that there are evidences, not
apparent however, of a sort of nervous system in its make-up, as shown
by the discovery of Darwin that by pricking a certain point in a leaf
one-half of its substance becomes paralyzed.

Wonderful as these facts are, yet they are not more so than some
recent discoveries made by Stahl while studying the simple movements
and physical conditions of certain low plants called Myxomycetes. In
their young stages these plants wander from the parts of the deposit
on which they are creeping, and which are gradually drying up, toward
those which are more moist. It is possible, by bringing moist bodies
in proximity to any ramifications, to produce pseudopodia, which lift
themselves from the deposit, and soon come into contact with the moist
object, so as to enable the whole mass of the plasmodium, that is, the
large, motile, membranous protoplasmic body formed by the coalescence
of the swarm-spores of the Myxomycetes, to migrate thereon. But on
the entrance of the plasmodia into the fructifying condition, the
Myxomycete quits the moist deposit, technically called the substratum,
and creeps upwards on to the surface of dry objects. Unequal
distribution of warmth in the substratum and unequal supplies of oxygen
and chemical substances soluble in water also cause locomotion in these
strange organisms. Let the plasmodia come into contact on one side
with solutions of saltpetre, carbonate of potash or common salt, and
they at once withdraw from the dangerous spot; but an infusion of tan,
or a dilute solution of sugar, causes a flow of the protoplasm and an
ultimate translocation of the entire plasmodial mass towards the source
of nourishment. Some solutions have an attractive or repulsive effect,
but this is in accordance with the degree of their concentration.
Unlike what is so natural to plants in general, the Myxomycetes seem to
have an aversion to light, as shown by their disposition to withdraw
from its presence.

How such tender structures as the Myxomycetes, which are destitute
of every kind of external protection, are enabled to carry on their
existence, the knowledge of the remarkably delicate reaction of
their plasmodia under external influences prepares us to understand.
Plasmodia, which are not yet ripe for reproduction, are kept in the
moist substratum by their peculiar affection for moisture and utter
dislike of the light. But within the darkness and moisture of the
substratum the plasmodia do not necessarily remain in one place,
for the differences in the chemical composition of the substratum
cause continual migrations. Nothing more remarkable can be said of
the plasmodia than that they have a wonderful faculty of avoiding
harmful substances, and, traversing the substratum in all directions,
of taking up the materials they require for food and growth. When,
however, their internal changes have advanced so far that the plasmodia
are approaching the fructifying condition, they are brought by their
dislike for moisture, which now sets in, from the moist ground of
forest or wood which they affect to the surface, where they creep up
various upright objects, frequently not doing more than forming rigid
reproductive capsules at some height from the ground. If, however, the
substratum becomes gradually colder, as is the case in autumn, a change
which sets in at the surface moving downwards, then the plasmodia
migrate into deeper regions still having a higher temperature; but when
the cooling proceeds very gradually, which especially happens in large
tan-heaps, the plasmodia may in their migration attain considerable
depths, where they then change into sclerotia, which are hard tuberous
substances, resembling the tubers and bulbs of flowering plants.
If, however, the temperature begins to ascend, the sclerotia again
germinate, and movement takes place from the deeper and cooler parts
to the upper already named.

Thus we see, in the locomotion of the Myxomycetes, extremely
interesting cases of movements due to stimulation. Light, heat,
moisture and gravitation are, in general, stimulus-movements, and
ultimately all growth depends on stimulus-movement, the most primitive
kind of protoplasmic movement. No causes other than those which
actuate higher organisms can be discerned to account for this lowest
type of organic movement. What form of inorganic energy can be cited
of sufficient potency to cause the organism to change, and without
regard to gravitation or any known form of attraction or repulsion,
its position in obedience to stimuli acting for its self-preservation?
There is none. In the Fuligo, or Tan Flower, a most remarkable example
of designed movement has been observed. This form will, according
to H. J. Carter, in its early amœbula stage, when isolated from the
sawdust and chips of wood among which it has been living, adapt itself
to the water of a watch-glass, or any other shallow vessel, in which
it may happen to be placed. But, if the watch-glass be placed upon the
sawdust, then it will make its way over the side of the glass to get to
the sawdust. Here is probably shown a sense-perception of the presence
and position of the tan-bark, as well as a feeling of desire to go to
it. May not this desire have been due to a sense of discomfort induced
by the surrounding water, or to the calling up in memory of some
superior comfort associated with the tan-bark?

Man in his self-complacency thinks that he knows the plants about
him. It is true that he has noted their form, their anatomy, their
color and their resemblances and differences, but how few have studied
them in meadow and woods by the light of a lantern at night or by
the silver rays of the moon. One feels on such an occasion as though
he had stepped from his threshold upon a foreign soil. Folded leaves
and strange sleeping forms will be found to confront you in every
direction. Of the nature of the nocturnal movements of plants, as well
as their varied and curious attitudes, both in leaves and flowers,
much speculation has been rife among botanists. In many flowers the
night attitudes have been conclusively shown to have relation solely
to their fertilization by insects; but the drooping night attitudes
of the leaves were supposed to indicate an aversion to moisture, many
plants seemingly verifying the conjecture by the assumption of the
same position during rain as in the dew. But when the same pranks were
played on a cloudy day or a dewless night, the explanation had to be
abandoned. With the clovers, the nocturnal positions of the heads seem
to be assumed only in the darkness, and this invariably, dew or no dew,
while the leaves appear to revel in the rain, remaining freely open,
their chief concern being the protection of the young blossom-clusters.

Were our eyes sharp enough we might discern a certain strangeness
in the nocturnal expression of every plant and tree. But in no tree
is this expression so remarkably emphasized as in the locust, a
member of the same leguminous order of plants with the clover. These
trees are especially noted for the pronounced irritability of their
leaves, and odd nocturnal capers, whose seeming vital consciousness
has induced some authorities to place them at the extremity of their
system, in contact with the limits of the animal kingdom. How strange
the pigweeds look at night! Their upper leaves, which during the day
had extended wide on their long stems, now incline upward against the
stalk, enclosing the tops of the younger branches, but still older
plants are seen with leaves extended much as at mid-day, but nearly all
turned edgewise by a twist in the stem. Circling in a close curve, the
creeping-mallow blossom now ignores her proud array of cheeses, and
the oxalis flower has forgotten her shooting pods to keep the vigil,
closed and nodding upon her stem, while her leaves masquerade in one
of the oddest disguises, their three heart-shaped leaflets being seen
reflexed and adjusting themselves back to back around the stem with
many contortions. Whatever the function of this strange nocturnal
movement may be, and it is still a matter of dispute with botanists,
one thing we are certain about, that is, its essential condition to the
life of the plant, careful experiment having demonstrated, according
to one authority, that “if the leaves are prevented from so regulating
their surface, they lose their color and die in a few days”--a fact
which Darwin has just as conclusively shown to be the case with other
plants.

Flowers that bloom by night could hardly be suspected of that vanity
which Rhodora has been made to confess by Emerson in his beautiful
lines to this flower. Our evening primrose does not bloom in the
dark hours for mere sentiment or moonshine, but from a nature which
lies, figuratively speaking, much nearer her heart. “Often when the
nights are very dark,” says an old writer, “her petals emit a mild
phosphorescent light, and look as if illuminated for a holiday. And
he who does not fear to be out in her mild and lovely haunt may see a
variety of nocturnal ephemeræ hovering around the lighted petals, or
sipping at the flowery fountains, while others rest among the branches
or hurry up the stems as if fearing to be too late.” From the first
moment of her wooing welcome it would seem that our evening primrose
listens for murmuring wings, and awaits that supreme fulfilment
with joyous expectancy, for it will invariably be found that these
blossoms, which open in the twilight, have adapted themselves to
crepuscular moths and other nocturnal insects, a fact which finds a
striking illustration in the instances of very long tubular-shaped
night-blooming flowers, like the honeysuckle and divers orchids, whose
nectar is beyond the ability of any insect but a night-flying hawk-moth
to attain. True, it is, that in other less deep nocturnal flowers the
sweets could be reached by butterflies or bees if the blossoms were
left open. But the night-murmurers receive the first invitation, which,
if accepted, leaves but a wilted, half-hearted blossom to welcome the
sipper of the sunshine. This beautiful expectancy, somehow or other,
determines the limit of its bloom. However, in the event of rain or
other causes preventive of insect visits, the evening primrose will
remain open for the attention of the butterflies during the ensuing
day, when otherwise it would have perceptibly drooped, and extended
to them but a listless welcome. Most strikingly may this fact be seen
illustrated in a spray of mountain-laurel. For nearly a week have I
observed in my house these blossoms lingering in patient expectancy,
when the flowers on the parent shrub in the woods had fallen several
days before, their mission in life having been fulfilled. In the house
specimens the radiating stamens, which are naturally dependent upon
insects for their release, and the consequent discharge of the pollen,
remained in their pockets on the side of the blossom-cup, a support,
as it seemed, for the bracing up of the corolla upon its receptacle.
But when the operation of releasing the stamens was artificially
consummated, the flower-cup soon dropped off or withered upon the
peduncle.

Not mainly has the writer, in attributing a phosphorescent quality
to the evening primrose, followed the license of fancy, for, if
scientists are to be believed, the regular luminous glow of this
and other nocturnal flowers has long attracted the attention of the
curious, and positive qualities of inherent light have been accorded
in many instances. It is true, as one authority asserts, that “the
evening primrose is perfectly visible in the darkest night,” from
which fact phosphorescent properties have been ascribed to it. Many
well-authenticated cases are on record of luminous, electrical,
lightning-like phosphorescence playing about flowers, the daughter
of Linnæus having been the first one to note such an interesting
phenomenon. Similar flashes or corona have been observed in
nasturtiums, double marigold, geraniums, red poppy, tuberose, sunflower
and evening primrose. According to various authorities, and it would be
a rash and presumptuous commentator who would dare to challenge such
an array of competence, many beautiful surprises await the traveller
among the dewy shadows. Whoever has made such a journey will not only
return with the consciousness that he has doubled his possessions, but
that he has also explored a new world--a realm which he can look in
the face on the morrow with an exchange of recognition that was truly
impossible yesterday.

Whether or not all the facts that have been adduced show that plants
are conscious organisms in the particulars for which it is claimed,
it matters not, for enough have been set forth to demonstrate beyond
the shadow of a doubt the position that they are endowed with a
consciousness, no matter how infinitesimally small a part it plays
in nature. Everyday observation of the botanist teaches the fact.
Sensation, which is consciousness, has preceded in time and in history
the evolution of the greater part of plants and animals, unicellular
and multicellular, and, therefore, if kinetogenesis, or the doctrine of
the effects of molar motion, be true, “consciousness,” as Cope alleges,
“has been essential to a rising scale of organic evolution.” Animals
which do not perform simple acts of self-preservation must necessarily,
sooner or later, perish. Impossible it is to understand how the lowest
forms of life, wholly dependent as they are on physical conditions of
many kinds, should to-day exist if they were not possessed of some
degree of consciousness under stimuli at least. We have but to picture
to ourselves the condition of a vertebrate, without general or special
sensation, would we obtain a clear perception of the essentiality of
consciousness to its existence. If now use, as has been maintained,
has modified structure, and so, in coöperation with the environment,
has directed evolution, we can understand the origin and development
of useful organs, and also how, by parasitism, or some other mode
of gaining a livelihood without exertion, the adoption of new and
skilful movements would be unnecessary, and consciousness itself seldom
aroused, for continual repose would be followed by sub-consciousness,
and later by unconsciousness. Such appears to be largely the history
of degeneracy everywhere, and such is, perhaps, in a great measure
the history of the entire vegetable kingdom, for plants, from their
ability to manufacture protoplasm from inorganic substances, do not
bodily move about in quest of food as animals generally do, and
therefore require no conscious conditions, it would seem, to guide
their movements. They become fixed, and their entire organization,
except in specialized instances, becomes monopolized by the functions
of nutrition and reproduction. Their movements are mostly rhythmic or
rotary, but that they exhibit the quality of impromptu design more
frequently than scientists are willing to allow must be admitted, or
facts and the conclusions which naturally flow therefrom constitute
no criteria of judging. Too much stress, I fear, is placed in these
days upon the action of certain supposed forces that are resident in
the plant’s or animal’s environment in accounting for its behavior, to
the utter exclusion of any energy that may be acting from within the
organism itself. “That consciousness as well as life preceded organism,
and has been the _primum mobile_ in the creation of organic structure,”
as Cope assumes, there is no doubt; but that it early abandoned the
vegetable world, and also that all the energies of vegetable protoplasm
soon became automatic, causing plants in general to become sessile,
and therefore parasitic and in one sense degenerate, I cannot wholly
accept. That insects have, in the matter of evolution of plant-types,
exerted considerable influence on the conditions of almost all of their
organs, the forms of the organs of fructification and especially of the
flowers, through certain stimuli and strains to which they have become
subjected by reason of these insects and their occupancy of parts as
dwelling-places, there can be no doubt; and it is probable also, as has
been maintained, that we owe to insects, directly or indirectly, not
only the forms, but also the colors of the flowers, and their odors and
peculiar markings as well. And thus while degeneracy, as observed in
the abortion of ovules, carpels and perianth, may be seen everywhere,
which the influences that have acted upon them have induced, yet it is
the height of presumption to assert that consciousness has entirely
abandoned the members of the vegetable kingdom, and that they are
reduced to the condition of mere automata. It is true, as has been
claimed, that the permanent and the successful forms of organization
have ever been those in which motion and sensibility have been
preserved, as well as the most highly developed; and just as true it
is that plants, even though fixed to the soil and unable to effect a
change of environment in consequence, are not so incapable of conscious
actions as not to be able to meet any changes, and these changes do
very often occur, that climate, new conditions of soil, helps or
hindrances to growth and wear, may bring about. That they must adapt
themselves to such changes, or perish in their struggle to exist, none
can question. It is not enough to say that natural selection affords
an explanation of every phenomenon that they may exhibit. There is an
energy within the plant, think and write as we will, and it is this
that comes to its aid and directs the movement that will be productive
of the most good.

Concluding, then, let me aver that no plant can exist or fulfil its
allotted part in the drama of life without the possession of some form
or degree of consciousness. If it be true that life and consciousness
preceded organization, and the statement can hardly be disputed, and
have been the _primum mobile_ in the creation of organic structure,
what reason, seeing that life necessarily persists in vegetable
organism, can be given for their dissociation in existing forms of
plants, as seems to be the tendency of modern scientific thought?
That plants once possessed consciousness, there can be no difference
of opinion. Well, then, what has become of this consciousness? It
could not have been destroyed, for energy or force, and consciousness
certainly must be placed under this category, can never be destroyed.
I repeat the question. What has become of it? Either it exists in the
plant in a dormant condition, awaiting opportunities to call it into
existence, or it has returned to the great Source of all consciousness,
whence each individual organism, whether of plant or animal, obtained
its _quantum_. It still exists, but how or under what conditions,
I cannot affirm, and is to plants what mind is to man and animals,
controlling their actions when such are for their well-being and good.
If mind persists in a future state, then consciousness, which may be
considered as mind in plants, must also persist, for it is not at all
likely that the Source of all consciousness, which we worship as God,
the Creator of all things, could be unmindful of the least of His
children.

MIND IN ANIMALS.

That the lower animals are in possession of all the characters of the
mind or soul that are either the inherited or acquired properties of
man, some evidence will now be adduced. Foremost among these qualities
is Reason. Much vagueness of idea exists as to what constitutes reason,
the general tendency being to confound it with instinct, and to wonder
where the one ends and the other begins. Hundreds of anecdotes, too
familiar for mention, might be instanced, which have been described as
wonderful examples of instinct, but which, upon careful examination,
have been shown to be undoubted proofs of reason. That disposition of
mind by which, independent of all instruction or experience, animals
are unerringly directed to do spontaneously whatever is necessary
for the preservation of the individual or the continuation of the
species, is instinct. It is instinct that teaches the newly-born child
to breathe, or to seek its mother’s breast and obtain its nourishment
by suction. Instinct teaches the bird how to make its nest after the
manner of its kind, but it is reason that leads it to construct a
fabric radically different from the typical form. Taking the case of
insects, there can be no doubt that it is instinct that teaches the
caterpillar to make its cocoon, to remain there until it has developed
into an imago, and then to force its entrance into the world. Ducks,
though hatched under a hen, instinctively make their way to the water,
while chickens, though hatched under a duck, instinctively keep away
from it. Man, as well as the lower animals, has his instincts, but very
few of them are apparent, for he is able to bring the most of them
under subjection by the power of his reason. Some, however, remain and
assert themselves throughout the entire period of his life.

There is the widest possible difference between reason and instinct,
the former being an exercise of the will, while the latter is
independent thereof. Instinct comes in at birth, but reason is an
after-growth of the mind. No exercise of thought does instinct require,
but when the mind reasons some conclusion is deduced from the premises
which it has assumed. All animals, in common with ourselves, possess
the power of reasoning, although in a less degree. It is by the
superiority of our reason over theirs that we maintain our supremacy.
False premises often lead to wrong deductions, but their process is
still one of pure reason. With them, as well as with ourselves, reason,
especially in the case of domestic animals, often conquers instinct,
and so by contact with a higher order of reason, that of man’s, their
own is more fully developed. They, in a sense, become civilized. Let
a hungry dog and a cat be left in a room where food is unguarded,
and their instincts will urge them to jump upon the table and help
themselves. But if they have been trained, their reason restrains their
instinct, and, no matter how hungry they may be, they will not touch
the food until it is given to them. Some few years ago a matronly lady
and her dog, a beautiful pug, were accustomed to take their dinner at a
saloon which the writer daily visited. The dog was given a chair on the
side opposite his mistress. He was a well-mannered animal, and never
during his many visits to the place did he ever violate the laws of
good manners. Patiently he would wait until the food was put upon his
plate, and not even then would he take it, for he had been taught that
it was something that should not be hastily seized and eaten. The idea
that food cost money was distinctly impressed upon his mind, and this
the owner did by thrice repeating, “This cost money.” It was evident
that the dog understood what was said from the thoughtful look he gave
her. In a little while he was given the command to eat, but, like the
cultured he was, everything was done orderly and decently. Almost any
animal can be thus trained to subject its natural instincts to its
reason.

Fishes are not known to possess much reason. There is not an angler,
nevertheless, that will not tell you that he has had the powers of his
mind taxed to the utmost in his efforts to induce an old and wary trout
to take the bait, and even when he has succeeded in hooking him, it has
greatly tried his genius for planning to prevent the fish from breaking
his line. Natural instinct teaches a fish to fly from man, and even
one’s shadow on the water will frighten away the fish and destroy an
angler’s hopes of success. Yet we have seen a pond full of gold-fish
which were quite tame, and which, when they saw a human being at the
side of the pond, would come forward instead of showing alarm. They
were so perfectly confiding that they would take a piece of bread or
biscuit out of his hand. Here, then, is an example of the instinct,
which urges them to flee from man, being overcome by the reason, which
tells them to approach him.

Animals of burden may often be seen attending to prescribed work
without any supervision. Dray-horses, as is well known, sometimes take
pleasure in their work. I knew of a horse of the kind that was as much
interested, apparently, his work as his owner. He never had to be told
when to move, for all the while the dray was loading he was observant
of everything, and, knowing the capacity thereof, was ready when the
look from the master told him to proceed. Horses have sometimes shown a
knowledge of the amount of work they are supposed to perform in a day.
A case has been cited of a horse by Mr. Wood that was capable of doing
his work without a driver. He belonged to the owner of an American
mine. As soon as his cart was filled with ore, at a given signal he
went off to the spot where the ore was to be dumped, waited until the
cart was unloaded, and then returned for another load. So many loads
had to be carried daily, and, strange to relate, the animal knew when
his task was finished as well as any of the men. When the last load for
the day was deposited, he could be seen trotting off in the direction
of home, where he knew he would receive a kind reception from his
mistress.

[Illustration: WONDERFUL EQUINE INTELLIGENCE.

A Horse That Knew When His Day’s Work Was Done.]

Enough has been said to show that animals have and do exercise powers
of reason. That they have the means of transmitting ideas to their
fellows is not to be questioned. Language is the means of transmission.
Not only are they able to interchange thoughts with each other, but
with man also when they are brought into contact with him. They must
possess a language of some kind, whereby they can understand each
other, can comprehend human language, and make themselves intelligible
to man. All these conditions are fulfilled in the lower animals, but
there is one distinction between the capability of understanding their
own language and that of man, and that is, that they are born with the
one and have to learn the other. Newly-hatched chickens, although they
have only entered the world an hour or so ago, understand perfectly
well their mother. They know what to do when she calls them to find
what food she has unearthed, and they know what to do when she warns
them of danger. Who has not heard them talk to her? But how different
are their tones under various circumstances. The little piping notes of
content when all is going on well can never be confounded with the cry
of alarm when they have lost their way or are otherwise frightened.

Wasps, as everybody knows who has studied these insects, carry out one
of the first principles of military art. They always have the gate of
their fortress guarded by a sentinel. Should danger be imminent, the
alarm is given by the sentinel, and out rush the inhabitants to wreak
vengeance upon the offender. Out of a full-sized nest, consisting of
many hundred wasps, it is evident that the individual who is to act as
sentinel must be selected, and its task appointed. How the selection is
made, no one knows. But that such is done, there can be no question,
for the rest of the community acknowledge their sentinel, trust to it
for guarding the approaches of the nest, while they busy themselves
with the usual task of collecting food for the young and new material
for the nest.

Nearly related to wasps are the ants. Some of their performances are
truly astonishing. They have armies commanded by officers, who issue
orders, insist on obedience, and will not permit, while on the march,
any of the privates to stray from the ranks. There are other ants
which till the ground, weed it, plant the particular grain on which
they feed, cut it when ripe, and store it in their subterranean
granaries. Arrant slaveholders are others, who make systematic raids
upon neighboring species, carry off their yet unhatched cocoons, and
rear them in their own nests to be their servants. Somewhat recent
discoveries show that there are ants which bury their dead. Two pairs
of bearers are chosen to carry the corpse, one pair relieving the other
when tired, while the main body, often several hundred in number,
follow behind. So much could be said about ants, so closely do their
performances resemble the customs of human civilization, that the
subject could never grow uninteresting, but we must, for the present,
forbear. All these various performances could not be possible were
there not some way by which communication, or interchange of ideas,
could be carried on among the individual members of the same community.
Sometimes one species of ant is capable of carrying on a conversation,
so to speak, with another. Bees, wasps and ants are the best linguists
of the insect race, their language being chiefly conducted by means of
their antennæ.

Who has not often observed two dogs, members of the same household,
holding sweet converse with each other? Pug and Gyp were two animals
that belonged to the family where I spent a summer vacation. They
thought much of each other when romping together in the yard, or in
foraging the neighboring woods and fields for rabbits and ground-hogs.
Never would they start out on an expedition for game without having
previously laid their plans. It was interesting and amusing to watch
them. They would bring their heads into close contiguity, remaining
in this position for two or three minutes, when, by mutual consent,
they would separate, look each other in the eyes, and then start off
in different directions for the scene of their projected enterprise.
Times out of number I have observed such behavior and have always
discovered that they meant something of the kind. There were no audible
utterances, no visible gestures, yet there was an interchange of
ideas. Through the medium of the eye were the thoughts conveyed. It
was spirit speaking directly to spirit, conveying by a single glance of
the eye thoughts which whole volumes would fail to express.

Each species of animal has its own dialect. Yet there is another
language, a sort of animal _lingua franca_, which is common to all.
A cry of warning, no matter from what bird or animal it emanates, is
understood by them all, as is well known to many a sportsman who has
lost his only chance of a shot by reason of an impertinent crow, jay or
magpie which has espied him, and has given its cry of alarm. There is
not a bird of garden or orchard, or a fowl of the barnyard or doorside,
that does not understand the peculiar cry of the rooster when a hawk is
seen careering overhead, or perched upon the summit of a near-by tree.
With one accord they flee to their coverts, and there remain until the
danger is past.

No more quarrelsome and pugnacious species of bird exists than
the English sparrow. He appropriates every available locality for
nesting purposes, and our native species are driven to the necessity
of fighting for their rights, or of seeking quarters in the rural
districts which these birds do not infect. Thus it is that many a
useful robin, bluebird or martin is driven from our midst. Many have
witnessed encounters between these birds and the robins. The author
once saw a contest between a pair of sparrows and a pair of robins for
the possession of a certain tree that grew in his yard. Now the robin,
single-handed, is more than a match for a sparrow. In the engagement
referred to, the robins were getting the better of the sparrows, which
the latter were not slow in perceiving. Instantly the sparrows set up
the wild, ear-piercing harangue for which they are peculiarly noted,
when more than a score of friends from the immediate vicinity gathered
to their assistance. But the war-cry which they sounded not only
summoned help to their standard, but it was equally understood by all
the other birds of the neighborhood, who flocked to the defence of
their brethren against the alien. The battle waged warm and fiercely
for some minutes, when the sparrows were forced to seek safety in
retreat.

Not only can crows and rooks assemble, hold council and agree to act on
the result of their deliberations, but other birds are known to do the
same things. Birds are able to communicate their thoughts to each other
by means of a language, but it is not likely that in their language,
or the language of animals in general, there are any principles of
construction such as are possessed by all human languages. But the
same effect may be produced by different means, and the reader will
see that in the above instance no human language, however perfect
its construction, could have served its purpose better than did the
inarticulate language of the sparrows. They told their friends that
their territory was usurped by an intruder too strong to be ejected
by them, and implored their assistance. But while it told them this,
it did still more, for it conveyed the report to their numerous foes,
who winged their way to the support of their opponents. In fact,
whenever animals of any kind form alliances and act simultaneously for
one common purpose, it is evident that language of some sort must be
employed.

That beasts possess a language, which enables them to communicate
their ideas to each other, 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, it is
true, would be impossible. Every one who has possessed and cared for
some favorite 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 anyone is likely to injure himself or his
master, and the bark of terror when the dog is suddenly frightened at
something which it cannot understand. Supposing, now, that its master
could not see the dog, but could only hear its bark, would he not
know perfectly well the ideas which were passing through the animal’s
mind? Most certainly he would. There is a difference between the mew
of distress and the ordinary conversation, the purr of pleasure, of a
cat. A pet canary always knows how to call its mistress, and when it
sees her will give a glad chirrup of recognition quite distinct from
its ordinary call. Bees and wasps have quite a different sound in their
wings when angry than when in the discharge of their ordinary work. Any
one conversant with their ways understands the expression of anger and
makes the best of his way off.

All the foregoing are but examples of sound-language. The
gesture-language of animals, however, is wonderfully extensive and
expressive. A cat, could it say in plain words, “Please open the door
for me,” could not convey its ideas more intelligently than it does
by going to the door, uttering a plaintive mew to show that it wants
help, and then patting the door. Dogs, or, in fact, all animals that
are accustomed to live in the house, will act after a similar fashion.
There, then, we perceive that the lower animals can form connected
ideas, and can convey them to man, so that the same ideas are passing
at the same moment through the minds of man and beast, evidencing that
they possess the same faculties, though of different extent.

[Illustration: PAPIER-MACHÉ PALACE OF THE HORNET.

Sentinel Guarding the Entrance to the Palace.]

Some few examples must suffice to show the power of gesture-language in
the lower animals. I once owned a dog, a variety of hound, which was
as companionable as any animal could possibly be. He was never happy
unless he was on the go. So fond was he of travel and sight-seeing,
that I gave him the name of Rover. My occupation calling me from home
every day of the week, except Saturday and Sunday, but giving me a few
hours of each day before the shadows began to settle round, Rover was
forced to spend his time during my absence as best he could. He was no
ordinary dog. Little he cared for the dogs of the neighborhood. His
was a superior nature, and rather than associate with his neighbors
when my companionship could not be had, he would perform his journeys
alone, sometimes being gone nearly the entire day. But he managed
to keep a pretty fair record of the time, for he was always on hand
to greet me on my return home. His joy at my coming knew no bounds.
He would rub up against my side, caper around me, assuming a hundred
different attitudes, leap up into my face, which he would caress with
his tongue. I shall never forget the barks of delight, nor the smile,
as I would call it, for it verily seemed a smile to me, which lit up
his intelligent face. Then he would slowly meander his way to the gate.
Reaching it, he would place his right front paw upon the latch, spring
it, and, taking hold of the top with his mouth, fling it wide open. He
was then a very happy fellow. That he appreciated the favor I was about
to show him, there could be no question, as he plainly showed it in his
look, gesture and speech. Sometimes it was not convenient for me to
take a walk with him, or I was not in the physical or mental condition
to do so. It was not necessary for me to tell him in so many words that
the pleasure would have to be foregone for the present, for his keen,
discerning mind could read it in my looks. I never liked to disappoint
him, for the grief which he manifested was piteous in the extreme.
He would prostrate himself to the ground, place his head between his
front paws, and look the very picture of inconsolable distress. The
low, sorrowful moan which he would emit, when the disappointment was
the keenest, was so heart-rending, that many a time I would reverse my
purpose and say, “Come, Rover, master will not deny so good a creature
the pleasure of his company for an hour or so in the woods.” Instantly
his whole expression would change, and there would be exhibited a joy
as intense as the grief which had depressed him to the earth. Rover
was no hypocrite. His sorrow was not assumed, but as real and poignant
a sorrow as ever possessed a human breast. I have known him to grieve
for hours, and even to refuse the daintiest food when he has been
disappointed. Were he dissembling, seeing that it availed him not,
he would not be likely to have kept it up so long, and to his sore
discomfort and detriment. Examples of animals making their language
intelligible to man could be multiplied _ad infinitum_, but we must
pass on to say something about their capability of understanding the
language of man.

That many of the lower animals understand something of human language
is a familiar fact. All the domesticated animals, notably the dog and
the horse, can comprehend an order that is given to them, though,
perhaps, they may not be able in all instances to understand the
precise words which are used. There are many occasions, however, when
it is evident that the knowledge of human language does extend to the
signification of particular words. Parrots, as is well known, are well
acquainted with the meanings of the words which they speak. Examples
have been known to the writer of parrots that were able to speak in two
languages, and, when addressed, always replied in the language used by
their interlocutors, speaking English or Spanish, as the case might be.
“Go, bring up the cows,” was an order that was daily given to Lion,
a large black dog, with a shaggy head, that belonged to my maternal
grandfather, an old-time farmer who lived way back in the fifties. So
well did he understand the significance of these words, and the labor,
worry and responsibility which they implied, that he did not have to
be told a second time, nor have to have their import conveyed to him
by sign or by action of the farm lad whose business it was to see that
the animals were brought to the barn-yard at milking time. Obedient
to orders, he would trot to the pasture-ground, nearly a quarter-mile
distant, open the bars between the lane and the field with his mouth,
and then start on his business with a full sense of its requirements.
His coming was well known to the cattle. While the most of them would
take their way in a quiet, orderly manner to the lane, yet there were
some unruly ones among them who gave Lion a great deal of trouble, but
he always succeeded in overruling their contrary tendencies. When there
was a tumult in the hennery, accompanied by loud noises, the command,
“Go, see what the trouble is!” was performed to the very letter, and
the trouble, if any, was speedily announced by a series of loud, sharp,
quick barks, which soon brought some one or more members of the family
to the scene of disorder. If nothing unusual was happening, Lion would
return to the house in a slow, leisurely way, and by his looks convey,
as clearly as man could do it, the utter needlessness of the command.

Not only is the dog capable of understanding many things that are said
to him, but is even capable of forestalling one’s wishes. Part of one
of the writer’s vacations was spent in a small country town not very
remote from Philadelphia. There was in the family with whom he boarded
a dog called Prince. He was a very great favorite, and was once noted
for his lively, vivacious disposition and jolly manners. But at the
time of my introduction to him, he seemed to be suffering from some
bodily affliction, which had not only taken away his appetite for food,
but the very _animus_ of his being. Upon inquiry I learned that the
master of the house, to whom Prince was so deeply attached, had died
the year before, and that the dog had taken his death so completely to
heart that he had lost all of his former vivacity. He refused all food,
often going for days without taking a single mouthful. Life seemed to
have lost for him all its charms. Sad and dejected he would lie upon
the porch-floor or ground, seemingly unconscious of everything and
everybody. That he was slowly dying seemed evident to all. But a change
from our first interview appeared to come over the animal. From some
cause or other, he had taken quite a fancy to me. He would greet me
with considerable friendliness when I would come down in the morning,
and always seemed glad to be in my presence. My first business, on
coming downstairs, was to go for the newspaper, which was always to be
found inside the yard, some thirty steps from the house. I would then
sit down upon the porch and read it, but Prince was always close-by, a
willing spectator. One morning, however, instead of going to the gate
for the paper as was my custom, I stood debating in my mind whether to
go or not, when, to my utmost surprise, the dog, after watching me for
a while, walked very soberly down to the gate, picked up the paper in
his mouth, and brought it to me, not laying it down at my feet, but
placing it in my hands. I thanked him for his kindness, gave him a few
gentle pats upon the head, and he walked away as pleased as a child
would have been who had received a few pennies for a similar service.
The dog had evidently read in my looks the debate that was going on in
my mind, and knowing that I always read the paper when I came down
from my room, anticipated my wishes by bringing it to me.

[Illustration: UNSOLICITED AND UNLOOKED-FOR KINDNESS.

How Prince Forestalled My Wishes by Bringing Me the Morning Newspaper.]

There is in the two interesting stories just related a singular
aggregation of faculties which are held in man to belong to the
immortal, and not to the mortal part of his being. Reason, or the
deduction of a conclusion from premises, is strikingly exhibited.
Then there is the power of forming ideas and communicating them to
man, and the capability of understanding man’s language, and even of
anticipating the wishes of human friends. And lastly, there is the
intense love for the master, combined with the power of self-sacrifice,
which enabled Lion and Prince to act as they did, while instinct was
urging them to take their exercise in the open air, or in the enjoyment
of luxurious ease.

No faculty of the mind gives greater trouble to materialists than
Memory. It is that which survives when every particle of the material
brain has been repeatedly changed. It is that which more or less deeply
receives impressions and retains them through a long series of years.
And even when they are apparently forgotten, hidden as it were behind
a temporary veil, a passing odor, a dimly-heard sound or a nodding
flower may rend the veil asunder in the twinkling of an eye, and scenes
long forgotten are reproduced before the memory as vividly as though
time had been annihilated. Nothing is omitted. There comes up to view
a minute and instantaneous insight into every detail, and for a moment
we break loose from our fleshy tabernacle, and see and hear with our
spiritual and not with our material eyes and ears. Man expects that
he shall retain his memory and carry it into the next world. He also
expects to recognize in the spiritual world those whom he has loved in
this temporal sphere. Memory, therefore, must be spiritual and eternal;
and wherever it can be found, there exists an immortal spirit. No
stronger evidence, apart from Revelation, exists of a future life of
man than memory. And if we apply this proof to ourselves, then, in pure
justice, we should apply it wherever memory is found.

But some have claimed that memory is a mere emanation from the brain.
That an inferior brain is coupled with an inferior intellect, and that
if the brain be slightly or seriously injured, the powers of thought
will be weakened or utterly held in abeyance, are arguments that have
been made to prove that thought is the creation of the brain. The facts
in themselves are true, but the conclusion is false. The brain is but
the organ or instrument of the thought-power, and stands in the same
relation to it that a tool does to a carpenter. However good an artisan
a carpenter may be, it is but common-sense to say that he cannot turn
out good work with a blunt instrument, or any work at all with a broken
one. So it is with the brain. It is but the tool of the spirit, and,
if it be damaged in any way, the keenest intellect will not be able to
work with it. Memory, moreover, exists in creatures which are devoid of
brain. No real brain, but only a succession of nervous ganglia running
the entire length of the body, is found in insects, and indeed in many
of them the faculty of memory is very strongly developed.

Then there is the moner, a mere speck of formless protoplasm, that has
not the slightest trace of a specialized nervous system, yet it has
the power of throwing out arms and of retracting them into the general
body-mass, of opening out mouths where a particle of food strikes
it, of digesting its food, and of circulating its fluid without the
necessity of canals. But how are these movements effected? Certainly a
nervous influence is the prime mover of all its actions. Nerve-matter,
mayhap, constitutes its entire body-mass, or it may be all brain as
well as all muscle. Though the lowest and simplest of all animal life,
yet it possesses an innate consciousness and intelligence. Memory is
not wanting as a faculty of the mind of this all-brain animal, which
I have thought fit to characterize it, as some actions of it already
described under the head of “Slime Animals” seem very clearly to
indicate.

Some fifteen years ago I mentioned in an article, entitled “Insect
Pets,” a pair of flies, the common _Musca domestica_ of our houses,
which had been closely observed by Mr. Forestel, the gentleman who at
that time had charge of the distributing department of the Philadelphia
_Record_. This position necessitates nocturnal employment. While taking
his midnight lunch, Mr. Forestel’s attention was directed to a pair of
these insects that had located themselves upon his plate. Had it been
in the summer when flies were plentiful, the event would hardly have
been noticed; but being in the winter, a season notable for their great
scarcity, they could not but impress his mind with something out of
the ordinary. Night after night these self-invited and curious guests
presented themselves at the same place, and it was a long time before
he observed the regularity of their visits. At first he was disposed to
view the alighting of two flies upon his plate as a mere coincidence,
but he at length became so deeply interested in the affair, that he
resolved to watch their actions very closely. It was not long before he
became convinced that they always waited for the commencement of the
meal, when they would deliberately fly down for their regular lunch.
So closely did he watch them, that he was soon able to discriminate
between the two, and to discover beyond a doubt that it was not a
series of two flies, but always the same pair. As time progressed, Mr.
Forestel and the flies grew to be famous friends. They in time became
so friendly, that they would permit themselves to be handled. Although
at first they would only appear when Mr. Forestel was alone, yet they
soon became accustomed to strangers. On the nights when their friend
was not on duty, others have spread their lunches on the table used by
him, but the flies were not slow in making the discovery, and, instead
of alighting, would quickly hasten away without their accustomed meal.
Who can deny the possession of memory to these two flies? Had the
discovery of the food been an accidental occurrence the first time,
could it have been so the second and all the succeeding times? Then,
again, the flies always came at the right time, showing that they had
some idea of the passing moments. Even admitting that this latter
thought is out of the range of probability, there can be no doubt that
they were not observant creatures, else how would they know when to
come, or whether or not the man that sat at the table was the same that
had shown them so much kindness on their previous visits. That they did
know these things, there cannot be the slightest doubt. But how did
they know them? There is only one answer to the query. They knew them
through the exercise of memory, these creatures impressing on their
minds the appearance of the objects near the table, the form and color
of the table itself, the look, manner and dress of the man who sat by
it, and acting on the result of these impressions. Human beings act in
just the same way in traversing for the first time a locality through
which they will have to return. And yet, as has already been stated,
these insects have no true brains.

Considerably removed from insects are the vermes, or worms. Man, in his
overweening opinion of self, would hardly credit the earth-worm with
the possession of any mental qualities; yet it has been shown that it
can reason, and can communicate after its fashion with its fellows.
It is now my intention to prove that it has the power of memory. Has
the reader ever seen an earth-worm trying to carry into its burrow a
pair of pine-needles joined at their bases? It knows just where to
seize the pair. This it determines by feeling, or moving its head along
the needles, the sense of touch being very acute in this portion of
its body. Hardly ever is a mistake made by seizing the free or apical
extremities. Once it has discovered where to act, this position is
fixed in memory, and the animal exercises the latter power in dealing
with objects of the kind in all subsequent operations.

Almost any living being can by means of the faculty of memory be taught
by man. But were it absent, no teaching would be of the slightest
avail. In most cases where an animal is ferocious, I firmly believe
that fear, and not ill-temper, is the real cause of its conduct. Let
a little kindness be shown, and the animal will never forget it.
Such acts, repeatedly performed, assure it that your intentions are
well-meant, and it soon learns to recognize in you a friend. The
memory of your goodness will often be recollected after long years of
separation, and the most joyous feelings be manifested at the sight
of your presence upon returning home. Everyone who has had personal
experience of domesticated animals must have remarked the great
strength and endurance of their powers of memory. The dog, the cat, the
horse and the ass afford so many familiar anecdotes in point, that I
shall be obliged to pass them over and restrict my illustrations to a
few animals about which little has been said.

For obstinacy of opinion no animal can excel the pig. He is a creature
whom few, on account of his uncleanly person and disgusting habits,
would care to caress. Yet there is no animal under man’s care that
enjoys such treatment better than he does. He will stand for hours
while you rub his head and back, the very impersonation of contentment,
never failing to express his thanks and appreciation by occasional
monosyllabic grunts. A friend of ours, living in Northern Indiana,
had a fine fellow, whom he had raised from infancy. When he was quite
young, he began to show him considerable attention, picking him up
in his arms, and fondling him in the most affectionate manner. The
choicest food was always reserved for him, and the cosiest bed of straw
provided for his nightly rest. In process of time the animal grew to
great size, but he never forgot these early attentions. He expected
them all the same. When denied what he deemed were his lawful rights,
he would set up an unearthly squealing, enough to split the ears of
the groundlings, and refuse to be comforted until his demands were
satisfied. Never was the master, when out of the house, safe from his
intrusions. He would besiege him in the presence of company, command
his attention, and cry in his own peculiar fashion if he thought
himself ignored. Many a rough-and-tumble game, which reminded me of
boys in my childhood days, would they have together, and it was really
amusing to see them. They enjoyed these tussles, which were always of
the most friendly character.

Stupid as the life of a cow may seem to be, yet there has been known
to the writer some cows which were far from being dull and prosaic.
Our same Hoosier friend had such an animal, whom he called Daisy. She
was very docile and affectionate, and would come, even when grazing in
the most delightful pasture of clover, whenever her name happened to
be mentioned. Daisy was a pretty creature, and very exemplary in her
conduct. When her companions would break into a field of corn, where
they had no right to be, she would not follow their wicked example,
but remained where her master had placed her and the rest of the herd,
showing them, as it were, that she did not approve of such wilful
waywardness. No member of the bovine family of animals ever showed a
greater fondness for love than Daisy. The master could put his arms
around her neck, and lay his face against the side of her own. That she
approved of such familiarity was evident, for she would show that she
did by placing her lips against his in true lover-like fashion. But
there came a time when this attachment to the master became dissolved.
On account of the bad behavior of the herd in general, and to make it
a law-abiding community, it was resolved that each member should have
its horns sawn off close up to the skull. This, it was thought, would
improve the temper of the herd, and make it less troublesome to manage.
No fear was entertained, however, for Daisy, who was already as good as
she could be, but Daisy must undergo the same cruel punishment for the
sake of uniformity in this particular in the herd. It had, however, the
opposite effect upon Daisy from what it had upon the rest of the herd,
for it made her sullen and morose, and from that time she resented all
familiarity upon the part of the master. She seemed to view him as her
worst enemy. All attempts to settle her grievances were viewed in a
suspicious manner, and the matter of reconciliation had at length to be
abandoned.

Beasts, there is no doubt, were intended to be the servants of man, and
there is nothing in his hands half so powerful in the accomplishment
of this end as thoughtful kindness. Inflexible decision, combined with
gentleness and sympathy, are irresistible weapons in his power, and no
animal exists, I firmly believe, which cannot be subdued if the right
man undertakes the task. By this mixture of firmness and kindness
many a wild beast of a horse has been in a half-hour rendered gentle
and subservient by Rarey, obeying the least sign of his conqueror,
and permitting himself to be freely handled without displaying the
slightest resentment.

That there is something more in memory than a mere production of a
material brain must seem probable from the examples given. In several
cases the animals were without any brains at all, but in others, where
a brain did exist, its material particles must have been repeatedly
changed, while the ideas impressed upon the memory still remained in
full force.

Perhaps no attribute of the mind is better fitted to follow that which
has just been treated than Generosity. But whether we accept it in
the sense of liberality or magnanimity, it is certainly a very lofty
quality, and one which infinitely ennobles the character of those who
possess it. Taken in the former sense, it is an attribute of Deity,
who gives us freely all that we have, and so sets us an example of
generosity to our fellow-creatures. Now, if it be admitted that the
possession of generosity ennobles man’s character, while the lack of
that quality debases it, then the inference is undeniable that when we
find a beast possessing generosity, and a man devoid of it, the beast
is in that particular the superior of the man. And that generosity,
being a divine attribute, belongs to the spirit and not to the body,
no believer in Christianity is likely to deny. Therefore, wherever we
find this characteristic developed, we must admit the presence of an
immortal spirit.

That the lower animals do possess generosity in the sense of Liberality
will now be proved from circumstances that have occurred within my
own observation. My first proof is a very interesting one, and is
drawn from the life of a dog that was the companion of my school-boy
days. Sport was the name of the animal. He was not a greedy, selfish
creature, but a generous, noble fellow. Many an act of self-sacrifice
had he been known to perform, and he was never happier than when he
was doing some good to his fellows. It was not unlike him, when he
would meet a poor, strange and hungry animal of his own kind by the
roadway, to bring him to his master’s house, and at the meal-hour
divide with the unfortunate his noon-day allowance. Between him and
a certain cat, called Blackey, which was also a member of the same
household, there existed a very strong friendship. Any injury done the
cat was most summarily resented by Sport. He would share his meals
with her, and never seemed satisfied unless she would consent to take
the choicest bits. But the generosity was not all on his side, for the
cat certainly rivalled him in the exercise of this noble trait, which
all acknowledge to be one of the noblest characteristics of the human
mind. When Blackey was sick, and unable to be around, much of the time
of the dog would be spent in her presence. He would caress her with
his paw, smooth her silken, jet-black fur with his tongue, and seek by
every means in his power to raise her drooping spirits and alleviate
her miseries. No animal, not even man himself, could show more real
sympathy for a fellow in distress than Sport did for Blackey.

No bird, it would seem, could be expected to manifest so little of
generosity as the sparrow. As a rule, sparrows are remarkable for
their ability to take care of themselves. Theirs is a nature which
is based upon self. They are an avaricious species, and little they
reck for their neighbors. As the eagle is known to treat the osprey,
and the skua-gull its weaker brethren, so the sparrow has been known
to act towards its neighbors. But exceptions exist to every rule, and
we are pleased to record an honorable one in the case of this most
detested species. Close by a maple-tree, which a pair of sparrows had
appropriated and made the support for their home, dwelt a sturdy robin
with his mate. Their home, a mud-lined domicile, was placed in the
crotch of a small tree. Three children appeared in process of time to
bless the happy couple. Everything went along smoothly and pleasantly
with the robins, the sparrows being too much engrossed with their
own affairs to think of giving them any trouble. But a tragedy soon
happened which, sad to relate, foreboded evil and consequent death to
the nest-full of young robins. Father and mother had, while searching
for food for the little ones, been cruelly killed by a conscienceless
sportsman. But the fledglings, which seemed doomed to die the death of
starvation, were spared by some good genius who put it into the heart
of the sparrows to pass that way, and thus was their sad and pitiable
condition brought to the light of day. Their heart-rending appeals for
food, combined with their orphaned situation, struck a sympathetic
chord in the breast of the sparrows, and day after day these birds,
whose chief concern naturally seems for self, might be seen acting the
part of the good Samaritan towards these unfortunate of God’s children.

But let us now pass to that form of generosity which has been called
Magnanimity. Few qualities in human nature are more noble than the
capability of foregoing revenge when the offender is powerless to
resist. This unwillingness to resent an injury, even though the
power to do so is present in the individual, is what is implied by
magnanimity. When we find those beings whom we designate brutes rising
to a moral grandeur which few men can attain, disdaining to avail
themselves of the opportunity of vengeance, and even rewarding evil
with good, it does seem an utter absurdity to affirm that they are
not acting under the inspiration of Him who gave us the celestial
maxim, “Love your enemies.” By their actions they show themselves
worthy of everlasting life, and what they deserve they will assuredly
receive at the hands of Him who is Justice and Truth. Consciously,
or unconsciously, the feeling of magnanimity is acknowledged among
mankind. Even in the lowest stratum of society it is recognized. As
with man, so with the lower animals; and there are many instances on
record where the strong have disdained, no matter what the offence had
been, to make reprisals upon the weak.

Bus and Jack are two dogs whose acquaintance I made three years ago.
The one is a beagle, and the other a pug. No one that has seen these
animals in their frolics and plays, would ever suspect that any
differences could arise between them. But when such disagreements do
occur, and there is hardly a day that does not witness a dozen or more,
it is always Bus that is the instigator. The most trifling act upon
the part of Jack will be made the cause of offence, and an excuse for
the precipitation of a quarrel. In a rage, Bus will fly into the face
of Jack, but the latter will coolly shake him off and walk leisurely
away. No provocation will induce him to resent an insult or an injury,
especially where Pug or a dog smaller than himself is concerned. It is
not that he is afraid of Pug, for, when once aroused in the presence
of equal or even superior strength, he becomes a terror. He is too
magnanimous to avenge a wrong done him by one less powerful than
himself. The look which he would give Pug, after one of these attacks
had been made, was one of pure contempt, and said, as plainly as words
could have said, “Your assaults are mere child’s play, and are unworthy
of recognition by one who is so much your superior in feats of valor.”
That Pug felt the meaning and force of the look was apparent, for he
would always slink away abashed to some corner, where he would remain
for an hour or two without showing himself. Over and over again has
Jack allowed little dogs to bite him without troubling himself to
retaliate; but if a big dog ventured upon an insult, that dog had to
run or pay the penalty for his temerity. No dog could give a more
disdainful look than Jack, and that look always gave him an easy and
uninterrupted passage wherever he chose to go.

Other anecdotes of a similar nature might be given to show that
animals can act magnanimously towards each other. That they are as
capable of displaying the magnanimity of their nature towards men
whom they hated has frequently been observed. The manager of a mill
in Fifeshire, Scotland, was, according to Rev. J. G. Wood, very much
disliked by the watch-dog, probably from some harsh treatment which the
animal had received from his hands. One very dark night the manager
had strayed from his path and fell over the dog. Seeing the mistake
he had made, and finding that he could not recover himself, he gave
himself up as lost, for the dog was a very powerful animal. But the
dog was magnanimous enough to spare a helpless enemy, and to lay aside
old grievances. Instead of seizing the prostrate man by the throat,
as a brute would be expected to do, the dog only licked his face and
exhibited his sympathy. Ever afterward the man and the dog were fast
friends.

Just as there are animals capable of exercising great self-denial by
giving to others what belongs to themselves, and even manifesting a
generosity which would put human nature to the blush, so there are
animals which can cheat like accomplished swindlers. As all Cheatery
requires the use of the intellect, it is therefore evident that the
most intellectual animals will be the most accomplished cheats. Dogs
have shown themselves to be considerable adepts in cheating, and
this we would naturally expect. Some curious and rather ludicrous
instances of cheatery upon the part of the dog are noticed. We once
knew a pair of dogs, a spaniel and a pug, that were inmates of the
same house. They were very jealous of each other so far as the master
was concerned, and neither could endure to see the other caressed. It
happened that the spaniel was taken quite ill, and was in consequence
very much cared for and petted. His companion, seeing the attention and
sympathy that were bestowed upon him, pretended to be sick herself,
and, going to a corner of the room, lay down upon the floor and looked
the very picture of misery and distress. A cat and a dog, that for many
years were members of the writer’s family, had taken a fancy to the
same spot, a soft cushion at the head of a sofa. While they were the
best of friends, yet a difference of opinion would occasionally arise,
and a slight loss of temper would be the result. When the cat would be
in the possession of the cushion, the dog would torment her in every
possible way with the view of causing her to abandon the pet spot. He
would pull at the cushion, seeking to drag it to the floor, or, seizing
the occupant by the ear or tail, endeavor to dislodge her by force.
But the cat, seemingly unmindful of what was going on, and the very
impersonation of patience all the while, would refuse to give up so
comfortable a couch. At last the dog hit upon a _ruse_ which he knew
would bring the cat down from the sofa. He rushed out into the kitchen,
and began acting as though in pursuit of a mouse. He and puss had often
engaged in such diverting business. This was more than the latter could
stand. She was down from her cozy bed in an instant, and was soon by
the side of the dog. But as soon as puss, all ablaze with excitement,
had her head in a corner and was straining her eyes to get a glimpse of
the supposed mouse, the dog ran to the sofa at full speed, jumped on
the cushion, curled himself round, and was happy. Poor puss, perceiving
that the dog had left her, was not slow to discern that she had been
imposed upon by the latter, and that it was only a trick that had been
played upon her by her shrewd companion, that he might get possession
of the soft spot upon the sofa. She, however, bore it good-naturedly
and decorously, and was ever afterward on the alert for these little
tricks of her canine friend.

Birds can be as capable of cheating, not only each other, but other
animals. A crow, belonging to John Smedley, a resident of Lima, Pa.,
was an adept in the business. When dinner was preparing, he would fly
around the corner of the house, set up a terrific cawing as though
in great distress, and when the mistress of the house, with whom he
was a great favorite, would come out on a tour of investigation,
the rascally bird would elude her and manage to steal round to the
table in the opposite direction and seize what food suited him the
best, which he would carry to the top of the house, where he would
eat it at his leisure. No persuasions would induce him to come down,
for he knew that such action was a breach of the peace, and he was
fearful of the punishment, that of confinement to a cage, which would
follow. When, however, he felt assured that his mistress had forgiven
the wrong-doing, he would fly down to the porch, and do his utmost
to convince her that he was a well-meaning bird, and that he was
thoroughly ashamed of his actions. But there was one member of the
family that utterly detested the bird. It was the dog Rover. Many a
trick had the bird practised upon the latter, especially at meal time.
Poor Rover was not allowed to eat in peace. When he would be wholly
absorbed in his dinner, the crow would approach him in the rear,
give him a severe twirl of the tail, and then in a twinkling fly to
one side, looking the very picture of innocence. But ere the dog had
recovered his self-possession and was ready to resume his feeding
again, the bird had captured the daintiest morsel, and was off to the
tree-top. Discomfited and outwitted, the dog would rush to the base of
the tree, bark his growls of anger and defiance, while the crow would
look quizzically down from above, and chuckle with delight.

Many of my readers may, perhaps, remember the story of the two dogs
that used to hunt the hare in concert, the one starting the hare and
driving it toward the spot where his accomplice lay concealed. I recall
an instance where a somewhat similar arrangement was made, only the
two contracting parties, instead of being two dogs, were a dog and a
hawk, the latter making use of his wings in driving the prey out of the
copse into the open ground. Innumerous examples of such alliances are
known, and in all of them there is manifest the curious fact that two
animals can arrange a mode of cheating a third. One of the principal
stratagems used in war, that is the ambuscade, whereby the enemy is
induced to believe that danger is imminent in one direction, when it
really lies in the opposite and unsuspecting direction, is employed.
No one would admit that a general who contrived to draw the enemy into
an ambuscade acted by instinct. The act would be construed as proof of
the possession of reasoning powers surpassing those of the adversary.
And if this be the case with the man, why not with the dog, or with the
raven or hawk, when the deception is carried out by precisely the same
line of reasoning?

Beasts possess, in common with man, the sense of Humor. This is
developed in many ways. Generally it assumes the phase of teasing or
annoying others, and thus deriving pleasure or amusement from their
discomfort. Sometimes, both with man and beast, it takes the form of
bodily torture, the struggles of the victim being highly amusing to
the torturer. Civilized man has now learned to regard the infliction
of pain upon a fellow as anything but an amusement, and would rather
suffer the agony than inflict it upon another. But with the savage
it is otherwise, for there is no entertainment so fascinating as
the infliction of bodily pain upon a human being. Among our Indian
tribes, torture is a solemn usage of war, which every warrior expects
for himself if captured, and which he is certain to inflict upon any
prisoner whom he may happen to take. The tortures which he inflicts
are absolutely fiendish, and yet a whole tribe will assemble around
the stake, and gloat upon the agonies which are being borne by a
fellow-creature. Similarly the African savage inflicts the most
excruciating sufferings upon the man or woman accused of witchcraft,
employing means too horrible to be mentioned. But in all these cases
the cruelty seems to be in a great measure owing to obtuseness of
perception. Yet the savage who binds his victim to a stake, and
perforates the sensitive parts of his body with burning pine-splinters,
behaves very much like a child who amuses itself by catching flies,
pulling off their wings and legs, and watching their unavailing efforts
to escape.

Many years ago cockchafers were publicly sold in Paris for children
to torture to death. The amusement consisted in running a hooked pin
through the insect’s tail, fastening a thread thereto, and watching the
poor creature spin in the air. After the poor beetle was too enfeebled
to expand its wings, it was slowly dismembered, the child being greatly
amused at its endeavors to crawl, as leg after leg was pulled from the
body. A similar custom, though in a more cruel form, prevails in Italy,
the creatures which are tortured by way of sport being more capable of
feeling pain than are insects. Birds are employed in this country for
the amusement of children. A string is tied to the leg of the bird, and
the unfortunate creature, after its powers of flight are exhausted,
is generally plucked alive and dismembered. The idea of cruelty does
not seem to enter at all in these practices, but they are done from
the sheer incapacity of understanding that a bird or a beast can be
a fellow-creature. Italians are notorious for their cruel treatment
of animals, and if remonstrated with become very much astonished and
reply, “Non è Cristiano,” that is to say, “It is not a Christian.”
Englishmen have little to boast of on this score. Bear-baiting was
abolished by the Puritans, not because it gave pain to the bear, but
because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Even at the present day,
both in England and in this country, there is a latent hankering after
similar scenes, and dog-fighting, rat-killing and cock-fighting, even
though they are now contrary to law, are still practised in secret.
Similarly the sense of humor is developed in the lower animals by
causing pain or annoyance to some other creature, and the animal acts
in precisely the same manner as a savage or a child.

Sparrows, as might be expected from their character, will gratify their
feelings of aversion by banding together for the purpose of mobbing
some creature to which they have an objection. In Hardwicke’s _Science
Gossip_ for December, 1872, there is a short account of a number of
sparrows mobbing a cat. Evidently the cat had intended making a meal
on one of the birds, but was greatly mistaken, for the sparrows dashed
upon him so fiercely, that he soon turned tail and ran into the house,
one of the sparrows actually pursuing him into the house. The poor cat
ran up-stairs, and was found crouching in terror under one of the beds.
This happened in London, where the sparrows are less numerous now than
they used to be.

No bird of my knowledge possesses a larger amount of humor than the
crow. I have known him to feign an attack upon a distant part of a
field of newly-sprouted corn, which was being guarded by a farmer with
his gun. When the latter would be drawn to that part of the field where
the attack was to be made, the sagacious bird would manage to outwit
him, slip around to the other side, drop down into the field and obtain
a few tender sprouts before the farmer hardly knew what was going on.
But he was always up and away at the opportune moment, and, perched
upon a fence-rail, beyond the range of the gun, would enjoy one of his
rollicking cawing laughs at the farmer’s expense. Crows that are tame
have the sense of humor more keenly developed than their wild brethren
of the fields and the woods. I once knew a tame crow that took great
pleasure in annoying a dog that lived in the same family. Carlo, as the
dog was called, was never so contented as when allowed to sleep the
hours of the morning away, after a night’s carousal, in a quiet, sunny
spot in the backyard. When the dog had become fast wrapped in the arms
of the god of slumber, the crow would steal to his side, give his ear
a sharp pull, and when the dog would awake and look around the crow
would be busy in gleaning, the most unconcerned creature in the whole
yard. Again and again would she annoy the poor animal, and always with
the same evident sense of delight, which I could always read in the
mischievous twinkle that lurked in her eyes, till the dog, bewildered
and unable to account for such mysterious actions, would silently skulk
away to other parts, where he hoped to be free from all intrusion. Even
the mistress of the house was not exempt from her annoyance. She would
carry off everything she could lay hold of, and always hid them away in
one place, that is, in a large crevice on the top of the house between
the peak of the roof and the chimney. One day the mistress’s spectacles
disappeared. Search was instituted everywhere, but without effect. None
knew better than the bird what the trouble was. While the search was
going on, she busied herself in looking around, and seemed as desirous
of finding the missing glasses as any member of the household. The look
which the bird gave showed that she enjoyed the situation of affairs
immensely, and considered it a fine joke that she had played upon her
mistress. After a few days the lost spectacles were restored to their
accustomed place, but no one ever positively knew how they came thither.

Domestic birds, as a rule, are remarkable for the generosity which the
master-bird shows to his inferiors. He will scratch the ground, unearth
some food, and then, instead of eating it himself, will call some of
his favorites, and give them the delicacy for which he labored. But I
have met with a few cases where the cock scratched as usual, called his
wives, and, when they had gathered round him, ate the morsel himself.
It was but a practical joke that he had perpetrated upon them, and
that they felt it as such their looks only too strongly testified.
There was a relish of delight in it for the cock, for the cackle, which
he immediately gave, assured me of this fact as much as the laugh of a
man could have done who had played such a joke upon one of his fellows.

Parrots are much given to practical joking, after the ways of mankind.
A parrot, belonging to an aunt, had a bad habit of whistling for a dog,
and then enjoying the animal’s bewilderment and discomfiture. She would
call the cat, as her mistress was accustomed to do, and when puss would
come, expecting some dainty article of food, she would call out in her
severest tone, “Be off, you hussy!” and the cat would make all possible
speed for a place of security, greatly to the amusement of the parrot
from her perch in the cage. There have been known parrots that would
play practical jokes upon human beings, but dogs and cats seem to be
the principal victims of the parrot’s sense of humor.

Animals not only show their playfulness in such tricks as have been
mentioned, but many of them are able to appreciate and take part in
the games played by children. When I was a boy I knew a dog, a species
of greyhound, which was an accomplished player at the well-known game
called tag, or touch. Quite as much enthusiasm was displayed by the
animal as by any of the human players. He would dart away from the
boy who happened to be “touch” with an anxiety that almost appeared
terror. It was an impossibility to touch the clever canine player; but
he was a generous creature, with a strong sense of justice, and so,
when he thought that his turn ought to come, he would stand still and
wait quietly to be touched. His manner of touching his play-fellows was
always by grasping the end of their trousers with his teeth, and as it
was impossible for the boy to stop when so seized in full course, the
dog was often jerked along the ground for some little distance.

Hide-and-seek is a game which is often learned and enjoyed by many
animals. I have often been an interested spectator of the play in
which two dogs were the participants. It was as exciting as such a
diversion could possibly be between two children. For an hour at a time
I have watched the fun, and the players seemed not to abate the least
jot or tittle from their ardor and enthusiasm. They were apparently
as fresh then as at the beginning. In due time the game ceased as if
by mutual consent, but the animals did not seek some cool, quiet spot
for comfort and rest, but started off to the woods for some further
diversion, from which their voices were soon heard, telling that they
were in pursuit of a rabbit or the ignoble ground-hog.

We have far from exhausted the list of examples at hand to show that
the lower animals possess a sense of humor. But what use, it may be
asked, can the capacity of humor subserve in the next world? Much the
same, I presume, that it subserves in this. There are some in this
world in whom the sense of humor is absolutely wanting. Estimable as
they may be in character, they are just solemn prigs, and I should be
very sorry to resemble them in the world, whither, it is hoped, all
life tendeth.

Pride, Jealousy, Anger, Revenge and Tyranny, while not very pleasing
characteristics, belong, as such, to the immaterial, and not to the
material, part of man. That the lower animals possess these qualities
will be seen from what follows. Hence the inference to be drawn from
that fact must be quite obvious.

Taking these characteristics in order, Pride, or Self-esteem, is
developed as fully in many animals as in the proudest of the human
race. Most conspicuously is this shown in animals which herd together.
There is always one leader at the head, who will not permit any
movement to be made without his order, and who resents the least
interference with his authority. This is particularly the case with the
deer, the horse and the ox. Even when these animals are domesticated,
and the habits of their feral life have materially changed, the feeling
of pride exists to the fullest extent.

Whoever has carefully watched and studied the inhabitants of a
farm-yard cannot fail to have observed that the cows have their
laws of precedence and etiquette as clearly defined as those of any
European Court. Every cow knows her own place and keeps it. She will
never condescend to take a lower, nor would she be allowed to assume
a higher. A new-comer in a farm-yard has about as much chance of
approaching the rack at feeding-time as a new boy at school has of
getting near the fire on a cold winter day. But as the young calf
increases in growth, and is nearing maturity, she is allowed to mingle
with her companions on tolerably equal terms. Should, however, a
younger animal than herself be admitted, it is amusing to see with what
gratification she bullies the new-comer, and how much higher she ranks
in her own estimation when she finds she is no longer the junior.

But should the fates be propitious, and she should arrive at the
dignity of being senior cow, she never fails to assert that dignity
on every occasion. When the cattle are taken out of the yard to their
pasture in the morning, and when they are returned to it in the
evening, she will not allow any except herself to take the lead. An
instance is recorded where the man in charge of a herd of cows would
not permit the “ganger,” as the head cow is often called, to go out
first. The result was that she refused to go out at all. Therefore, to
get her to go out of the yard, the man had to drive all the other cows
back again, so that she might take her proper place at the head of the
herd.

Few people know much about the real disposition of the mule. Judging
from popular ideas respecting the animal, one would think that it had
no pride in its composition. It is in reality a very proud animal,
and fond of good society. One of his most striking characteristics is
his aversion to the ass, and the pride which he takes in his relation
to the horse. An ass would be hardly safe in a drove of mules, for he
would, in all probability, be kicked and lamed by his proud relatives;
whereas a horse, on the contrary, takes a distinguished position, the
mules not only crowding around him and following his movements, but
exhibiting a violent jealousy, each striving to get the nearest to
their distinguished relative.

[Illustration: EXHIBITION OF GRANDEUR.

Male Peacock in Presence of Some Barn-Yard Fowls.]

We have seen the pride of rank and love of precedence in cows, and the
pride of ancestry in mules. There is, however, a pride that takes the
form of sensitiveness to ridicule. Nothing is so galling to a proud man
as to find himself the object of ridicule. The same trait of character
is to be found in many animals, and especially in those that have been
domesticated, for it is in these that we have the most opportunities
for observation. All high-bred dogs are exceedingly sensitive to
ridicule. We knew of a cat that was quite conscious if spoken of in a
disparaging manner, and testified his disapprobation by arching his
tail, holding himself very stiff indeed, and marching slowly out of the
room.

There is, however, another form of pride which is often to be seen
among the lower animals, but more especially among birds notable for
gaudy or abundant plumage. This is the pride which manifests itself
in personal appearance. Vanity is the name which is currently applied
to this form of pride. Those who have observed a peacock in all the
glory of his starry train will recognize the intense pride he feels at
his own splendor. This display of his magnificent train is not for the
purpose of attracting the homage of his plainly-attired mates solely,
but seems to be intended to evoke the admiration of human beings as
well. Not even the homage of birds, whom he regards his inferiors, is
to be despised.

We have seen him, with his train fully spread, displaying his grandeur
around a dozen or more barn-yard fowls, and apparently as satisfied
with the effect he produced, as he stalked majestically among them,
as if he had been surrounded by his own kith and kin. Then there is
the turkey. No movements are more grotesque than his. See him as he
struts about in his nuptial plumage, and yet no bird, notwithstanding
the ludicrousness of his behavior, surveys himself with greater
complacency. The whidah-bird, or widow-bird, as it is often called,
exhibits this trait of character in its highest development. He is
wonderfully proud of his beautiful tail, and, as long as he wears it,
loses no opportunity of displaying it to every person who visits his
cage. But when the moulting season has arrived, and he has taken on the
plain, tailless attire of his mate, a change as great has come over
his manner, and, instead of exhibiting himself in all his pride and
glory, he mopes listlessly and stupidly about, and seemingly ashamed of
his mean condition. In all these instances the character of pride in
personal appearance is as strongly developed as it is possible for it
to be in any human being.

That peculiar uneasiness, which arises from the fear that a rival will
dispossess us of the affection of one whom we love, or the suspicion
that he has already done so, is termed jealousy. There are two forms
of this passion, one connected with the love of some other being,
and the other dependent on the love of self. But it is the former,
whose definition begins the present paragraph, with which we shall
exclusively deal. It is evident from the meaning of jealousy, as given
above, that the power of reasoning is implied, and that any creature
by which it is manifested must be able to deduce a conclusion from
premises. No matter if the conclusion drawn by the animal be wrong,
the process, however incorrect it may be, is, it cannot be denied,
still one of reasoning. All who have possessed pet animals must be
familiar with the exceeding jealousy displayed by most of them. Most
strongly is this feeling manifested when an animal has been the only
pet and another is introduced into the house. Where there are two or
more dogs in the same family, one is often amused at the boundless
jealousy displayed toward each other while engaged in the service of
the master, although at other times they were on the most excellent
terms. Bus is the name of a favorite dog belonging to a friend. No more
affectionate dog ever lived. Beagle was his companion. When they were
by themselves, life was a round of frolics and rambles. No matter how
rough and exciting their plays were, they never got cross, but endured
everything with patience and forgiveness of spirit. Beagle was a clever
animal, and very fond of the chase. Many a ground-hog would he dislodge
from its burrow and fight to the death, while Bus would look on with
wonder and admiration. But let the slightest attention be shown by the
master to Beagle, and Bus’s jealousy and anger became unbounded. He
would fly at his friend in the most infuriated manner, rending him with
tooth and claw, while Beagle would quietly slip around the corner of
the house to get out of the reach of his companion’s temper. Beagle,
being a large and powerful dog, had in him the ability to give Bus a
very sound whipping, but he was too noble and magnanimous a creature
to take advantage of one younger and smaller than himself. He would
always allow Bus to have his own way, knowing that the passion which
was lacerating the bosom of his young companion and playmate would
soon spend itself, and the latter, ashamed and abashed, would be soon
seeking forgiveness and reconciliation.

Even in such rarely tamed animals as the common mouse the feeling of
jealousy has been known to be so intense as to lead to murder. A young
lady, one of Rev. J. G. Wood’s correspondents, had succeeded in taming
a common brown mouse so completely that it would eat out of her hand
and suffer itself to be taken off the floor. She had also a tame white
mouse in a cage. One morning when she went to feed the white mouse,
as was her usual custom, she found it lying dead on the bottom of
the cage, and beside it was its murderer, the brown mouse. The cage
being opened, the latter made its escape, as though fearful of the
consequences that might ensue, but how it had managed to gain admission
was always a mystery.

Instances are on record where the jealousy of a rival has been
restrained for long years through fear, and has ultimately broken out
when the cause of the fear has been removed. A case of the kind came
under our notice some few years ago. There were two cocks, belonging to
different breeds, whom fate had placed as denizens of the same family.
One was a magnificent dunghill cock, and the other a Malay, a cowardly
caitiff, that was kept in fear and subjection by the former. In the
course of events the dunghill cock suddenly died. His rival, coming
by chance on his dead body, and perceiving that the time had come to
wreak out the mixture of hatred and revenge that had lain smouldering
in his bosom for years, instantly sprang upon it, kicked, spurred and
trampled upon the lifeless bird, and, standing upon the corpse, flapped
his wings in triumph, as it were, and crowed himself hoarse with the
most disgusting energy. He immediately took possession of the harem,
but he was far from being the noble, generous and unselfish creature
that his predecessor had been. Again, comparing man with beast, it is
at once apparent that the bird in this instance acted exactly as a
savage does when his enemy has fallen, for the savage not only exults
over the dead body of an enemy, especially if the latter has been very
formidable in life, but also mutilates in futile and silly revenge the
form which he feared when alive.

Tyranny, or the oppression of the weak by the strong, is another of
the many traits of character common to man and the lower animals.
But whether or not that strength belongs to the body or the mind, it
is tyranny all the same. Taken in its most obvious form, it not only
manifests itself in many of the animals in the oppression of the weak
by the strong, but also in the killing and the eating of the same, even
though they be of the same species. Human cannibals act in just the
same manner, eating their enemies after they have killed them. There is
hardly an animal in which the milder forms of tyranny may not be found.
Insects, especially, manifest it in a light manner when they drive
away their fellows from some morsel of food which they desire to keep
to themselves. Among gregarious animals, the herd or flock is always
under the command of an individual who has fought his way to the front,
and who will rule with imperious sway until he has become old and in
turn has been supplanted by a younger and more vigorous rival. In the
poultry-yards the same form of tyranny is manifest, one cock invariably
assuming the leadership, no matter how many may be the number of birds.

There is a curious analogy between these birds and human beings,
especially those of the East, whether at the present day or in more
ancient times. Many petty chieftains are found in Eastern countries,
but there is always to be met with one among them who is more mighty
than the rest, and who holds his place by superior force, either
of intellect or military power. Challenged by one of the inferior
chiefs and victorious, he retains his post, but if vanquished, his
conqueror takes his place, his property and his wives. But curious
to relate, with men as with birds, the members of the harem seem to
trouble themselves very little, if any, about the change of master.
The Scriptures are full of allusions to the invariable custom that
the conqueror takes the possession of the harem belonging to the
vanquished. David did so with regard to the women of Saul’s household,
and when Nabal died, who had defied the authority of David, so the
latter, as a matter of course, took possession of his wife, together
with the rest of his property. And when Absalom rebelled against David,
he publicly took possession of his father’s harem, which was a sign
that he had assumed the kingdom.

Where a number of creatures are confined in the same place, a very
curious sort of tyranny is sometimes manifested. Mandarin ducks,
according to Mr. Bennett, when confined to an aviary, show a very
querulous disposition at feeding-time. The males of one and the same
kind of a different species endeavor to grasp all the nourishment
for themselves, unmindful of the wants of others, and will not even
permit their companions to perform their ablutions without molestation,
although they may themselves have completed what they required. Often
the mandarin ducks have been observed to excite the drakes to assail
other males or females of the same species, and other kinds of birds
in the aviary, against whom the ladies, from some cause or other, have
taken a dislike. One pair of these ducks are always to be noticed that
exercise a tyranny over the others, not allowing them to wash, eat or
drink, unless at their pleasure and approval.

But, of all tyrants, none can be compared to a spoiled dog, who is
even worse than a spoiled child. Obedience is a stranger to his
nature. Does his master want him to go out for a walk, and he prefers
to stay at home, he stays at home, and his master is compelled to go
out without him. But if he wants to go for a walk, he makes his master
go with him, and even to take the direction he prefers. Duchie is the
name of a Skye terrier whose history is given in a work on the latter
breed of dogs by Dr. J. Brown. So completely had this little animal
domineered over her mistress, that the latter could not even choose her
own dinner, but was obliged to have whatever the dog preferred. It is
related that for a half of a winter’s night she was kept out of bed,
because Duchie had got into the middle and refused to move. Certainly,
no better example of tyranny could be adduced.

That so-called brutes possess, in common with ourselves, a Conscience,
that is, a sense of Moral Responsibility, and a capability of
distinguishing between right and wrong, may seem a very strange
assertion to be made, especially to those who have never studied the
ways of the lower animals. Animals which are placed under the rule of
man, and those, like the dog, which belong to his household and are
made his companions more particularly, would naturally be expected to
show the strongest development of the principle. Conscience, in their
dealings with man, constitutes their religion, and they often exercise
it in a way which would put many a human being to the blush. This
feeling it is that induces the dog to make himself the guardian of his
master’s property, and often to defend that property at the risk of his
life. However hungry may be the dog that is placed in charge of his
master’s dinner, nothing would, as a rule, tempt him to touch a morsel
of the food, for he would rather die of starvation than eat the food
which belongs to his master. Often have we seen field-laborers at work
at one end of a large field, while their coats and their dinner were at
the other end, guarded by a dog. Not the least uneasiness did they seem
to manifest about the safety of their property, for well they knew
that the faithful animal would never allow any one to touch either the
clothes or the provisions.

There could hardly be a stronger instance of moral responsibility than
the one which I shall now relate, which is substantially the same as
appears in Wood’s “Man and Beasts Here and Hereafter.” Living in an
unprotected part of Scotland was a poor woman, who unexpectedly became
possessed of a large sum of money. She would have taken it to the bank,
could she have left the house, but lack of bodily health prevented
her from so doing. At last she asked the advice of a butcher of her
acquaintance, telling him that she was afraid to live in the house
with so much money about her. “Never fear,” said the butcher, “I will
leave my dog with you, and I’ll warrant you that no one will dare to
enter your house.” Towards the close of the day the dog was brought,
and chained up close to the place where the money was deposited. That
very night a robber made his way into the house and was proceeding
to carry off the money, when he was seized by the dog, who held him
a prisoner until assistance arrived. The thief turned out to be the
butcher himself, who thought he had made sure of the money, but he had
not considered that his dog was a better moralist than himself, for who
would, rather than betray a defenceless woman, take her part against
his own master. Kindly pardoned by the woman, the intending robber made
his way home, and it is to be hoped that for the future he learned a
lesson from his own dog and amended the evil of his ways.

Not only does the dog guard the property which is intrusted to its
charge, but frequently goes a little further and assumes a charge on
its own account. When the writer was a boy living in the country, where
much of the spring and summer of the year was spent in working upon a
farm, he became on very excellent terms with a little bull-terrier,
named Tip, that belonged to a certain farmer by whom he was employed.
Upon my first introduction to Tip, I felt a sort of aversion towards
him. This grew out of the mysterious actions of the animal. He was
always around when I was busy at work and seemed to be eying me in a
suspicious sort of manner, which at times made me feel very unpleasant.
After the lapse of a few days I discovered that I was not so closely
watched as before, and that I was treated by him as he was accustomed
to treat the other members of the family. Upon inquiry I learned
that he always acted in this way toward people whom he did not know
intimately, and that, after a time, he had confidence in their honesty
and left them alone. While in many instances Tip was entirely wrong
in his surmises, yet cases are recalled where the dog was right and
acted in a manner that would have been creditable to a human being.
One of the men employed upon the place, presuming upon the friendship
of the dog, sought to carry away under cover of darkness something
belonging to the farmer, but he was immediately beset by the animal,
who was an eye-witness of the proceeding, and compelled to desist
from the intended theft. From that time the man was under the closest
surveillance by the dog. Unable to effect a reconciliation, and chafing
under the look of suspicion with which he was always greeted, the man
soon took his departure, much to the delight and satisfaction of the
faithful canine, and was never afterwards seen.

Quite a common form of conscience among the lower animals is that
which may be defined as a recognition of having done wrong, and
acknowledgment that punishment is deserved. Animals have in their way
very pronounced ideas as to right and wrong. When they have committed
an act which they know will offend their master, they display as keen
a conscience as any human being self-convicted of sin could exhibit.
In many instances, the offence in not merely acknowledged, but the
creature remains miserable until forgiveness has been granted. This
condition of mind, if manifested by man, is called Penitence, and,
assuredly, it cannot be known by any other name when manifested by
animals that are lower down in the scale of life. My little dog
Frisky, about whom mention has already been made, affords a very fine
illustration of this phase of conscience. Whenever he did wrong, the
severest punishment that could be meted out to him was to ignore his
presence and decline his offered paw. For hours the poor fellow would
moan and cry, and even refuse food, when he thought I was angry with
him. But a word or a look of forgiveness was sufficient to change his
sadness into joy. A shaking of hands, so to speak, would then follow,
and master and dog would be good friends again. No love could be more
intense than his, and this was especially shown when I would return
from a short absence, when the little fellow would almost overwhelm me
by his affectionate caresses.

No loftier characteristic adorns humanity than Love. But how far it
is shared by the lower animals it is now our purpose to inquire. That
there are many phases of development cannot be doubted. Sympathy, or
that capacity of feeling for the sufferings of another, is the first
phase. Many, and perhaps all, living creatures possess the capacity
of sympathy. In the majority of cases it is not restricted to their
own species, but is extended to those beings which appear to have
very little in common with each other. Ordinarily, however, it is
exhibited between animals of the same species, and it is often seen in
the dog, as, for example, where a dog, having been cured of an injury,
has been observed to take a fellow-sufferer to his benefactor. Such
sympathy, it need hardly be remarked, could not be carried out unless
the animals possessed a language adequately defined to enable them
to transmit ideas from one to the other. Cats are often kind to each
other, sympathizing under difficulties, and helping their friends who
require assistance. A cat, belonging to a friend, has been known, when
oppressed with the cares of a family, to employ a half-grown kitten
to take charge of the young while she went for a ramble. Between the
cat and the dog an enmity exists that is hereditary, and yet, when in
good hands, they are sure to become very loving friends, and even to
show considerable sympathy towards each other. Such an exhibition of
good feeling was observed by the writer a few years ago. The dog, a
large black Newfoundland, had contracted a warm and devoted friendship
for a gray cat that was an inmate of the same family. When the cat was
assailed by one of her kind, or by a strange dog, the Newfoundland
would pick her up in his mouth and carry her to the house out of reach
of danger, the cat maintaining all the while the most perfect serenity
of composure, knowing that she was in the care of one who meant her no
ill. When the same cat would become sick, the Newfoundland would lie
down by her side, caress her with his tongue, and show in every way
possible that he was sorry that she was sick.

Many examples are recorded of birds feeling sympathy with the lost or
deserted young of other species, and that have taken upon themselves
the task of feeding the starving children. A pair of robins had
constructed a nest near to the writer’s home in the country, where in
due season a family of four children was raised. Disaster soon came to
the little ones, for both parents were slain by some wicked boys of the
neighborhood. There dwelt in the same locality a pair of bluebirds,
but between the two families there had never been apparent the least
interchange of friendship. Each family kept to itself, and attended to
its own business. But when the cry of the young robins in their piteous
demands for food rent the air, the bluebirds came over to their home
to discover what the trouble was. They were not slow to perceive the
sad state of things. Their sympathies were at once aroused, and their
energies soon bent in the direction of relieving the sufferings of the
little orphaned robins. For the next two weeks they had all they could
do in providing meat for their own and the robins’ young.

[Illustration: FOUR ORPHANED ROBINS.

Kind-Hearted Bluebirds Assuming the Role of Parents.]

While capable of showing sympathy for near as well as distant kin,
the lower animals have also the capacity to sympathize with human
beings in distress. Cats occasionally manifest a sympathy for suffering
humanity. As for sympathy displayed by dogs, there is no need to cite
examples. No human being, I am safe in saying, was ever free from
troubles of some kind, and I am equally sure that no one who had a
companionable dog felt that he was without sympathy. Full well does
the dog know when his master is suffering pain or sorrow, and his nose
pushed into his master’s hand, or laid affectionately upon his knee,
is a sign of sympathy worth possessing, even though it exists only in
the heart of a dog. From that moment there has been established a bond
between the soul of the master and the dog, and certainly no one can
believe that the bond can ever be severed by the death of the material
body, whether of the man or the animal.

That Friendship, which is another branch of love, exists among animals,
is a well-known fact. But it is among the domesticated animals that it
most frequently exhibits itself. Horses, as every one knows, which have
been accustomed to draw the same carriage are usually sure to be great
friends, and if one be exchanged the other becomes quite miserable for
want of his companion and seems unable to throw any spirit into his
work. Dogs, too, are very apt to strike up friendships with each other.
Among animals it is not confined to one species, but is occasionally
found to exhibit itself in those which might be supposed to be
peculiarly incongruous in their nature. That cows and sheep live, as a
rule, on good terms with each other in the same pasture is a familiar
experience, though sometimes the former are a little prone to domineer
over the latter. But a very strong affection sometimes exists between
animals so different, and when once they have accustomed themselves to
each other’s society neither can be happy without the other. The goat
and the horse frequently become friends, and a peculiarly vicious horse
has been known to allow a goat to take undue liberties with him without
the least manifestation of resentment. In many places the stable-cat
is quite an institution. Its usual place of repose is upon the back of
the horse, and the latter has been known to grow very uneasy if left
for any length of time without the companionship of his little friend.
A very singular instance of friendship occurred at the rural home of a
near relative. He had a fine mastiff which had taken a fancy to a brood
of young chickens, and which acted as their protector. They were not
at all unwilling to accept him in this capacity, as they followed him
about just as though he had been their mother. Quite an interesting
sight it was to watch the dog and the chickens as they would take
their _siesta_. The dog used to lie on his side, and the chickens would
nestle all about him, though one chicken in particular would invariably
scramble upon the dog’s head, and another just over his eye, but both
parties appeared equally satisfied with this remarkable arrangement.

Already have we referred to the intense yearning which is felt by many
of the lower animals for human society. This yearning is indeed but the
aspiration of the lower spirit developed by contact with the higher in
domesticated animals or those which are in perpetual contact with man.
This feeling is a matter of no great surprise. But that it should be
exhibited in feral animals and birds, and even in insects, is a fact
well worth considering, as it furnishes a clew to some of the many
problems of life which are as yet unsolved. That power of attraction
exercised by the spirit of man upon that of the lower creation is well
exemplified in many wild animals, who are known to forsake the society
of their own kind for the companionship of the being whom they feel to
be higher than themselves.

Perhaps one of the wariest of wild animals is the squirrel. He is
horribly afraid of human beings, and if a man, woman or child come to
the windward of him, the little animal is sure to scamper off at his
fleetest pace, scuttle up the nearest tree, and conceal himself behind
some branch. Yet, wild as he may be, he is peculiarly susceptible to
the influence of the human spirit, and for the sake of human society
will utterly abandon that of his own kind. I once knew a pet gray
squirrel by the name of Charley. He had been taken from the nest when
very young. His home for awhile was one of those whirl-about cages.
Charley did not like his cage, but preferred to be outside in the
unrestrained enjoyment of the dictates of his own free will. So it was
difficult to keep him behind the bars. When awake he loved to follow
his own devices; but when tired he usually slept on a soft cushion on
the sofa, or found his way into some bed-room where he would nestle
under a pillow. Nothing was more to his satisfaction and pleasure than
a share of the bed of his mistress, but he was always a troublesome
nest-fellow. Charley had, as must be obvious, perfect freedom. He was
allowed to go as he pleased. There was no coercion in his case. Had he
wished to escape, there was nothing to prevent, and nothing bound him
to his mistress but an “ever-lengthening chain” of love and aspirations
which none but a human being could satisfy. The sparrow, one of the
most independent and self-reliant of birds, has been known to abandon
its kind for the sake of human beings. Wood cites a case of a bird of
this species that had been rescued from some boys who had been robbing
the nest. The bird was brought home, but was never confined in a cage,
but was permitted to fly freely about the house. As there was a cat
about the house, she had to be closely watched lest she might do the
bird some injury. On Sundays, when the family went to church and no one
remained to keep an eye on the cat, the sparrow was turned into the
garden, where it flew about until the family’s return. The opening of
the dining-room window by its mistress, and the display of her ungloved
hands, was the signal for its entry. But if the mistress stood by the
window with her gloves on, then the bird showed not the slightest
disposition to enter.

Such is the intensity of the love which the lower animals sometimes
entertain toward man that they have been known to grieve themselves to
death on account of his loss. A dog by the name of Prince, who lived
in the family where the writer spent a few weeks of a summer, is a
case in point. He had a good master, and one to whom he was strongly
attached. The year before the master sickened and died, and Prince
felt the loss so keenly that he refused to take any food, and even to
notice the surviving members of the family. He was pitiable to behold.
Life had lost all attractions to him, and he showed that he was slowly
but surely grieving his life away. Some few weeks after the writer’s
departure, the poor animal breathed his last, and his spirit, it is
to be hoped, went to join that of his master, while his ashes became
mingled with the dust of the earth as his master’s had been.

What a wonderful power do some animals have of returning to their
beloved master, even though they have been conveyed to a considerable
distance. This is especially true of the dog. So many examples of such
feats are on record that I refrain from mentioning them, but will
give but a single example. Rover, a pet greyhound that belonged to
the writer, had become such an annoyance to the neighborhood where he
lived, that the master determined to provide him a home in the country
some fifty miles away. He was conveyed to his destination in a covered
wagon, and after his new master had reached home, the poor animal was
placed in a stable for several days, where he was daily visited and
fed, and every effort possible made to attach him to the place and
family. On the fourth day of his arrival he was given his freedom. With
a long, loud wail he saluted the neighborhood, and the next moment was
off at full speed across the country, all efforts to stop him being
unavailing. In less than a week from his leaving he was at home again,
hungry and jaded out with fatigue and travel, but not too tired nor too
hungry to express the great joy he felt for the old master. How he ever
accomplished the journey, and what vicissitudes and difficulties he
encountered on the way, no one will ever know. After this I had not the
heart to send him away again, but put up with his capers and tricks as
best I could, and when complaints were preferred against him endeavored
to excuse them as a parent is prone to do in the case of a spoiled and
wayward child. But a day arrived when Rover to me was no more. What
had become of him I was never able to discover, but I always blamed a
near-by neighbor, a man who had neither love nor charity in his soul,
for his sudden disappearance.

That cats are selfish animals, attaching themselves to localities and
not to individuals, I do not believe. This idea has, perhaps, some
ground of truth, for the nature of a cat is not so easy to understand
as that of a dog. But when a cat is not understood, it is very probable
that she cares less for the inhabitants of the house than for the house
itself. Frequent instances are known by the writer where cats have
been in the habit of moving about with their owners, and have been as
much unconcerned as dogs would have been. True they have, like women,
a curious and prying disposition. I have seen them in new and strange
quarters go sniffing about every room of a house, and at last settle
down in some cozy, comfortable place, well satisfied with their tour
of investigation. Where the house fell short of their expectations, if
they have been cats that have received due consideration from their
mistresses or masters, they have tried to live down their objections
and to learn to be happy and contented with their lot. Only cats that
have not been much thought of are inclined to show their disapproval
to changes of residence which they deemed unsuitable by refusing to
stay with their masters. Blackie, a favorite cat of ours, never seemed
to care where her home was, so long as her friends were there to pet,
caress and pamper her with choice dainties.

All animals, so far as can be learned, have not only a capacity for the
society of man, but an absolute yearning for it. This feeling may be in
abeyance, from not having received any development at the hands of man,
but it nevertheless exists, and only awaits to be educed by some one
capable of appreciating the character of the animal. Tigers, as is well
known, are not generally considered the friends of mankind, and yet the
Indian fakirs will travel over the country with tame tigers, which they
simply lead about with a slight string, and which will permit small
children to caress them with their hands without evincing the least
disposition to hurt them.

When we survey the examples of love displayed by animals towards human
beings, which we have just detailed, and recall the hundreds that we
know and have read about, is it possible to believe that such love
can perish? We apprehend not. Unselfish love as this, which survives
ingratitude and ill-treatment, belongs to the spirit and not to the
body, and all beings capable of feeling such love must possess immortal
spirits. All may not have an opportunity of manifesting it, but all
possess the capacity and would, were the conditions favorable, manifest
it openly.

Few animals, as may easily be imagined, manifest Conjugal Love. Most
species have no particular mates, but merely meet by chance, and
seemingly never trouble themselves about each other again. No real
conjugal love, therefore, can exist, and it is rather curious that in
such animals a durable friendship is frequently formed between two
individuals of the same sex. But when we come to polygamous animals,
such as the stag among mammals and the domestic poultry among birds, we
meet with a decided advance towards conjugal love, although as in the
case of polygamous man, that love must necessarily be of an inferior
character. There is seen, at all events, a sense of appropriation on
either side. Take the example of the barn-yard fowl, as has already
been mentioned in that part of the chapter which deals with jealousy,
where it is shown that the proprietor of the harem resents any attempt
on the part of another male to infringe on his privileges.

This brings us to the consideration of birds, where the many are mated
for the nesting-season, but subsequently do not seem to care more
for each other than they do for their broods of children. If one of
the pair be killed at the nesting-time the survivor, after a brief
lamentation, consoles itself in a few hours or days with another
partner, for there really appears to be a supply of spare partners of
both sexes always at hand. And now we come to those creatures which are
mated for life, and often we find among them a conjugal love as strong
and as sincere as among monogamous mankind. Prominent among them are
the eagle, the raven and the dove. And while we praise the turtle-dove
for its conjugal fidelity, and credit it with the possession of all
that is sweet, and good, and gentle, how remarkable is it that we
forget to accredit with the same virtue the eagle and the raven, that
are the types of all that is violent, and dark, and cunning. There are
many examples in existence of the conjugal love among such birds, but
they are so well known that reference to them is unnecessary. The case
of the mandarin duck, already narrated, affords a strong instance of
conjugal love wherein the lady was faithful and the husband avenged
himself on the destruction of his domestic peace.

[Illustration: MATED FOR LIFE.

Conjugal Fidelity Shown by a Pair of Doves.]

So numerous as are the instances of love shown by parents among the
lower animals towards their offspring, yet it is a very singular fact
that few, if any, trustworthy accounts of Filial Love, or the love
of children toward their parents, are to be found. But we must look
to man if we would understand the lower animals. Even human nature
must attain a high state of development before filial love can find
any place in the affections. In savages it barely exists at all, and
certainly does not survive into mature years. It is the glory of the
North American Indian boy, at as early an age as possible, to despise
his mother and defy his father. And the women are just as bad as the
men. Rejoicing in the pride of youth and strength, they utterly despise
the elder and feeble women, even though they be their own mothers, and
will tear from their hands the food they are about to eat, on the plea
that old women are of no use, and that the food would be much better
employed in giving nourishment to the young and strong. The Fijians
have not the least scruple in burying a father alive when he becomes
infirm, and assist in strangling a mother that she may keep him company
in the land of spirits. Both the Bosjesmen of South Africa and the
Australian seem to have not the least idea that any duty is owing to a
parent from a child, nor have they much notion of duty from a parent
toward the child. If the father be angry with any one for any reason,
he has a way of relieving his feelings by driving his spear through the
body of his wife or child, whichever one of the two happens to be the
nearer. Even the mother treats her child with less consideration than a
cow does her calf, and leaves the little creature to shift for itself
at an age when the children of civilized parents are hardly thought fit
to be left alone for a few minutes. This being the case with parental
love, it may be readily imagined that filial affection can have not the
slightest chance for development, and it is very much to be questioned
whether in the savage it can really be said to exist at all in the
sense understood by enlightened peoples. Therefore, as in the lower
human races, we find that filial love either is very trifling, or is
absolutely non-existent, need we wonder that in the lower animals such
few, if any, indications of its presence should be found?

Now, as to the subject of Parental Love, and the various ways in which
it manifests itself. There are many writers who claim that parental
love in the lower animals is not identical with that of man. They
affirm that it is only a blind instinct, and, in order to mark more
strongly the distinction between man and beast, call the parental
love of the latter by the name of storgë. Speaking for myself, I must
declare that I am unable to perceive any distinction between the two,
save that in civilized man the parental love is better regulated than
among the lower animals. But, as has been seen, it is not regulated at
all among the uncivilized races, and, in truth, many of the beasts are
far better parents than most savages. Nor can I understand why the word
storgë should be applied to parental love among the lower animals and
not to the same feeling in man. Among Greek writers the word, together
with the verb from which it is derived, is applied to the love between
human parents and children. It is so applied by Plato, and in the
same sense by Sophocles and others. One argument adduced by those who
deny the identity of the feeling in both cases is that parental love
endures throughout life in man, while it expires with the adolescence
of the young in the lower animals. This is doubtless true, as a rule,
with civilized man, but in the case of the savage, as has previously
been shown, it does not last longer than that of a bird, a cat or a
dog, taking into consideration the relative duration of life. And the
reason is identical in both cases. Were this love to exist through life
in the savage, the beast or the bird, the race would become extinct,
for neither race is able to support its children longer than their
time of helplessness. The beast and the bird cannot, and the savage
will not, provide for the future. It is therefore evident that if the
young had to depend upon their parents for subsistence, they would soon
perish from lack of food. Exceptions there are to this general rule,
and always, as far as can be determined, in the case of domesticated
animals whose means of subsistence are already insured.

Several of such cases have come to my notice. I shall instance but
one. A friend of mine has two terriers, a mother and a daughter. The
strongest bond of love and fellowship unites them. They always sit
close together, and the mother playfully pinches her daughter all over.
Should they by chance become separated, even for a very short time,
the daughter comes up wagging her tail, and then licks her mother’s
nose and mouth. When hunting together, they always act in concert,
each one taking a hole, and one keeping watch while the other scrapes
away the earth. The meaning of each other’s whine or bark is perfectly
understood, and no two persons could understand their own language
better than do these dogs theirs, nor be more comprehensible to each
other.

Self-abnegation is perhaps one of the most beautiful characteristics
which parental love can give. This is particularly shown when the young
are in danger. A human mother in charge of her child will defy a danger
before which she would shrink if alone, and in its defence would dare
deeds of which most strong men would be incapable, for during the time
her selfhood is extinguished, and her being is sunk into that of her
child. Such abnegation becomes a true mother, for if she would not
consent to do and dare for the sake of her offspring, she would degrade
herself below the beasts and the birds, who hesitate not in performing
that duty to their children, though _savants_ do declare that they
possess only storgë, whatever they may mean by it, and not parental
love.

[Illustration: EVIDENCE OF CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

Male Humming-Bird Feeding His Partner, and Ready to Act in Her Defence.]

Everyone who has paid even a passing attention to the habits of birds
must have noticed the vigilance a pair of catbirds exercise over their
nest when containing young birds. Neither parent, when the other is
absent, relaxes this vigilance, for they consider no labor, no care, no
watchfulness, too great or too exacting where their offspring are to be
benefited. Let an enemy approach, even if it be man himself, and they
are beside themselves with anger and resentment, flying into the very
face of the audacious intruder, as though they would pluck his eyes
out as a just punishment for his presumption and temerity. I have seen
the nest of a catbird attacked by a black snake, and crushed within
the folds of the hideous serpent the father-bird, but the disaster
did not cause the mother-bird to desist from the attack, for, utterly
oblivious of all else but her offspring and the snake, she fought on
until the latter was forced to glide away into the bushes to escape
her infuriated assaults. But no species of bird is more courageous in
defence of its nest than the little ruby-throated humming-bird. It is
really dangerous to visit the nest when with eggs or young. I would as
soon attempt to assail the dome-shaped nest of our common hornet as
that of this humming-bird. It is as much as one can do to protect his
eyes from the lightning-like attacks of these birds, so swiftly and so
unerringly do they direct their blows at these points.

So great is the affection and solicitude of the red-eyed vireo for her
young, that she will scarcely leave the nest when the hand is stretched
out a few inches over the mouth of the structure. And then when she
does leave, it is not in a hurried, precipitate manner, but with a
quiet, deliberate movement that excites one’s admiration and makes
one vow never to abuse such simple, childlike confidence. I have even
placed my hand upon the sitting-bird without disturbing the current of
her brooding thoughts, or the peaceful serenity of her soul. A rough
dash at the nest tends to frighten her away _instanter_, but when the
hand is reached out to it slowly and silently the bird seems to act as
though it had nothing to fear, and remains calm and self-possessed.

Who is not familiar with the proverbial skill of the Carolina dove in
feigning lameness when her nest is being approached? Without a cry, and
with scarcely a rustle of her feathers, she slips out of her nest upon
the ground, and by a series of manœuvres, as if desperately wounded,
grovels along on her belly in the dust till she has led her enemy a
long journey from the site of the nest, when she will take to wing and
fly away into a coppice or a clump of brushwood.

That birds should manifest a love for the young which they hatch has
always seemed a strange problem to me. I can see how that, in the
case of a mammal, the mother should feel a love for the creature who
is absolutely a part of herself--whose very life-blood is drawn from
her veins. But this is not necessarily the case with birds. If, as
often happens with poultry, the eggs of several hens are placed under
one bird for hatching, the hen that hatches them knows no difference
between the chickens that come from her own eggs and those which
proceed from eggs laid by others. Even where the eggs belong to birds
of different species, as to the common Muscovy-duck for example, the
hen displays as much affection for the young ducklings, despite the
disparity of instinct and habit, as she does had they proceeded from
her own eggs. May it not be that parental love has different channels
of transmission, and that in such a case as this the emanation from
the sitting-hen may be the vehicle of parental love toward the young
which are to be hatched? Certain it is that a sitting-hen, as many
of us have observed, is altogether a changed being, both in attitude
and expression. She is entirely absorbed in the eggs when she is
incubating, and, though she may not have the intellect to distinguish
a mere lump of chalk from one of her own eggs, yet love is altogether
independent of intellect, and may exist in all its vigor, and yet may
be wasted on an unworthy object.

Fishes, as is generally known, are not particularly emotional beings,
and are not likely to entertain a lasting love for anything. Indeed, in
some instances, parental love would be absolutely useless, as in the
case of the cod-fish, which could be hardly expected to entertain a
special love for each of the countless thousands of young it produces
every year. The life of the mother would be an unenviable one, if
her lot were to look after her young as soon as they are hatched,
especially when the varied foes that beset her eggs as soon as they
are produced, are considered. Just as there are fishes that possess
conjugal love, so there are fishes that possess parental love, and
prominent among these are the sticklebacks. But in the case of these
fishes the most curious part is that parental love is shown by the
father, and not by the mother, the latter having nothing to do but
to lay the eggs, and leaving to the former the exclusive labor of
providing for the young.

WOOD-THRUSH SETTING.]

Enough of instances of true parental love among the lower animals
could be given to fill this entire book, but a sufficient number have
been adduced to show that the feeling is the same in man as in them,
although, of course, the mode of manifesting it is different. We have
shown the fallacy of the theory that parental love is life-enduring in
man and very brief among the animals, and have seen that, in proportion
to the duration of life, it is quite as brief among the savages as
among the animals. And, again, we have seen where it has been lost and
then restored, and also where it was never lost; where in animals, as
in man, it has caused complete abnegation of self, the parents living
for their children, and not for themselves, and where it has given
strength to the weak and courage to the timid. Even the very fishes
have been shown to be amenable to the same influences as man, and
could we have carried our illustrations still lower down the scale we
would have found the same influences existing among much humbler forms
of animal existences. In conclusion, there is no resisting the fact
that parental love, one of the highest and holiest feelings of which a
loving and immortal soul can be capable, is shared equally by man and
beast, according to their respective capacities.

LIFE PROGRESSIVE.

No one can doubt that the earth’s crust, so far as it has been
deciphered by man, presents us with a record, imperfect though it be,
of the past. Whether, however, the known and admitted imperfections
of its records, geological and palæontological, are sufficiently
trustworthy to account satisfactorily for the lack of direct evidence
recognizable in some modern hypotheses, may be a matter of individual
opinion, but there can be little doubt that they are sufficiently
extensive to throw the balance of evidence decisively in favor of
some theory of continuity, as opposed to any theory of intermittent
and occasional action, which some writers have strenuously and
intelligently advocated. No marks of mighty and general convulsions of
nature exist, as the seeming breaks which divide the grand series of
stratified rocks into numerous isolated formations would indicate. They
are simply indications of the imperfection of our knowledge. Science
will never, in all probability, point to a complete series of deposits,
or to a complete succession of life, which shall link one geological
period to another. But that such deposits and such an unbroken
succession must have existed at one time we may well feel sure, and
stand ready to believe that nowhere in the long series of fossiliferous
rocks has there been a total break, but that there has inevitably been
a complete continuity of life, as well as a more or less complete
continuity of sedimentation from the Laurentian period to the present
day. One generation, speaking figuratively, hands on the lamp of
life to the next, and each system of rocks is the direct offspring
of its predecessor in time. Though it is apparent that there has not
been continuity in any given area, still the geological chain could
not have been snapped at one point and taken up again at a totally
different one. Hence we arrive at the conviction that in geology, as in
other sciences, continuity is the fundamental law, and that the lines
of demarcation between the great formations are but gaps in our own
knowledge.

Through the study of fossils, as is well known, geologists have been
led to the all-important generalization that the vast series of
fossiliferous or sedimentary rocks may be separated into a number of
definite groups or formations, each of which being characterized by
its own organic remains, but not properly and strictly, it must be
understood, by the occurrence therein of any one particular fossil.
However, a formation may contain some particular fossil or fossils
not occurring outside of that formation, thus enabling an observer
to identify a given group with tolerable certainty; or, as very
often happens, some particular stratum or subgroup of a series, may
contain peculiar fossils, whereby its existence may be determined with
considerable readiness in divers localities. Each great formation, let
it be said, is properly characterized by the association of certain
fossils, the predominance of certain families or orders, or by an
assemblage of fossil remains that represent the life of the period
during which the formation was deposited.

Fossils, then, not only enable us to determine the age of the deposits
in which they are found, but they also further enable us to arrive at
some very important conclusions respecting the manner in which the
fossiliferous bed was deposited, and, consequently, to the condition
of the particular region occupied by the bed at the period of its
formation. Beds that contain the remains of animals, such as now
inhabit rivers, we know to be fluviatile in their origin, and that
at one time they must have either constituted actual river-beds, or
been deposited by the overflowing of ancient streams. But if the beds
contain the remains of mollusks, minute crustaceans or fish, such as
are found to-day in lakes, then we conclude that they are lacustrine,
and were deposited beneath the waters of former lakes. And, lastly,
if the remains of animals such as now people the oceans are to be
met with in the beds, then we know that they are marine in origin,
and that they are fragments of an old sea-bottom. On the whole, the
conditions under which a bed was deposited, whether in a shallow sea,
in the immediate vicinity of a coast-line, or in deep water, can
often be determined with considerable accuracy from the nature of the
relics of the organisms which they contain. But we have thus far been
dealing with the remains of aquatic animals. When, however, we consider
the remains of aerial and terrestrial animals, or of plants, the
determination of the conditions of deposition is not made out with such
an absolute certainty. Remains of land-animals would, of course, occur
in sub-aerial deposits, that is, in beds, like blown sand, accumulated
upon the land, but the most of such remains of such animals are found
in deposits which have been laid down in water, and hence their present
position is due to the fact that their former owners were either
drowned in rivers or lakes, or borne out to sea by water-channels.
Animals possessed of the power of flight might also similarly find
their way into aqueous deposits, but, when it is remembered that many
birds and mammals habitually spent a great part of their time in the
water, it is not to be wondered at that they should present themselves
as fossils in sedimentary rocks. Even plants, such as have undoubtedly
grown upon land, do not prove that the bed in which they are found was
formed on land, for many of their remains are extraneous to the bed
in which they now occur, having reached their present site by falling
into lakes or rivers, or by being carried out to sea by floods or
gales of winds. Still, there are many cases which obviously show that
plants have grown on the very spot where we now find them. The great
coal-fields of the Carboniferous Age, it is now generally conceded, are
the result of the growth _in situ_ of the plants which compose coal, as
well as that they grew on vast marshy or partially submerged tracts of
level alluvial land.

While fossils enable us in many cases to arrive at important
conclusions as to the climate of the period in which they lived, yet it
is only in the case of marine fossils, which constitute the majority
of such remains, that we acquire such knowledge, but it is mostly the
temperature of the sea which can thus be determined. However, let
it be remembered that, owing to the existence of heated currents,
the marine climate of a designated area does not necessarily imply a
correspondingly warm climate in the adjoining land, for land-climates
can only be determined by the relics of land-animals or land-plants,
and these are comparatively rare as fossils. But all conclusions on
this head are really based upon the existing distribution of vegetable
and animal life upon the globe, and are therefore liable to be vitiated
by the considerations that no certainty exists that the habits and
requirements of an extinct animal were exactly similar to those of its
nearest living relative; that far back in time groups of organisms, so
unlike anything we know at the present day, are met with, which render
all conjectures of climate based upon their supposed habits more or
less uncertain and unsafe; that in the case of marine animals we are
as yet very far from knowing the precise limits of distribution of
many species within our present seas as to render conclusions drawn
from living forms in relation to extinct species unsatisfactory and,
probably, incorrect; and, finally, that the distribution of animals
to-day, is certainly dependent on other conditions than climate alone,
the causes limiting the range of given animals being assuredly such as
belong to the existing order of things, and are different from what
they were in former times, not necessarily because the climate has
changed, but because of the alteration of other conditions that are
essential to the life of the species or conducive to its extension. But
notwithstanding the difficulties in the way, we are able in many cases
to deduce completely trustworthy conclusions concerning the climate
of a given geological period by an examination of its fossil remains.
In Eocene times, or at the beginning of the Tertiary Period, the
climate of what is now Western Europe was of a tropical or sub-tropical
character, the Eocene beds being found to contain the remains of
cowries and volutes, such shells as now inhabit tropical seas, together
with the fruits of palms and remains of other tropical plants. And
further, it has been shown that in Miocene times, or about the middle
of the same epoch, the central parts of Europe were peopled with a
luxuriant flora resembling that of the warmer parts of the United
States, and that Greenland, now buried for the most part beneath a vast
ice-shroud, was warm enough to support a large number of trees, shrubs
and other plants that are at present denizens of the temperate regions
of the globe.

And lastly, from the study of fossils, geologists first learned to
comprehend a fact, that is, that the crust of the earth is liable to
local elevations and subsidences, which may be regarded as of cardinal
importance in all modern geological theories and speculations. Long
after the remains of shells and those of other marine animals were
first observed in the solid rocks constituting the dry land, and at
great elevations above the sea-level, attempts were made to explain
this unintelligible phenomenon upon the hypothesis that these remains
or fossils were mere _lusus naturæ_, due to some “plastic virtue latent
in the earth.” But the common-sense of science soon rejected this idea,
and it was universally agreed that these bodies were really the relics
of animals that once lived in the sea. When once this was admitted,
further steps in the right way of thinking became comparatively easy,
and at the present day no geological doctrine stands on a surer
foundation than that which teaches that our existing continents and
islands, fixed and immovable as they appear, have been repeatedly sunk
beneath the ocean and just as repeatedly been lifted above its waters.

Not only have fossils an important bearing upon geology and
physiography as has been seen, but they have relations, most
complicated and weighty in character, with the science of biology, or
the study of living beings. No adequate understanding of zoölogy and
botany is possible without some acquaintance with the types of plants
and animals that have passed away, for there are numerous speculative
problems in the domain of vital science, which, if soluble at all,
can only hope to find their key in researches carried out on extinct
organisms.

No attempt will be made by the writer to discuss fully the biological
relations of fossils. Such an undertaking would afford matter for a
separate volume. All that I purpose in this chapter is to indicate very
cursorily the principal points of palæontological teaching, so that my
readers can acquire some idea of the progression from lower to higher
types that life has made throughout the geological ages. Preliminary to
the purpose held in view, let it be understood that the vast majority
of fossil animals and plants are extinct, or, differently and perhaps
more intelligently expressed, belong to species that no longer exist.
So far from there being any truth in the old idea that there have
been periodic destructions of all the living beings in existence upon
the earth, followed by a corresponding number of new creations of
plants and animals, the actual facts indicate that the extinction of
old and introduction of new forms have been processes that have been
continually going on throughout the whole of geologic time. Every
species seems to come into existence at a definite point of time, and
to disappear finally at another definite period, though there are few,
if any, instances, in which the times of entrance and exit could be
fixed with any degree of certainty or precision. Marked differences
in the actual time during which different species have remained in
existence are noticeable, and therefore corresponding differences in
their vertical range, or in the actual amount and thickness of strata
through which they present themselves as fossils, some species being
found to extend through two or three formations, and even a few have
had a more prolonged existence. More commonly, however, the species
which begin in the commencement of a great formation die out at or
before its close, while those which are introduced for the first time
near its middle or end may either become extinct or pass into the next
succeeding formation, animals of the lowest and simplest organization
as a rule having the longest range in time. Microscopic or minute
dimensions seem to favor longevity, for some of the Foraminifera
appear to have survived, with little or no perceptible alteration,
from the Silurian Period to the present day, whereas largely and
highly-organized animals, though long-lived as individuals, rarely seem
to live long specifically, and consequently have a restricted vertical
range. Exceptions to this rule are, however, occasionally found in some
persistent types, the Lampshells of the genus Lingula being little
changed from the Lingulæ that swarmed in the Lower Silurian seas, while
the existing Pearly Nautilus is the last descendant of a clan nearly as
old. Some forms, on the other hand, the Ammonites, which are closely
related to the Nautilus, and mostly restricted to certain zones of
strata, seem to have enjoyed a comparatively brief lease of life.

[Illustration: LIFE IN THE PRIMORDIAL SEA.

Representing Mollusks, Sponges, Crustaceans, Worms and Sea-Weeds.]

But of the causes that have led to the extinction of plants and
animals, little or nothing is known. All that can be affirmed, in our
present knowledge, is that the attributes constituting a species do
not seem to be intrinsically endowed with permanence, any more than
those constituting an individual, though the former may endure whilst
many successive generations of the latter have disappeared from the
earth. Each species, it would seem, has its own life-period--its
beginning, culmination and decay--the life-periods of different species
being of very different duration. From all that has been said, it
may be gathered that our existing plants and animals are for the
most part of modern origin, using the term modern in its geological
acceptation. Measured by human standards, many of our existing
animals, those which are capable of being preserved as fossils, are
known to have a high antiquity. Not a few of our shell-fish commenced
their existence at some time in the Tertiary, while one species of
Lampshell--_Terebratulina caput-serpentis_--is believed to have
survived since the Chalk, and a number of the Foraminifera date
from the Carboniferous Period. Thus, we learn the additional fact
that our existing flora and fauna do not constitute an aggregation
of organic forms which were introduced into the world collectively
and simultaneously, but that they commenced their existence at very
different times, some being extremely ancient, whilst others are of
comparatively recent origin. And this introduction of existing plants
and animals, as admirably shown by the study of the fossil shells of
the Tertiary Period, was a slow and gradual process. Ninety-five
per cent. of the known fossil shells in the earliest Tertiary are
found to be species no longer in existence, the remaining 5 per
cent. being forms that are known to live in our present seas. In the
Middle Tertiary, the extinct types are much fewer in number, while at
the close of the Period the proportion with which we started may be
reversed, not more than 5 per cent. being extinct types.

[Illustration: CARBONIFEROUS TIMES.

Animals and Plants That Prevailed.]

All existing animals belong to some five or six primary divisions,
which are technically known as sub-kingdoms, each sub-kingdom to be
regarded as representing a certain plan of structure, each and every
animal embraced therein being merely a modified form of this common
type. Not only are all known living animals reducible to these five or
six fundamental plans, but also the vast series of fossil forms which
have come to light in investigations of the earth’s strata. While many
fossil groups have no closely-related group now in existence, but in
no case do we meet with a fossil animal whose peculiarities do not
entitle it to be placed in one or other of the grand structural types
already indicated. The old types differ in many respects from those now
upon the earth, and the further we go back in time the more pronounced
does the divergence become. A comparison of the animals that lived
in the old Silurian seas with those now occupying our oceans, would
indicate differences so great in many instances as almost to place us
in another world, this divergence being most marked in the Palæozoic
forms of life, less so in those of the Mesozoic, and still less so in
the Tertiary. Each successive formation has therefore presented us with
animals becoming gradually more and more like those now in existence.
Though there is, however, an immense and striking difference between
the Silurian animals and those of the present day, yet this difference
is considerably lessened when a comparison is instituted between the
Silurian and the Devonian, and this with the Carboniferous, and so on
down to the present period.

Thus it follows that the animals of any given formation, and the plants
as well, where the records are preserved, are more like those of the
next formation below and of the next formation above, than they are
like any others. This fact of itself is an inexplicable one. But if
we believe that the animals and plants of any given formation are, in
part at any rate, the lineal descendants of those of the preceding,
and the progenitors, also in part at least, of those of the succeeding
formation, then the fact is readily comprehensible. So frequently
confronted is the palæontologist with the phenomenon of closely-related
forms, especially of animals, succeeding one another in point of time,
that he is compelled to believe that such forms have been developed
from some common ancestral type by some process of evolution. Upon
no other theory can we comprehend why the Post-Tertiary mammals of
South America should consist of edentates, llamas, tapirs, peccaries,
platyrhine monkeys and other forms now characterizing this continent,
while those of Australia should be exclusively referable to the
order of marsupials; and on no other view can we explain the common
occurrence of transitional forms of life, filling in the gaps between
groups now widely distinct. But, on the other hand, there are facts
which point clearly to the presence of some other law than that of
evolution, and probably of a deeper and more far-reaching character.
No theory of evolution can offer a satisfactory explanation for the
constant introduction throughout geological time of new forms of life,
which do not appear to be preceded by pre-existent allied types. The
graptolites and trilobites have no known predecessors, and leave no
known successors. Insects appear suddenly in the Devonian, and spiders
and myriopods in the Carboniferous, but all under well-differentiated
and highly-specialized forms. With equal apparent suddenness the
Dibranchiate Cephalopods show themselves in the older Mesozoic
deposits, and no known type of the Palæozoic period can be pointed to
as a possible ancestor. And so does the wonderful dicotyledonous flora
of the Upper Cretaceous similarly surprise us without any prophetic
annunciation from the older Jurassic. Many other instances might
be cited, but enough has been said to show that the problem is one
environed with profound difficulties.

[Illustration: MESOZOIC FLORA AND FAUNA.

Cycads, Pandanus, Deinosaurs, Birds and Pterodactyl.]

As we pass from the older rocks into the newer, we not only find that
the animals of each successive formation become gradually more and
more like existing species upon the globe, but we also find that there
has been a gradual progression and development in the types of animal
life which characterize the geological ages. Taking the earliest-known
and oldest examples of any given group, it can sometimes be shown
that these primitive forms, even though they are highly organized
themselves, possessed certain characters such as are now only to be met
with in the young of their existing representatives. Such characters,
which are technically called embryonic characters, do not prevent the
frequent attainment by their possessors of sizes much more gigantic
than those of their nearest living relatives. Moreover, these ancient
forms of life represent what are called comprehensive types, or types
that possess characters in combination such as are nowadays found
separately developed in different groups of animals. Such permanent
retention of embryonic characters and comprehensiveness of structural
type are signs of what zoölogists consider to be comparatively low
grades of organization, and their prevalence in the earlier forms of
animals is a very astonishing phenomenon, though they are none the less
perfectly organized so far as their peculiar type is concerned. As we
ascend the geological scale, these features will be found to gradually
disappear, higher and even higher forms will be introduced, and
specialization of type take the place of the former comprehensiveness.
That there has been in the past a general progression of organic
types, and that the appearance of the lower forms of life has in
the main preceded that of the higher forms in point of time, is a
widely-accepted generalization of palæontology.

Now that it has been seen that there has been a gradual progression
and development of animal types all through the ages up to the era of
man, the question naturally occurs whether or not the changes are still
going on which will result in a higher development. Man coexisted in
Western Europe with several remarkable mammals in the later portion
of the Post-Pliocene Period. While we do not know the causes which
led to the extinction of the mammoth, woolly rhinoceros, cave-lion
and others, yet we do know that scarcely any mammalian species have
become extinct during the historical period. The species with which man
coexisted are such that presumably required a very different climate to
that now prevailing in Western Europe. Some of the deposits in which
man’s remains have been found in association with the bones of extinct
mammals incontestably show that great changes in the physiography
and surface-configuration of the country had taken place since the
period of their accumulation, the human implements themselves bearing
evidence of an exceedingly barbarous condition of the human species.
Post-Pliocene, or Palæolithic man, was clearly unacquainted with the
use of the metals. Not only was this the case, but the workmanship of
these ancient races was much inferior to that of the later tribes,
who were also ignorant of the metals, and who also used nothing but
weapons and tools of stone, bone, etc., in war, chase and domestic
affairs. When first man spread over the earth, he had no domestic
animals, perhaps not even the dog, and had no knowledge of agriculture.
His weapons were of the rudest character, and his houses scarcely
worthy of the name. No doubt can exist that his food, habits and
entire manner of living have varied as he has passed from country to
country, for he must then have been far more subject to the influence
of external circumstances, and in all probability more susceptible of
change. Moreover, his form, which is now stereotyped by long ages of
repetition, may reasonably be presumed to have been more plastic than
is now the case. As long as man led a mere animal existence, he would
be subject to the same laws, and would vary in the same manner as the
rest of his fellow-creatures. But when at last he had acquired the
capacity of clothing himself, and of making weapons or tools, he has
taken away from nature, in a great measure, that power of changing the
external form and structure which she exercises over all other animals.
From the time, then, when his social and sympathetic feelings came
into active operation, and his intellectual and moral faculties became
fairly developed, man’s physical form and structure would not be so
much influenced by natural laws, and, therefore, as an animal, he would
become almost stationary, his environment ceasing to have upon him that
powerful modifying effect which it exercises over other parts of the
organic world. But from the moment that his body became less subject
to the changes of the surrounding universe, his mind would become
acted upon by the influences which the body had escaped. Every slight
variation in his mental and moral nature, which would consequently
be brought about, and which would enable him better to guard against
adverse circumstances, and league together for mutual comfort and
protection, would be preserved and accumulated. The better and higher
specimens of our race would therefore increase and diffuse themselves,
while the lower and more brutal would succumb and successively die out,
and that rapid advancement of mental organization would occur, which
has raised the very lowest races of men, whose mentality was scarcely
superior to the animal, to that high position which it has attained in
the Germanic races. It would be too bold an assertion to say that man’s
body has become stationary. Slow and gradual changes still take place,
although his mere bodily structure long ago became of less importance
to him than that subtle energy, which is termed mind. No one can doubt
that _this_ gave his naked and unprotected body clothing against the
varying inclemencies of the seasons and enabled him to compete with the
deer in swiftness and the wild bull in strength by giving him weapons
wherewith to capture or subdue them both. Though less capable than most
other animals of subsisting on the herbs and the fruits of unaided
nature, it was this wonderful faculty that taught him to govern and
direct nature to his own benefit, and compel her to produce food for
him when and where he pleased. From the moment, then, when the first
skin was used as a covering, the first rude spear fashioned to aid in
the chase, and the first seed sown or shoot planted, a grand revolution
was effected in nature, a revolution which had had no parallel in all
the previous cycles of the world’s history, for a being had arisen
who was no longer necessarily subject to a changing universe, a being
who was in some degree superior to nature, inasmuch as he knew how to
control and regulate her action, and could maintain himself in unison
with her, not by a change brought about in the body, but by a growth
and advance in mind. Therein are shadowed forth the true grandeur and
dignity of man. Not only has he achieved for himself a great victory
in this rising by the power of mind superior to nature in a sense, but
he has also gained a directing influence over other existences, in
that he has been able to grasp from nature some of that power which,
before his appearance, she universally exercised. From all that man has
accomplished in the past, it is easy to anticipate the time when only
cultivated plants and domestic animals will be produced by the earth,
and when the ocean, which, for countless cycles of ages ruled supreme
over the globe, will be the only domain in which that power can be
exercised.

That man has improved under civilization there can be no question.
Statistics show that, since the introduction of civilization, the
population of the earth in general has increased. No one can fail
to observe that under its influence the means of subsistence have
increased even more rapidly than the population. Far from suffering for
lack of food, the most densely peopled countries are those in which it
is, not only absolutely but even relatively most abundant. A thousand
men live to-day in plenty upon an area of ground that would scarcely
afford a scanty and precarious subsistence to a single savage. There
is no denying the fact that happiness is increased by civilization.
To talk of the free and noble savage is folly. The true savage is
neither free nor noble. He is a slave to his own wants, his own
passions. Imperfectly protected as he is from the weather, he suffers
at night from the cold and by day from the heat of the sun. Ignorant of
agriculture, living by the chase, and improvident in success, hunger
ever stares him in the face, and often drives him to the dreadful
alternative of cannibalism or death. The life of all beasts in their
wild state is certainly an exceedingly anxious one. So it is with the
savage. He is always suspicious, always in danger, always on the watch.
He can depend on no one, and no one can depend upon him, for he expects
nothing from his neighbor, and does unto others as he believes that
they would do unto him. His life is one prolonged scene of selfishness
and fear. Even in his religion, if he has any, he creates for himself
a new source of terror, and peoples the world with invisible enemies.
More wretched is the position of the female savage than that of her
master, for she not only shares his sufferings, but has also to bear
his ill-humor and ill-usage, being little better than his dog, little
dearer than his horse. Few of them, it is believed, are so fortunate
as to die a natural death, being despatched ere they become old and
emaciated, that so much good food shall not be lost. Indeed, so
little importance is attached to women, either before or after death,
that it may be doubted whether the man does not esteem his dog, when
alive, quite as much as he does his woman, and think of both quite as
often and as lovingly after he has made a meal of them. Not content,
moreover, with the pleasures incident to their mode of life, savages
appear to take a melancholy delight in self-inflicted sufferings. They
not only tattoo their bodies, but practise the most extraordinary
methods of disfigurement and self-torture, some amputating the little
finger, while others drill immense holes in the under-lip, or pierce
the cartilage of the nose. These and many other curious practices, none
the less painful because they are voluntary, are in vogue among savage
people. Turning now to the bright side of the question, we cannot but
conclude that the pleasures of civilized man are greater than those of
the savage. While man will never be able to improve the organization
of the eye or the ear, yet, on the other hand, the invention of the
telescope and the microscope is equivalent in its results to an immense
improvement of the eyes, thus opening up to us new worlds, fresh
sources of interest and happiness, while the training of the ear will
enable us to invent new musical instruments and compose new melodies.
The savage, like a child, sees and hears only that which is brought
directly before him, but the civilized man questions nature, and by
the various processes of chemistry, electricity and magnetism, and a
thousand ingenious contrivances, forces nature to reveal herself,
thereby discovering hidden uses and unsuspected beauties, quite as
marvellously as though he were endowed with some entirely new organ of
sense. Through the discovery of printing, we are brought into communion
with the greatest minds, and thus the thoughts of a Shakespeare or a
Tennyson, or the discoveries of a Newton or a Darwin, become the common
property of mankind. Already the results of this all-important, though
simple, process have vastly improved our mental faculties, and day by
day, as books become cheaper, schools are established and education
more general, a greater and greater effect will be produced.

Nor are all these new sources of happiness accompanied by any new
liability to suffering. On the contrary, while our pleasures are
increased, our pains are lessened. In a thousand ways we can avoid or
diminish evils which to our ancestors were great and unavoidable. No
one can estimate the misery which, for instance, the simple discovery
of chloroform has spared the human race. The capacity for pain, so
far as it can serve as a warning, remains all the same, but the
necessity for endurance has been greatly diminished. With increased
knowledge of the laws of health, and attention thereto, disease will
become less and less frequent, and those tendencies to disease which
we have inherited from our ancestors will gradually die out, and, if
fresh seeds are not sown, the race will one day enjoy the inestimable
advantages of a more vigorous and healthy existence. Thus, then, with
the increasing influence of science we may confidently look forward to
a great improvement in the condition of man. But it may be alleged that
our present sufferings and sorrows arise chiefly from sin, and that
any moral improvement must come from religion and not from science.
This separation of the two mighty agents of improvement, the great
misfortune of humanity, has done more than anything else to retard
the progress of civilization. But even if we admit for the nonce that
science will not render us more virtuous, it must certainly make us
more innocent, for in fact the most of our criminal population are
mere savages, persons who can rarely read and write, and whose crimes
are but injudicious and desperate attempts to live a savage life in
the midst, and at the expense, of a civilized community. Men do wrong
either from ignorance or in the hope, unexpressed perhaps even to
themselves, that they may enjoy the pleasure and yet avoid the penalty
of sin. All that they have to do they think, when they have committed
sin, is to repent. The religious teaching of the day has much to do
with this misapprehension. Repentance is too frequently regarded as a
substitute for punishment. Sin it is thought is followed either by the
one or the other. So far, therefore, as this world is concerned, this
is not the case; repentance may enable a man to avoid sin in future,
but has no effect on the consequences of the past. The laws of nature
are not only just and salutary, but they are also inexorable. While
all men admit that “the wages of sin is death,” yet they seem to think
that this is a general rule to which there may be many exceptions,
that some sins may possibly tend to happiness. That suffering is the
inevitable consequence of sin, as surely as an effect follows a cause,
is the stern yet salutary teaching of science. And certainly if this
lesson were thoroughly impressed upon our minds, that punishment and
not happiness is the consequence of sin, then temptation, which is
the very root of crime, would be cut away, and mankind must therefore
necessarily become more innocent. May we not go still further and
say that science will also render us more virtuous? He who studies
philosophy can only obtain a just idea of the great things for which
Providence has fitted his understanding. Such a study not only makes
our lives more agreeable, but it also makes them better, and every
motive of interest and duty should constrain a rational being to direct
his mind towards pursuits which all experience has shown to be the sure
path of virtue and happiness.

Man is in reality but on the threshold of civilization. Far from
showing any indication of having reached the end, the tendency to
improvement seems laterally to have proceeded with augmented impetus
and accelerated rapidity. There is no reason to suppose that it must
now cease. Man has not attained the limits of intellectual development,
nor exhausted the infinite capabilities of nature. There are many
things not yet dreamt of in our philosophy which science must reveal,
many discoveries yet to be made which will confer upon the human race
advantages which as yet, perhaps, we are not in a condition to grasp
and appreciate. We seem, when we compare our present knowledge with
the great ocean of truth that lies all undiscovered before us, like
little children playing on the sea-shore, and picking up a smoother
pebble and prettier shell than any they had met with before. Thus, it
is obvious, that our most sanguine hopes for the future are justified
by the entire experience of the past. It is surely unreasonable to
presume that a process which has been going on for so many thousand
years should have now suddenly ceased; and he must indeed be blind
who thinks that our civilization is unsusceptible of improvement, or
that we ourselves are in the highest state possible for man to attain.
Theory, as well as experience, forces the same conclusion upon us. That
principle of Natural Selection, which in animals affects the body and
seems to have little influence on the mind, in man affects the mind and
has little influence on the body. In the former it leads mainly to the
preservation of life, and in the latter to the improvement of the mind,
and consequently to the increase of happiness. It ensures, in the words
of Spencer, “a constant progress towards a higher skill, intelligence,
and self-regulation--a better coördination of actions--a more complete
life.” Nearly all the evils under which we suffer, it will be conceded,
may be attributed either to ignorance or sin. That ignorance will be
diminished by the progress of science is, of course, self-evident;
and that the same will be the case with sin, seems little less so.
Thus, then, do both science and theory point to the same conclusion.
That which poets hardly dared to hope for, the future happiness of our
race, science boldly predicts. Even in our own time we trust to see
some wonderful improvement. But the unselfish mind, however, will find
its highest gratification in the belief that, whatever may be the case
with ourselves, our descendants will understand many things which are
mysterious to us now, will better appreciate the beautiful world in
which we live, avoid much of the suffering to which we are subject,
enjoy many blessings of which we are not yet worthy, and escape many of
those temptations which we deplore but cannot wholly resist.

We have thus seen that all life has been progressive. There has been
through the ages a steadily growing upward tendency to higher life.
But the changes have mainly been in the line of physical form and
structure. And such, too, had been the case with man, until his social,
intellectual and moral faculties had begun to assert themselves, when
his body ceased in a great measure to be acted upon by physical laws,
and development began to manifest itself in a higher type of mental
organization. From the low, simple, childlike mind of palæolithic man
has come that wonderful intellect which now characterizes the Germanic
races, and which is destined to make itself felt in its contact
with all the earth. Those peoples that are able to embrace the new
civilization brought to their doors, so to speak, will survive, while
the others, unable to adapt themselves thereto, like the Tasmanian,
will succumb in the struggle with a superior being and go to the
wall. Animals and plants will be brought into new relations and new
conditions, and such as can meet the new requirements will, as certain
species have done before, endure. They will, in other words, have
partaken of an enlightened civilization. Thus things will go on until
all life, vegetal and animal, will be brought under the controlling
and elevating influence of man, and then will be inaugurated on earth
that condition when the lion and the kid shall lie down together, and
a little child shall be found in their midst. Nothing harmful will
anywhere exist. Heaven will then have been brought down to earth, and
peace and harmony will universally prevail. Then will have come the
complete triumph of mind over body. All growth and development of the
reformed and regenerated earth-man will be in the direction of mind,
and his accomplishments will he share with the inferior subjects of his
peaceful and happy domain. Progression, however, will not cease, but
will go on steadily advancing as the years increase. And if there is a
life beyond the earth-life, then the intellect or mind, or soul if you
please, shall, in some form or other, exist therein, and reach up into
higher and yet higher growth and development.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

Among organic beings in a state of nature there is some individual
variability. This is an admission about which there can be no dispute.
But the mere existence of individual variability and of a few
well-marked varieties, though necessary as the foundation for the work,
assists us but little in understanding how species originate in nature.
Those exquisite adaptations of one part of the organization to another
part, and to the conditions of life, and of one organic being to
another being, which we know to exist, seem as mysteries. We see them
in the humblest parasite that clings to the hairs of a quadruped or the
feathers of a bird, in the structure of the beetle that dives through
the water, and in the plumed seed that is wafted by the gentlest
breeze. In short, we see beautiful adaptations everywhere and in every
part of the organic world. And yet, how few have paused while admiring
these beautiful and wonderful co-adaptations to ask themselves the
question: How have these been perfected?

If the existence of any well-marked varieties be admitted, how is it
that these varieties, which may be denominated incipient species,
become ultimately converted into good and distinct species, which
in the generality of cases obviously differ from each in a greater
degree than do the varieties of the same species? How do these groups
of species, which constitute what are authoritatively called genera,
and which differ from each other more than do the species of the same
genus, arise? All these results, as will presently be seen, follow from
the Struggle for Existence. Owing to this struggle, all variations,
no matter how slight they may be, or from what cause soever they may
proceed, will, if they be in any degree profitable to the individuals
of a species in their infinitely complex relations to other organic
beings and their physical conditions of life, unavoidably conduce to
the preservation of such individuals, and generally be inherited by
the offspring. The offspring, too, will thus have a better chance
of surviving, for, of the many individuals of a species that are
periodically born, but a very small number can survive. That principle,
by which each slight variation, if useful to the individual, is
preserved, has been termed Natural Selection by Darwin, in order to
distinguish it from the selection which is exercised by man over the
plants and animals which he has brought under subjection for his own
wants. But the expression--Survival of the Fittest--so frequently used
by Spencer, is more accurate, and sometimes equally convenient. Man can
certainly produce great results by this power, and can adapt, through
the accumulation of slight but useful variations given to him by the
hand of nature, organic beings to his own uses. But Natural Selection,
as is well known, is a power incessantly ready for action, and is as
infinitely superior to man’s feeble efforts as the works of nature are
to those of art.

All organic beings are exposed to severe competition. Nothing is
easier than to admit in words the truth of the universal struggle
for life, or more difficult than constantly to bear this conclusion,
which has been reached through the investigations and researches of De
Candolle, Lyell, Herbert, Darwin and others, in mind. Unless, however,
it be thoroughly ingrained in the mind, the whole economy of nature,
with every fact on distribution, rarity, abundance, extinction and
variation, will be but dimly perceived or quite misunderstood. We
behold the face of nature radiant with gladness, and food everywhere
in excessive abundance, but we do not see that the birds which are
happily singing round us mostly live on insects or seeds, and are
thus constantly destroying life, or we fail to remember how largely
these songsters, or their eggs, or their nestlings, are destroyed by
birds and beasts of prey. Yes, we do not always bear in mind that,
though food may now be superabundant, it is not so at all seasons of
each recurring year. The term, Struggle for Existence, must be used in
a large and metaphorical sense. It must be construed to include the
dependence of one being on another, and also not only the life of the
individual but also its success in leaving offspring. Two carnivores,
in a time of scarcity of food, may be truly said to struggle with each
other for maintenance of life. But a plant on the edge of a desert
is said to struggle for life against the drought, though, properly
speaking, it is dependent for its existence upon the moisture. A plant,
however, that annually produces many thousand seeds of which on an
average only one comes to maturity, may in a much truer sense be said
to struggle with the plants of the same and other kinds which already
invest the ground. While the mistletoe is dependent on the apple and
some other trees, yet it cannot be said, unless in a far-fetched sense,
to struggle with these trees, for, if too many of these parasites are
found upon the same tree, it will certainly languish and die. Several
seedling mistletoes, however, growing close together upon the same
branch, may more truly be said to struggle with each other.

From the high rate at which all organic beings tend to increase, there
must inevitably follow a Struggle for Existence. Every being which,
during its natural lifetime, produces several eggs or seeds, must
necessarily suffer destruction during some part of that period, and
during some season or occasional year, otherwise, on the principle
of Geometrical Increase, its numbers would become so inordinately
excessive that no country would be able to support its product.
Therefore, as more individuals are produced than can possibly
survive, there must be in every case a Struggle for Existence, either
one individual struggling with another of the same kind, or with
individuals of distinct kinds or species, or with the conditions of
the environment. This is the doctrine of Malthus applied with manifold
force to the entire vegetable and animal kingdoms. Although some
species may be now increasing at a very high rate in numbers, yet
all cannot do so, for the earth would not be able to contain them.
Slow-breeding man has doubled in twenty-five years, and should he go
on at this rate for a few thousand years, there would literally not
be standing room for his progeny. It has been calculated that, if an
annual plant produced only two seeds, and their seedlings next year
produced two, and the same rate of increase was kept up for twenty
years, there would be a million of plants as the result. Even the
elephant, which is reckoned the slowest breeder of all known animals,
would after a period of from seven hundred and forty to seven hundred
and fifty years leave nearly nineteen million elephants as descendants
from the first pair.

Much better evidence than mere theoretical calculations are not wanting
on this subject. Instances are recorded of the astonishingly rapid
increase of various animals in a state of nature, when conditions have
been favorable to them, during two or three succeeding seasons. More
striking, however, is the evidence from domestic animals that have run
wild in several parts of the world. Were not the statements of the
rate of increase of cattle and horses in South America, and latterly
in Australia, where millions now abound, well authenticated, they
would have been incredible. Cases could be mentioned of introduced
plants that have become quite common throughout entire islands in a
period of less than twelve years. Several of these plants, the cardoon
and a rare thistle, which were introduced from Europe, clothe square
leagues of the surface of the wide plains of the La Plata almost to the
exclusion of all other plants; and there are plants which now range in
India, from Cape Comorin to the Himalaya, which have been imported from
America since its discovery. In all such cases, and endless instances
could be adduced, no intelligent person supposes that their fertility
has been increased in any sensible degree by change of habitat, the
obvious explanation being that the conditions of environment have been
very favorable, and that there has consequently been less destruction
of old and young, and that nearly all the latter have been enabled
to breed. The extraordinarily rapid increase and wide diffusion of
naturalized productions in new homes, a result which never fails
to evoke surprise, is only to be explained on the principle of the
Geometrical Ratio of Increase. As in nature almost every plant produces
seed, and there are very few animals that do not annually pair,
therefore we can confidently assert that all plants and animals are
tending to increase in a geometrical ratio; that all would most rapidly
stock every station in which they could in any way exist, and that the
tendency to increase must be checked by destruction at some period of
life. Among our larger domestic animals we see no great destruction
falling on them. We forget that thousands are annually slaughtered
for food, and that in a natural state an equal number would have to
be disposed of in some way or other. Between organisms which annually
produce seeds or eggs by the thousands, and those which produce
extremely few, the only difference is that the slow breeders would
require a few more years to people, under favorable conditions, a whole
district, let it be ever so large. But a couple of eggs are laid by the
condor, while the ostrich lays a score. Yet in the same country the
condor may be the more abundant of the two. The Fulmer petrel lays but
a single egg, yet it is believed to be the most numerous bird in the
world. A large number of eggs is of some importance to those species
which depend upon a rapidly-fluctuating quantity of food, for it
permits them to increase rapidly in number; but the real importance of
a large number of eggs or seeds is to make up for the great destruction
that goes on at some period of life, and this period in the vast
majority of cases is an early one. If an animal can in any way protect
its own eggs or young, a small number may be produced, and the average
stock be kept up; but if many eggs or young are destroyed, then many
must be produced or the species will become extinct. Therefore, the
average number of any animal or plant depends, though only indirectly,
upon the number of its eggs or seeds. We should never forget, in taking
a survey of nature, that every single organic being around us may be
said to be striving to the utmost to augment its members; that each
lives by a struggle at some period of its existence, and that heavy
destruction falls either on the young or old during each generation or
at recurrent intervals. Let any check be lightened, or the destruction
be mitigated ever so little, and the number of the species will almost
instantaneously increase to any extent.

But of the nature of the checks to increase we know little, although
this subject has been very ably treated by writers of eminence. Eggs
or very young animals seem generally to suffer the most, but this is
not invariably the case. While there is a vast destruction of the
seeds of plants, but it is the seedlings which are believed to suffer
the greatest, from germinating in ground already thickly stocked with
other plants, and from being destroyed in large numbers by various
enemies. The amount of food for each species of course determines the
extreme limit to which each can increase, but very often it is not
the obtaining of food, but the serving as prey to other animals which
fixes the average number of a species. Thus there seems to be little
doubt that the stock of partridges, grouse and hares on any large
estate depends mainly on the destruction of vermin. Were not a single
head of game shot during the next twenty years in England, says Darwin
in substance, and no vermin were at the same time destroyed, there
would in all probability be less game than at present exists, although
hundreds of thousands of game animals are now annually killed for
the market. In some cases, on the other hand, as in the case of the
elephant, none are destroyed by beasts of prey, for even the tiger
in India, bold and venturesome as he is known to be, rarely dares to
attack a young elephant protected by its mother. Climate, also, plays
an important part in determining the average number of a species, and
periodical seasons of extreme cold or drought are seemingly the most
effective checks of all. The action of climate appears at first sight
to be altogether independent of the Struggle for Existence; but in
so far as it chiefly acts in the reduction of food, it brings on the
most severe struggle between the individuals, whether of the same or
different species, which subsist on the same kind of fare. Even when
climate, extreme cold for example, acts directly, it will be the least
vigorous animals, or those which have been the poorest fed through
the advancing winter, that will suffer the greatest. This will be
most readily seen from what we shall now relate. When we travel from
south to north, or from a damp region to a dry, we invariably see some
species getting rarer and rarer by degrees, and finally disappearing.
Change of climate being conspicuous, we are inclined to ascribe the
entire effect to its direct action, but this is a false interpretation
of the phenomenon, for we fail to remember that each species, even
where it most prevails, is constantly suffering enormous destruction
at some period of its existence, from enemies or competitors for the
same station and food; and if these enemies or competitors be the
least favored by any slight change of climate, they will necessarily
increase in numbers, while the other species, each area being already
stocked with inhabitants, will correspondingly decrease. And when we
travel southward and see a species decreasing in numbers, we may feel
reasonably sure that the cause lies quite as much in other species
being favored as in this being hurt. So it is when we travel northward,
though in a less degree. When we go northward, or when we ascend a
mountain, we far oftener meet with stunted forms, due to the directly
injurious action of climate, than we do when we go southward or descend
a mountain. When, however, we reach the Arctic regions, or explore
snow-capped summits, or absolute deserts, we perceive the struggle for
life to be almost exclusively with the elements.

That climate operates mainly, but indirectly, in favoring other
species, may be clearly seen in the prodigious numbers of garden plants
that can thoroughly well endure our climate, but which can never become
naturalized, inasmuch as they cannot compete with native vegetation nor
resist destruction by native animals.

When a species, owing to highly favorable conditions, increases
inordinately in numbers in a small tract of country, epidemics,
especially in game animals, often occur, and here we have a limiting
check independent of the Struggle for Existence. But some of these
so-called epidemics appear to be due to parasitic worms, which have
from some cause, possibly in part through ease of diffusion among the
crowded animals, been disproportionately favored, and here comes in a
sort of struggle between the parasite and its more illustrious prey.

But, on the other hand, as is frequently the case, a large stock of
individuals of the same species, relatively to the number of its
enemies, is absolutely essential to its preservation. We thus see
how it is possible to raise with ease a plentiful supply of corn in
our fields, because the seeds are greatly in excess of the number
of birds which feed thereon. Nor can the birds, though blessed with
a superabundance of food at this one season, increase in number in
proportion to the supply of seed, as their numbers are checked during
the winter. Any one, however, who has made the experiment, knows how
troublesome it is to get seed from a few wheat or other such plants
sown broad-cast in a garden. Some singular facts in nature, such as
that of very rare plants being sometimes extremely abundant in the few
spots where they do occur, and that of some social plants being social,
or abounding in individuals, even on the extreme confines of their
range, are readily explainable by this view of the necessity of a
large stock of the same species for its preservation, for in such cases
we may believe that a plant could only exist where the conditions of
its life were so favorable that many could exist together and thus save
the species from extinction.

Complex and varied are the checks and relations between organic beings
which have to struggle together in the same country. In the case
of every species, many different checks, some very complicated and
unintelligible to man at present, acting at different periods of life,
and during different seasons or years, come into play, some one check
or some few being generally the most powerful, but all concurring in
determining the average number or even the existence of the species.
Widely-different checks sometimes act on the same species in different
districts. Looking at the plants and bushes that clothe an entangled
bank, we are tempted to ascribe their proportional numbers and kinds
to what we call chance. But this is a very false view to take of the
matter. Chance has no part in such things. They follow in obedience to
laws of which we know comparatively little. When an American forest
is cut down a very different vegetation springs up. Ancient Indian
ruins have been observed in the southern parts of the United States,
which must in former times have been cleared of trees, but which now
display the same beautiful diversity and proportion of kinds as are
now found in the surrounding virgin forest. What a struggle must have
gone on during long centuries between the several kinds of trees, each
annually scattering its seeds by the thousand, and what a war between
insect and insect, and between insects, snails and other animals with
birds and beasts of prey, all striving to increase, all feeding on each
other, or on the trees, their seeds and their seedlings, or on the
other plants which once clothed the soil, and thus checked the growth
of the trees! It is easier to account for the fall of an apple from a
tree, or the descent of a stone to the earth when hurled into the air,
than to account for the action and reaction of the innumerable plants
and animals that have determined in the course of untold centuries the
proportional numbers and kinds of trees that are now found growing on
these old Indian ruins. But the struggle will almost invariably be the
severest between individuals of the same species, for they frequent
the same districts, require the same food and are exposed to the same
dangers. In the case of varieties of the same species, the struggle
will generally be almost equally severe. If several varieties of wheat
be sown together, and the mixed seed be re-sown, some of the varieties
which best suit the soil or climate, or are naturally the most fertile,
will beat the others and so yield more seed, and will consequently
in a few years supplant the others. Such extremely-close varieties
as the variously-colored sweet-peas must be separately harvested
each year, and the seed mixed in due proportion, or the weaker kinds
will steadily decrease in number and disappear. So, again, with the
varieties of sheep. Certain mountain-varieties will starve out other
mountain-varieties, so that they cannot be kept together. Similar
results have followed from keeping together different varieties of the
medicinal leech. In view of all that has been said, it is questionable
whether the varieties of any of our domestic plants and animals have
so exactly the same vigor, constitution and habits that the original
proportions of a mixed stock could be kept up for a half-dozen
generations if they were permitted to struggle together like beings in
a state of nature, if the seed or young were not annually assorted.

Species of the same genus having usually, though not invariably, much
similarity in habits and constitution, and always in structure, the
struggle will be more severe between species of the same genus, where
they come into competition with each other, than between species of
distinct genera. One species of swallow has caused in certain parts
of the United States the decrease of another species, just as the
missel-thrush in parts of Scotland has caused the decrease of the
song-thrush. The small Asiatic cockroach has everywhere in Russia
driven before it its great congener, and the imported European
hive-bee is rapidly exterminating in Australia the small, stingless
bee, indigenous to the country. Hundreds of such cases might be cited,
but we forbear. We can clearly see why the competition should be most
severe between allied forms, which fill nearly the same place in the
economy of nature; but it is perhaps not possible to individualize a
case and say with preciseness why such species has been victorious over
another in the battle of life. That the structure of every organic
being is related, in the most essential yet often hidden manner to
that of all the other organisms with which it comes into competition
for food or residence, or from which it has to escape, or on which
it preys, is a corollary of the highest importance deducible from
the foregoing remarks. Very obvious is this in the structure of the
teeth and talons of the tiger, and in that of the legs and claws
of the parasite which clings to the hair on the tiger’s body. But
in the beautifully-plumed seed of the dandelion and the flattened
and fringed legs of the water-beetle the relation seems at first
restricted to the elements of air and water, yet the advantage of
plumed seeds undoubtedly stands in the most intimate relation to the
land, being already densely clothed with other plants, so that the
seeds may be widely diffused and fall on unoccupied ground, while in
the water-beetle, the structure of its legs, so admirably adapted for
diving, allows it to compete with other aquatic insects, to hunt for
its own prey and to escape destruction by other predaceous animals. All
organic beings, it will thus be seen, are not only striving to increase
in numbers, but are called upon some time in their lives to struggle
for existence or to suffer serious if not utter destruction. When we
reflect on this struggle, we can console ourselves with the full belief
that this war of nature is not incessant, that no fear is felt, that
death is generally sudden, and that the vigorous, healthy and happy
survive and multiply.

Seeing what a potent influence the principle of Selection has in the
hands of man, in regard to variation, can it be applied in nature?
We can see that it can act most effectually. But in our domestic
productions the variability is not directly produced by man, for he
can neither originate varieties nor prevent their occurrence. All he
can do is to preserve and accumulate such as do occur. Unintentionally
he exposes organic beings to new and changing conditions of life, for
under domestication, plant and animal organizations become in some
degree plastic, and variability ensues. Similar changes, however,
do occur in nature. When it is borne in mind how infinitely complex
and close-fitting are the mutual relations of all organic beings
to each other, and to their environment, and consequently what
infinitely-varied diversities of structure may be of advantage to each
being under altered conditions, can it then be thought improbable,
seeing that variations useful to man have undoubtedly occurred, that
other variations useful in some way to each being in the great and
complex battle of life should sometimes occur in the course of tens
of thousands of generations? If such do occur, can we doubt, when it
is remembered that many more individuals are born than can possibly
survive, that individuals possessing any advantage, no matter how
slight, over their fellows would have the best chance of surviving and
of procreating their kind? Any variation, on the other hand, we may
feel sure if in the least degree injurious would be rigidly destroyed.
This preservation of useful and favorable variations, and the
destruction of those that are injurious, is called Natural Selection,
or the Survival of the Fittest. Variations neither advantageous nor
deleterious would not be affected by Natural Selection, and would be
left either a fluctuating element, as seen in certain polymorphic
species, or would alternately become fixed, owing to the nature both of
the organism and its conditions.

We shall best understand the probable cause of Natural Selection by
taking a country undergoing some physical change, as of climate for
example. The proportional number of its inhabitants would almost
immediately undergo a change, and some of its species might become
extinct. From the complex and very intimate manner in which the
inhabitants of each country are bound together, we may conclude that
any change in the numerical proportion of some of its inhabitants,
independently of the change of climate itself, would seriously affect
the others. Were the country open on its borders, new forms would
certainly immigrate, and this, too, would often seriously disturb the
relations of some of its former inhabitants. In the case, however,
of an island, or a country hemmed in by barriers, into which new and
better-adapted forms could not readily enter, we would then meet with
places in the economy of nature which would assuredly be better filled
up, if some of the original occupants were in some manner modified, for
had the area been open to immigration, these same places would have
been seized by intruders. Thus, slight modifications, which any way
favored the individuals of a species, would by better adapting them
to changed conditions tend to become preserved, and Natural Selection
would there have free scope for the work of improvement. Changes in
the conditions of life cause or excite a tendency to vary. In the
foregoing case the conditions are supposed to have changed, and this
would manifestly be favorable, by giving a better chance of profitable
variations occurring, to Natural Selection, for unless such do occur,
Natural Selection can do nothing. As man, by adding up in any given
direction individual differences, can certainly produce a great result
with his domestic animals and plants, so could Natural Selection,
but far more easily from having an incomparably longer time for its
action. No great physical change, as of climate, nor any unusual degree
of isolation to check immigration, is actually necessary, it would
seem, to produce new and unoccupied places for Natural Selection to
fill up by modifying and improving some of the varying inhabitants,
for as all the inhabitants of a country are struggling together
with nicely-balanced forces, extremely-slight modifications in the
structure or habits of one species would often give it an advantage
over others; and still further modifications, so long as the species
continued under the same conditions of life and profited by similar
means of subsistence and defence, would often still further augment the
advantage. No country can be mentioned whose native inhabitants are now
so perfectly adapted to each other and to their environment that none
could be better adapted and improved, for in all countries the natives
have been so far conquered by naturalized productions as to have
allowed them to take firm possession of the land. And as foreigners
have thus in every country beaten some of the natives, it may be safely
concluded that the latter might have been modified with profit so as to
have better resisted the intruders.

A man by his methodical and unconscious means of selection can produce
and has produced great results. What may not Natural Selection effect?
Man can only operate on external and visible characters, but nature
cares nothing for appearances, except in so far as they are beneficial
to any being. She can act on every internal organ, on every shade of
constitutional difference and, in fine, on the entire machinery of
life. Man selects exclusively for his own advantage, but nature solely
for that of the being she tends, and under her judicious selection
the slightest difference of structure or constitution may well turn
the nicely-balanced scale in the Struggle for Existence, and thus
be preserved. As fleeting as are the wishes and efforts of man, and
as short as is his earthly career, so poor, therefore, must be the
results which he accomplishes when compared with those accumulated by
nature during whole geological periods. Is it a wonder, then, that her
productions should be far _truer_ in character than man’s, and that
they should be infinitely better adapted to the most complex conditions
of life and should bear the stamp of far higher workmanship?
Metaphorically speaking, Natural Selection may be said to be daily and
hourly scrutinizing, throughout the world, the slightest variations,
rejecting the bad, preserving and adding up the good, and silently
and insensibly working, whenever and wherever opportunities occur, at
the betterment of each organic being in relation to its organic and
inorganic conditions of life. So slow is her work that we see nothing
of the changes in progress, and only when the hand of time has marked
the lapse of ages do we perceive that changes have been produced; but
then so imperfect is our view into long-past geological periods, that
we see only that the forms of life are now different from what they
formerly were. That any great amount of modification in any point
should be effected, a variety once formed must again, perhaps after
a long interval of time, present individual differences of the same
favorable character, and these must again be preserved, and so onward
step by step. As individual differences of all kinds perpetually
recur, this can hardly be considered as an unwarrantable assumption.
Judged by the extent the hypothesis accords with and explains the
general phenomena of nature, notwithstanding the ordinary belief that
the amount of possible variation is a strictly-limited quantity, we
are justified, it seems to us, in assuming that all this has actually
taken place. But in looking at many small points of difference between
species, which in our ignorance seem quite unimportant, we must not
lose sight of the facts that climate, food and modes of life may have
produced some direct effect, and also of the truth that, owing to
the Law of Correlation, when one part varies, and the variations are
accumulated through the Survival of the Fittest, other modifications
often of the most unlooked-for nature will ensue.

As under domestication these variations are known to appear at a
particular period of life, and tend to reappear in the offspring at the
same period, so, in a state of nature, it is reasonable to infer that
Natural Selection will be enabled to act on and modify organic beings
at any age, by the accumulation of variations useful at that age, and
by their inheritance at a corresponding age. Thus, if it be profitable
to a plant to have its seeds more and more widely disseminated by the
wind, there can be no greater difficulty in conceiving this to be
effected through Natural Selection than in conceiving the increasing
and improving of the down in the pods on his cotton-trees by a wise
selection upon the part of a cotton-planter. Natural Selection may
modify and adapt the larva of an insect to a score of contingencies,
wholly different from those which affect the mature insect, and these
modifications through Correlation may work changes in the structure of
the adult. On the other hand, modifications of the adult may affect the
structure of the larva, but in all such cases Natural Selection will
insure that these changes shall not be injurious, for, if they were so,
the extinction of the species would be the inevitable result. Thousands
of instances might be given to show the influence which Natural
Selection, or Sexual Selection, which is only a less vigorous phase
of the former, has had all through the ages in the adaptation of life
to the places in nature which it was intended to occupy in pursuance
of the plan formulated by the Great Originator and Designer of the
Universe.

Despite the imperfection of the geological record, which has been urged
as a serious objection to the theory of descent with modification,
sensible, intelligent, educated men no longer doubt that species have
all changed, and that they have changed in the way required, for they
have changed slowly and in a graduated manner. This is clearly seen in
the fossil remains from consecutive formations being invariably much
more closely allied to each other than are those from widely-separated
formations. It is true geological research does not yield those
infinitely fine gradations between past and present species which the
theory of Natural Selection requires, but when it is remembered that
only a small portion of the world has been geologically explored; that
only organic beings of certain classes, at least in any great number,
can be preserved in a fossil condition; that many species when once
formed never undergo any further change, but become extinct without
leaving any modified descendants; that dominant and widely-ranging
species vary the most and the most frequently, and that varieties
are often at first only local, it is not at all surprising that the
discovery of intermediate links to any considerable extent should not
have been made. Local varieties, as is well known, will not diffuse
themselves into other and distant localities until they have become
very much modified and improved, and when they have thus diffused
themselves, and are discovered in a geological formation, they will
appear as if suddenly created there, and will simply be ranked as new
species. Besides, formations have often been intermittent in their
accumulation, and their duration has probably been shorter than the
average duration of specific forms. And as successive formations in
most cases are separated from each other by blank intervals of time
of considerable length, and as fossiliferous formations thick enough
to withstand future degradation can as a general rule be accumulated
only where much sediment is laid down in the subsiding bed of the
ocean, it follows that during the alternate periods of elevation and
of stationary level the record will generally be blank or devoid of
fossil remains. During these latter periods there will doubtless be
more variability in the forms of life, and during the periods of
subsidence a greater amount of extinction. Now, as geology plainly
declares that each land has undergone great physical changes, we have
a right to expect that organic beings have varied under nature in the
same manner as they have varied under domestication, and such have
scientific study and research found to be the case. And if there has
been any variability under nature, such a fact would seem unaccountable
unless Natural Selection, or the Survival of the Fittest, did not come
into play. Upon the view that variations have occurred in nature and
have been preserved and accumulated by Natural Selection, and not in
the ordinary view of independent creation, we can understand why the
specific characters, or those by which the species of the same genus
differ from each other, should be more variable than the generic
characters in which they all agree. Inexplicable as is the occasional
appearance of stripes on the shoulders and legs of the different
equine species and their hybrids on the theory of creation, yet how
simply is the fact explained if we believe that they are all descended
from a striped progenitor just as the different domestic breeds of
pigeons are descended from the blue and barred rock-pigeons. Why, for
example, should the color of a flower be more likely to vary in any
one species of a genus, if the other species, supposed to have been
created independently, have differently-colored flowers, than if all
the species of the genus have the same colored flowers? On the theory
that species are only well-marked varieties, of which the characters
have become in a high degree permanent, the fact is intelligible, for
they have already varied in certain characters since they branched off
from a common progenitor, and by these characters they have come to be
specifically distinct from each other. Therefore, these same characters
would be more likely again to vary than the generic characters which
have been inherited without change for an enormous period of time.

Upon the theory of Natural Selection, or the Survival of the Fittest,
with its contingencies of extinction and divergence of character,
we can see how it is that all past and present organic beings can
be arranged within a few classes, in groups subordinate to groups,
and with the extinct groups often falling in between the recent
groups. We can see how it is that the mutual affinities of the forms
within each class are so complex and diversified, and only adaptive
characters, though of superior importance to the beings, are of
scarcely any significance in classification, while those derived from
rudimentary parts, though of no recognized service, are often of high
classificatory value, and only embryological characters are frequently
the most valuable of all. The real affinities of all organisms, in
contradistinction to their adaptive likenesses, are due to inheritance
or community of descent. Hence, a natural system of classification is
a genealogical arrangement, with the acquired grades of difference,
denoted by varieties, species, genera, families, etc., and their lines
of descent have to be discovered by the most permanent characters,
whatever they may be and how little of vital importance they may
possess.

That species are immutable productions, which was until quite recently
the current belief by laymen and naturalists, was almost unavoidable
so long as the world was considered to be of short duration. But now
that some idea has been acquired of the time that has elapsed since
the beginning of earth-life, we are too apt to assume, without proof,
that the geologic record is so complete, that it would have afforded us
some plain evidence of the mutation of species, if they had undergone
mutation. But the principal cause of our unwillingness to admit that
one species has given birth to other and distinct species, is that
we are always slow in admitting any great change of which we do not
discern the intermediate steps. Just such a difficulty was felt by
many geologists when Lyell first insisted that long lines of inland
cliffs had been produced, and great valleys excavated, by the agencies
which are still at work in the earth. No effort of mind can adequately
grasp the meaning of even ten million of years, nor add up and perceive
the full effects of the many slight variations to which species have
been subjected during an almost infinite number of generations. The
day, however, is not distant, when mankind will have become just as
thoroughly convinced that species have been modified during a long
course of descent, mainly through the Natural Selection of innumerous
successive, slight and favorable variations as they are that the
attraction of gravitation is an important element in the maintenance of
the harmony that exists among the planetary spheres. That the law of
the attraction of gravity, which is perhaps the greatest discovery ever
made by man, is subversive of natural and revealed religion, which was
at one time maintained by a no more distinguished person than Leibnitz,
is now no longer objected to, even though its discoverer was unable
to explain what is the essence of the principle he had discovered.
No nobler conception of Deity could be entertained than that which
attributes to Him the creation of a few original forms capable of
self-development into other and needful forms, or the origination _de
novo_ of these simple forms from inorganic nature. It places a higher
estimate upon His Omnipotence than the belief that He required a fresh
act of creation to supply the voids caused by the action of His laws.
That science is as yet unable to throw any light on the far higher
problem of the essence or origin of life, should constitute no valid
objection to the theory of descent.

When all beings are looked upon not as special creations, but as the
lineal descendants of some beings that existed long before the first
bed of ancient Siluria was deposited, they seem to become ennobled.
Judging from the past, we think it safe to conclude that no existing
species will transmit its unaltered likeness to a distant futurity.
Few, very few living species will transmit progeny of any kind, for the
manner in which all organisms are grouped shows that the majority of
species in each genus, and all the species in many genera, have left
no descendants, but have become utterly extinct. It will only be the
common and widely-spread species, belonging to the larger and dominant
groups within each class, that will ultimately prevail and procreate
new and dominant species. Since all the living forms of life are the
lineal descendants of forms that lived long anterior to the Silurian
epoch, it is reasonably certain that the ordinary succession by
generation has never once been broken, and that no cataclysmic disaster
has laid waste the entire world. Therefore, we may look into the future
with some confidence of an equally secure and inappreciably enduring
earth-life. And as Natural Selection operates solely by and for the
good of each being, all corporeal and mental endowments will tend to
progress toward perfection.

When we contemplate a tangled bank, with innumerable plants of diverse
kinds, and many-voiced birds singing in concert, or waging destruction
on manifold insects that are flitting about, or the long, slimy
worm that has come up from its underground retreat, we are lost in
wonder and admiration, and can only reflect that these elaborately
constructed forms, so different from each other, and so strangely and
intricately dependent on each other, have all been evolved by laws that
act all around us. These are the laws of Growth with Reproduction;
Inheritance, which is almost implied by reproduction; Variability from
the action, direct and indirect, of the conditions of life, and from
use and disuse; a Ratio of Increase so high as to lead to a Struggle
for Existence, and as a consequence to Natural Selection, or Survival
of the Fittest, entailing thereby Divergence of Character and the
Extinction of less-improved forms. And thus, from the war of nature,
and from famine and death, have arisen the higher mammalia, in which
man, the _summa summarum_ of life, is included. He occupies the summit,
toward which the efforts of millions of buried ages seem to have been
tending. There is a grandeur in this view of life, with its several
powers, originally breathed, by the operation of the natural laws, into
one or a few forms of life, and that, while the earth, in obedience to
the fixed principle of gravitation, has gone cycling on, endless forms,
most beautiful and most wonderful, have been, and are being, evolved
from so simple a beginning.

[Illustration: PALÆOLITHIC MEN ATTACKING CAVE BEAR.

Mammoth, Woolly Rhinoceros, Musk-Sheep and Irish Stag in Background.]

While thus it has been shown that life has been progressive, successive
forms of life being the result of modification through descent, those
faring the best in the Struggle for Existence surviving, by reason of
some advantage, physical or otherwise, gained over their competitors,
yet little, bearing specially upon man, has been expressed in this
chapter. After he had acquired those intellectual and moral faculties
which largely distinguish him from the lower animals in a state of
nature, he would have been but little liable to have his bodily
structure modified through Natural Selection or any other means,
for man is enabled, through his mental faculties, “to keep with an
unchanged body in harmony with the changing universe.” He has a most
wonderful power of adapting his habits to altered conditions of
life. Tools, weapons and various devices are invented by him for the
procurement of food and bodily defence. And when he migrates into a
colder climate, he uses clothes, builds sheds and makes fire, and by
its aid cooks food that would otherwise be indigestible. The lower
animals, however, must have their bodily structure modified in order
to survive under greatly changed conditions. They must be rendered
stronger, or acquire more effective teeth or claws, or both, if they
would successfully defend themselves from new enemies, or they must be
reduced in proportions, so as to escape detection and danger. When they
remove into colder climates they must become clothed in thicker fur,
or have their constitutions altered, for failure to be thus modified
must ultimately result in their ceasing to exist. But in the case of
man’s intellectual and moral faculties, as has been shown by Wallace,
it is widely different. These faculties are quite variable, and
there is reason to believe that the variations tend to be inherited.
Therefore, if they were formerly of high importance to palæolithic
man and his ape-like progenitors, they would have been perfected or
advanced through Natural Selection. But of the high importance of the
intellectual faculties there can be no question, for man owes to them
in a great measure his preëminent position in the world. It can be seen
that, in the rudest state of society, the individuals who were the most
sagacious, and who were the most skilful in the invention of weapons
or traps, and who were the best able to defend themselves, would rear
the greatest number of offspring, and that the tribes which included
the largest number of men possessed of such superior endowments would
increase in number and eventually supplant the other tribes. Numbers
depend primarily on the means of subsistence, and this on the physical
nature of the country, but in a much higher degree upon the arts
therein practised. As a tribe increases and is victorious, it is often
still further increased by the absorption of other tribes, and after
a time the tribes which are thus absorbed into another tribe assume,
as has been remarked by Mr. Maine in his “Ancient Law,” that they are
the co-descendants of the same ancestors. Stature and strength in the
men of a tribe are also of importance in its success, and these are
dependent in part upon the character and the quantity of food that can
be obtained. Men of the Bronze Period in Europe were supplanted by a
larger-handed and more powerful race, but their success was probably
due in a much higher degree to their superiority in the arts. All that
is known by savages, as inferred from their traditions and from old
monuments, shows that from the most remote times successful tribes
have supplanted others. Relics of extinct tribes have been found on
the wild plains of America and on the isolated islands in the Pacific
Ocean. Civilized nations are everywhere at the present time supplanting
barbarous peoples, excepting where climate opposes a fatal barrier, and
they thus succeed in a great measure, though not exclusively, through
the arts, which are the products of the intellect. With mankind,
then, it is highly probable that the intellectual faculties have been
gradually perfected through Natural Selection. Undoubtedly it would
have been interesting to have traced the development of each separate
faculty from the state in which it exists in the lower animals to
that in which it exists in man, but this would have been a task of
no easy accomplishment. As soon, however, as the progenitors of man
became social, and this probably occurred at a very early period,
the advancement of the intellectual faculties would have been aided
and modified in an important manner, for if one man in a tribe, more
sagacious than his fellows, had invented a new snare or a weapon, or
other means of attack or defence, the plainest self-interest, with no
great help of reasoning power, would have prompted the other members
to have imitated him, and thus all would have been profited. Habitual
practice of each new art must likewise in some slight degree strengthen
the intellect. If the new invention were an important one, the tribe
would increase in numbers, spread and supplant other tribes, and thus
rendered stronger numerically there would be a better chance of the
birth of other superior and inventive members. Should these last be so
fortunate as to leave children to inherit their mental superiority, the
chance of the birth of still more ingenious members would be somewhat
better, and in a very small tribe would be decidedly better.

That primeval man, or his ape-like progenitors, should have become
social, they must have acquired the same instinctive feelings which
impel other animals to live in a body, and they doubtless exhibited
the same general disposition. When separated from their companions,
for whom they would have felt some degree of love, they would have
experienced a feeling of uneasiness. They would have warned each
other of danger, and have given mutual aid in attack or defence. All
this implies some degree of sympathy, fidelity and courage. Such
social qualities, whose paramount importance to the lower animals is
undisputed, were doubtless acquired by the progenitors of men in a
similar manner, namely, through Natural Selection, aided by inherited
habit. In the never-ceasing wars of savages, fidelity and courage are
all-important, and certainly when two tribes of primeval man, living
in the same country, came into competition, the one that contained
the greatest number of courageous, sympathetic and faithful members,
who were ever ready to warn each other of danger, and to assist and
defend each other, would without doubt succeed the best and conquer the
other. The advantage which disciplined soldiers have over undisciplined
hordes follows mainly from the confidence which each soldier has in
his comrades. Obedience is of the highest importance, for any form of
government is better than none. Selfish and contentious people will not
cohere, and without coherence nothing can be effected. Thus, a tribe
possessing these qualities in an eminent degree would spread and be
victorious over other tribes. But, in the course of events, or all past
history is a myth, this successful tribe would in its turn be overcome
by some other more highly-endowed tribe; and thus would the social and
moral qualities tend slowly to advance and be diffused throughout the
world.

Praise and the blame of our fellow-men are much more powerful stimuli
to the development of the social qualities. These virtues are primarily
due to the instinct of sympathy, and this instinct, like all other
social instincts, was doubtlessly acquired through Natural Selection.
How early man’s progenitors, in the course of their development, became
capable of feeling and being impelled by the praise or blame of their
fellow-men, we are unable to say. Even dogs appreciate encouragement,
praise and blame, and it would be strange if such could not be
predicated of beings higher in the scale. The wildest savages feel the
sentiment of glory. This is clearly shown by their preservation of
the trophies of their bravery, by their habit of excessive boasting,
and even by the extreme care they take of their personal appearance
and adornments. Unless, however, they regarded the opinion of their
comrades, such habits would be without meaning and senseless. How far
the savage experiences remorse, is doubtful. He certainly feels shame
and contrition for the breach of some of the lesser rules of his tribe.
It is true that remorse is a deeply-hidden feeling, but it is hardly
credible that a being who will sacrifice his life rather than betray
his tribe, or give himself up as a prisoner rather than violate his
parole, would not feel remorse, though he might, if he failed in a duty
which he held sacred, hide it from view.

Primeval man must have been, at a very remote time, influenced by
the praise and blame of his fellows. That the members of the same
tribe would approve of conduct that appeared for the general good,
and reprobate such as seemed to carry with it evil, there can be no
question. To do good unto others, or to do unto others as you would
that they should do unto you, is the foundation-stone of morality.
It is, therefore, hardly possible to place too high an estimate upon
the importance of the love of praise and fear of blame during rude,
barbaric times, for a man, who was not impelled by any profound
instinctive feeling to sacrifice his life for the good of others, but
who was raised to such a noble action by a sense of glory, would by his
example excite a similar wish for glory in the bosoms of other men,
and would thereby engender and strengthen by exercise the laudable
feeling of admiration. With increased experience and reason, those
more remote consequences of his actions, such as temperance, chastity,
etc., which during his very early times were utterly disregarded, would
come to be highly esteemed or even held sacred. And ultimately there
would have been developed from the social instincts a highly-complex
sentiment which, largely guided by the approbation of his fellow-men,
and ruled by reason, self-interest, and latterly by deep religious
feelings, confirmed by teaching and habit, would constitute his moral
sense or conscience. Although a high standard of morality gives but
little if any advantage to each individual man and his children over
the other men of the same tribe, yet it must be borne in mind that it
is an advancement in the standard of morality and an increase in the
number of well-endowed men that certainly give a telling advantage to a
tribe over another, for the tribe that includes many members who, from
possessing in an eminent degree the spirit of patriotism, fidelity,
obedience, courage and sympathy, and who were always prepared to give
aid to each other, and to sacrifice themselves for the common weal,
would be victorious over most other tribes. And this would be Natural
Selection. Tribes at all times throughout the world have supplanted
other tribes. Now, as morality is one element in their success, the
standard of morality and the number of well-endowed men will thus
everywhere tend to rise and increase.

Very difficult it is to form any judgment why one particular tribe and
not another has been successful in the Struggle for Existence and has
risen in the scale of civilization. Many savages are still in the same
condition of degradation as when first discovered. The greatest part
of mankind has never evinced the slightest desire that their civil
institutions should be improved. Progress is not, as we are apt to
consider, the normal rule in human society. Many concurrent favorable
conditions, far too complex to be followed out, seem to determine
human progress. A cool climate, it has been remarked, by leading to
industry and the various arts, has been indispensable thereto, but if
the climate has been too severe, as in the Arctic regions, there is a
check to continual progress. Pressed by hard necessity, the Esquimaux
have succeeded in many ingenious inventions, but they can never attain,
for the reason already assigned, to any very great success. Nomadic
habits, whether along the shores of the sea, or over wide plains, or
through dense tropical forests, have in all cases proved detrimental.
Perhaps, the possession of some property, a fixed abode, and the union
of many families under a leader or chief, are indispensable requisites
for civilization, as such habits almost necessitate the cultivation
of the ground. From some such accident as the falling of the seeds
of a fruit-tree on a heap of refuse and producing an unusually fine
variety may probably have resulted the first steps in cultivation,
for if the fruit were profitable and good for food, it would be a
very dull intellect that could not readily perceive, especially among
a people that had given up a roving habit of life, the advantage
which would accrue from the planting of some more trees of a similar
kind. They would undoubtedly be led to cultivation for themselves by
a simple observation of the plan by which nature contrives in keeping
up a continuation of her many kinds of plants. Instead of dropping the
seeds upon the ground as nature is prone to do, and trusting to their
burial by accident or otherwise, seeing the advantage to be gained
by burying them out of the reach of noxious influences, whether of
climate or animal life, they would soon learn to take the matter of
planting under their own watchful care rather than leave it to the
seemingly thoughtless provision of nature. But the problem of the first
advance of palæolithic man toward civilization, is at present much too
difficult to be solved, for it involves the consideration of certain
elements which we know too little about, and their disentanglement
from others whose value is of recognized significance in the domain of
biological science.

While it has been shown how it has been possible for primeval man
to have acquired a moral sense or conscience, yet it must not be
forgotten that the lower animals, at least such as have come under
the civilizing influence of man, have also come into possession of
the same highly complex sentiment which has been of such inestimable
service to man for his progressive advancement. Other faculties, such
as the powers of imagination, wonder, curiosity, an undefined sense of
beauty, a tendency to imitation, and the love of excitement or novelty,
have also been of immense importance in this direction, for they
could not fail to have led to the most capricious changes of customs
and fashions. Caprice, it has been rather oddly claimed by a recent
writer, is “one of the most remarkable and typical differences between
savages and brutes.” It is not only possible to perceive how it is
that man is capricious, but the lower animals, as has been previously
shown, are capricious in their affections, aversions and sense of
beauty. And there is good reason to suspect that they love novelty
for its own sake. Self-consciousness, individuality, abstraction,
general ideas, etc., which have been held by several recent writers
as making the sole and complete distinction between man and the
brutes, seem useless subjects for discussion, since hardly any two
authors agree in their definitions of these high faculties. In man,
such faculties could not have been fully developed until his mental
powers had advanced to a high state of perfection, and this implies
the use of a highly-developed language. No one supposes that one of
the lower animals reflects whence he comes or whither he goes, or what
is death or what is life, but can one feel sure that an old dog with
an excellent memory, and some power of imagination as shown by his
dreams, never reflects on his past pleasures in the chase? And this
would be a form of self-consciousness. On the contrary, as Büchner ably
remarks, how little can the hard-worked wife of an Australian savage
who scarcely uses any abstract words and whose ability to count does
not extend beyond four, exert her self-consciousness, or reflect on
the origin, nature and aim of her own existence. That animals retain
their mental individuality is unquestioned, for when any voice awakens
a train of old associations in the mind of some favorite dog, as in the
case of my dog Frisky, already referred to, he must have retained his
mental individuality, although every atom of his brain had probably
undergone change more than once during the five or six years he lived
in my family. Animals have some ideas of numbers. The crow has been
known to count as far as the number six, and a dog I once had knew as
well as I did when Saturday came. The sense of beauty, which has been
declared peculiar to man, is innate in birds. Certain bright colors and
certain sounds, when in harmony, excite in them pleasure as they do
in man. The taste for the beautiful, at least so far as female beauty
is concerned, is not of a special nature in the human mind, for it
differs widely in the different races of man, and is not quite the same
even in the different nations of the same race. If we are to judge
from the hideous ornaments and the equally hideous music admired by
most savages, it might be urged that their æsthetic faculty was less
highly developed than it is in some species of birds. No animal, it is
obvious, would be capable of admiring the nocturnal heaven, a beautiful
landscape, or refined music. And this should not be wondered at, for
such high tastes, dependent as they are upon culture and complex
associations, are not even enjoyed by barbarous or by uneducated
persons.

Seeing that man in a state of nature has no preëminence above the
lower animals so far as his mental and moral qualities are concerned,
and in many instances ranks far below the so-called brute, let us
examine fora short time his religious nature. No evidence exists to
show that man was aboriginally endowed with the ennobling belief in the
existence of an Omnipotent God. On the contrary, ample evidence, not
from hasty travellers, but from men who have long resided with savages,
can be adduced to show that numerous races have existed, and still
exist, who have no idea of one or more gods, and who have no words in
their languages to express such an idea. If under the term religion
is included the belief in unseen or spiritual agencies, the case is
entirely different, for this belief seems to be almost universal
with the less civilized races. Nor is it difficult to understand how
it originated. With the development of the imagination, wonder and
curiosity, and of a moderate power of reasoning, man would naturally
have craved to understand what was going on around him, and even have
vaguely speculated on his own existence. According to McLennan man
must, in his efforts to arrive at some explanation of the phenomena
of life, feign for himself. Judging from the universality of this
life, the same author remarks that “the simplest hypothesis, and the
first to occur to men, seems to have been that natural phenomena are
ascribable to the presence in animals, plants and things, and in the
forces of nature, of such spirits prompting to action as men are
conscious they themselves possess.” Probably, as has been clearly shown
by Tyler, dreams may have first given rise to the notion of spirits.
Savages do not readily discriminate between subjective and objective
phenomena. When a savage dreams, the figures which appear in his vision
are believed to have come from a distance and to stand over him, or
the soul of the dreamer goes out on a journey and returns with a
remembrance of what has been seen. That tendency in savages to imagine
that natural objects and agencies are animated by living or spiritual
beings may be illustrated by a little fact which I have frequently
noticed. Standing on the corner of a street, waiting for a closed
snow-sweeper, which was driven by electricity, to pass, my attention
was directed to a young horse that was geared to a hansom. The horse
was at rest, and its driver, evidently awaiting some one, sat upon
the box. Upon the appearance of the sweeper the horse reared, turned
his face directly toward the object of his fear, pawed the pavement
in the most impatient manner possible, and then looked wistfully and
pleadingly at his master, as though imploring protection from some
fearful and gigantic monster. Another sweeper passed while I was
still in waiting, and the poor animal went through the same trying
and fearful ordeal as before. He must, I think, have reasoned in a
rapid and unconscious manner, that movement without any apparent cause
indicated the presence of some strange living agent, which was about
to do him some serious physical harm. Belief in spiritual agencies
would thus easily pass into a belief in the existence of one or more
gods, for savages would naturally ascribe to spirits the same passions,
the same line of vengeance or simple form of justice, and the same
affections which they themselves experienced.

Religious devotion is a highly complex feeling. Love, complete
submission to an exalted and mysterious superior, a strong sense of
dependence, fear, reverence, gratitude, hope for the future and other
elements enter into its composition. No being could experience so
complex an emotion unless his intellectual and moral faculties had
attained a moderately high level. Some approach to this high state of
mind is visible in the profound love of a dog for his master, for it is
associated with complete submission, some fear, reverence, gratitude
and perhaps other feelings. A dog’s behavior towards his master, after
a long absence, is widely different from that which he shows towards
his fellows, for his transports of joy in the latter case are less
intense, and his every action savors of a mere sense of equality. But
upon his master, as Prof. Braubach goes so far as to maintain, he looks
as on a god.

These high mental faculties, which first led man to believe in unseen
spiritual agencies, and subsequently in fetishism, polytheism and
monotheism, would infallibly lead him, as long as his reasoning powers
remained at a very low level, to various strange superstitions and
customs, many of which, such as the sacrifice of human beings to a
blood-loving god and the trial of innocent persons by the ordeal of
poison or fire, are too terrible to contemplate. It is well, however,
to reflect occasionally on these superstitions, for they show us what
an infinite debt of gratitude we owe to improved reason, science and
accumulated knowledge. How much better is the life of civilized man
than that of the savage, for as Lubbock has well remarked, “it is not
too much to say that the horrible dread of unknown evil hangs like a
thick cloud over savage life, and embitters every pleasure.”

From the opinions advanced, it is evident that the belief in God has
been the ultimate outcome of belief in unseen spiritual agencies.
There has been a gradual leading up through fetishism and polytheism
to monotheism. If religion implies belief in unseen agencies, as
well as belief in a personal agency in the universe strong enough to
influence conduct in any degree, then it is obvious that there has been
a progressive advancement in religious thought, each succeeding form
of religion by its superior advantages over its predecessor tending
to supplant it wherever and whenever its beneficent influences are
felt. It is true that fetishism and polytheism still prevail among
rude, uncultured peoples, as well as the worship of false deities
and prophets, but with the spread of the civilizing and elevating
influence of Christianity these religions in the fitness of time
will disappear. Christianity, from its foundation in Judaism, has
throughout been a religion of sacrifice and sorrow. It has been a
religion of blood and tears, and yet one of profoundest happiness to
its votaries. While fakirs hang on hooks, and pagans cut themselves and
even their children, for the sake of propitiating diabolical deities,
yet Christianity, which has its roots in Judaism, has no need for such
practices. It is _par excellence_ the religion of sorrow, because
it reaches to truer and deeper levels of our spiritual nature, and
therefore has capabilities both of sorrow and joy which are presumably
non-existent except in civilized man. They are the sorrows and joys
which arise from the fully-developed consciousness of sin against a
God of Love, as distinguished from propitiation of malignant spirits.
These joys and sorrows are wholly spiritual, not merely physical. “Thou
desirest no sacrifice.” God’s only sacrifice at the hands of sinful man
is a troubled spirit.

Estimated by the influence which He has exerted on mankind, there can
be no question, even from a secular point of view, that Christ is much
the greatest man who has ever lived. That the revolution which His
teachings have effected in human life is immeasurable and unparalleled
by any other movement in history is unquestioned. Though most nearly
approached by the religion of the Jews, of which it is a development,
so that it may be regarded as of a piece with it, it is evident that
this whole system of religion is so immeasurably in advance of all
others that it may be truthfully said, if it had not been for the
Jews, the human race would have had no religion worthy of serious
consideration. Had it not been for this religion man’s spiritual side
would not have been developed in civilized life. And although there are
numberless individuals who are all unconscious of its development in
themselves, yet these have been influenced to an enormous extent by the
religious atmosphere by which they are surrounded.

Not only is Christianity so immeasurably in advance of all other
religions, but it is no less of every other system of thought that has
ever been promulgated in regard to what is moral and spiritual. Neither
philosophy, science nor poetry has ever produced results in thought,
conduct or beauty in any degree comparable with it. What has science
or philosophy done for the thought of mankind compared with what has
been done by the single doctrine, “God is love?” The Story of the
Cross, from its commencement in prophetic aspiration to its culmination
in the Gospel, is preëminently the most magnificent presentation in
literature. Only to a man wholly destitute of religious perception can
Christianity fail to appear the greatest exhibition of the beautiful,
the sublime, and of all else that appeals to our spiritual nature,
which has ever been known upon the earth. It is not only adapted to men
of the highest culture, but the most remarkable thing about it is its
perfect adaptation to all sorts and conditions of men. Its problems,
historical and philosophical, open up to you worlds of material, over
which you may spend your life with the same interminable interest as
the student meets in the fields of natural science.

Whatever our theory of the origin of man, there can be no doubt that
we all feel that his intellectual part is higher than the animal; and
that the moral is higher than the intellectual, whatever our theory
of either may be; and that the spiritual is higher than the moral,
whatever our theory of religion may be. It is what is understood by his
moral, and still more by his spiritual qualities, that make up what is
called his character, and, astonishing to say, it is character that
tells in the long run. Morality and spirituality are two different
things, for a man may be highly moral in conduct without being in any
degree spiritual in nature, and the reverse, though to a less extent.
Objectively, the same distinction subsists between morals and religion.
Intellectual pleasures are more satisfying and enduring than sensual,
or even sensuous; and spiritual, to those who have experienced them,
than intellectual, an objective fact, abundantly testified to by those
who have had experience, which seems to indicate that the spiritual
nature of man is the highest part of man--the culminating point of his
being. That there will always be materialists and spiritualists, as
Renan says, is probably true, inasmuch as it will always be observable
on the one hand that there is no thought without brain, while, on the
other hand, the instincts of man will always aspire to higher beliefs.
If religion is true, and life is a state of probation, this is just
what ought to be. It is not probable that the materialistic position,
which is discredited even by philosophy, is due simply to custom and a
want of imagination. Else why the inextinguishable instincts which we
have thus shown to exist?

[Illustration: ERA OF MIND AND HEART.

Things as They Will Exist in a Future Earth-Life.]

Evolution, not only of the earth, but of its organic machinery, by
natural causes, is now no longer doubted. That this has taken place
by degrees is equally unquestioned. Now, if there is a Deity, the
fact is certainly of the nature of a first principle, and it must be
first of all first principles. No one can dispute this, nor can any
one dispute the necessary conclusion that, if there be a Deity, he is
knowable, if knowable at all, by intuition and not by reason. From
its very nature, as a little thought is sufficient to show, reason is
utterly incapable of adjudicating on the subject, for it is a process
of inferring from the known to the unknown. It would be against
reason itself to suppose that Deity, even if He exists, can be known
by reason. He must be known, if knowable at all, by intuition. If
there is a Deity, then it seems to be in some indefinite degree more
probable that He should impart a Revelation than that He should not
have done so. As a mere matter of evidence, a sudden revelation might
be much more convincing than a gradual one, but it would be quite out
of analogy with causation in nature. Besides, a gradual one might be
given easily, and of demonstrative value, as by making prophecies of
historical events, scientific discoveries and other things so clear as
to be unmistakable. But a demonstrative revelation has not been made,
and there may well be good reasons why it should not have been made.
If there are such reasons, as, for example, our state of probation, we
can well see “that the gradual unfolding of a plan of revelation, from
earliest dawn of history to the end of the world, is much preferable
to a sudden manifestation sufficiently late in the world’s history to
be historically attested for all subsequent time.” Gradual evolution,
as has been said before, is in analogy with God’s other work. If
Revelation has been of a progressive character, then it follows that it
must have been so not only historically, but intellectually, morally
and spiritually, for in such sequence could it be always adapted to the
advancing conditions of the human race.

Thus it will be seen that all through the ages some mighty influence
has been at work, directly or indirectly, in preparing this earth
by slow and gradual changes for a steadily progressive succession
of vegetable and animal life. That life best fitted to meet new and
changing conditions of environment being preserved by a process of
natural selection. And from a few primordial types, far simpler than
the lowest of existing structureless moners, or from some living
protoplasmic mass, elaborated by some form of energy acting upon
inorganic nature, there have been evolved in the millions of years of
earth-life our existing flora and fauna. Man, the pinnacle of animal
life, has come up through the life that preceded him, and bears in the
history of his development from the ovum to the adult state the line
of his descent. Not only has his physical nature been evolved through
the action of natural laws impressed upon living matter by Deity, but
that subtle principle, termed mind, which has attained such a wonderful
growth in his civilized condition, is but the outcome of the mind of
a long line of life antecedent to his appearance on the globe. His
moral nature was similarly acquired, and most probably in the manner
already explained. Palæolithic man, like the Australian of to-day, was,
as has been shown, but little superior in intelligence to some of the
animals with whom he was contemporaneous. He lived the life of the mere
animal, and as an animal could be said to have had no preëminence above
a beast. Like the latter, he was a living, breathing frame, or body of
life; a _living_, but not an _everliving_, soul. In time, as conditions
became favorable, he passed _into_ the moral stage of his being, but
not without increased intellectuality, and would thus have continued,
but going on and adding to his mental and moral possessions, had not
Deity, in the fitness of time, prepared the way through Christ, whereby
his corruptible nature should be made incorruptible and immortal.
Unless man is “born of the spirit” he cannot inherit the kingdom of
God. He must be “changed into spirit,” put on incorruptibility and
immortality of body, or he will be physically incapable of retaining
the honor, glory and power of the kingdom forever, or even during
Christ’s reign of a thousand years upon earth.

That there is a distinction between _a living soul_ and a _spiritual
body_ cannot be questioned. Speaking about _body_, the apostle Paul
says, “there is _a natural body_, and there is _a spiritual body_,
but he does not content himself with simply declaring this truth, but
goes further and proves it by quoting the language of Moses, saying,
“for so it is written, the first man Adam was made into _a living
soul_;” and then adding, “the last Adam _into a spirit_ giving life.”
And in another place, speaking of the latter, he says of Him, “now
the Lord is the spirit. And we all, with unveiled face, beholding
as in a mirror, the glory of the Lord, are changed into His image
from glory into glory, as by _the Lord the Spirit_.” Therefore, the
proof of the apostle’s proposition, that there is a _natural body_ as
distinct from a _spiritual body_, lies in the testimony that “Adam was
made into _a living soul_,” showing that he considered a natural, or
animal body, and a living soul, as one and the same thing. If he did
not, then there was no proof in the quotation of what he affirmed.
Mortality, then, is life manifested through a corruptible body, and
immortality is life manifested through an incorruptible body. Hence,
the necessity laid down in the saying of the apostle, “this corruptible
body must put on incorruption, and this mortal put on immortality,”
before death can be “swallowed up in victory,”--a doctrine of “life
and incorruptibility” that was new to the Greeks and Romans, and
brought to light only through the gospel of the kingdom and name of
Jesus Christ. To them it was foolishness, and to many at the present
day incredible, because they do not understand the glad tidings of
the age to come. God could have created all things upon a spiritual
or incorruptible basis at once, but in that case the globe would have
been filled with men and women equal to the angels in nature, power
and intellect, and hence would have been without a history, and its
population characterless. And this would not have been according to
His plan, for in it the animal must precede the spiritual just as
surely as the acorn must precede the oak. The Bible has to do with
things and not with imaginations; with bodies and not phantasms; with
_living souls_ of every species; with _corporeal_ beings of other
worlds, and with incorruptible and undying men, but is as silent as
the grave about such _souls_ as men pretend to cure. For the sons of
Adam to become sons of God, they must be the subjects of an adoption,
which is attainable only by a divinely appointed means. It must be by a
process of selection. “Since by a man came death, by a man also came a
resurrection of dead persons. For as in the Adam they all die, so also
in the Christ shall they all be made alive. But every one in his order.
Christ the first fruits; afterward _they that are Christ’s_ at His
coming.” Here it is obvious that the apostle is not writing of all the
individuals of the human race, but only such that become the subject
of _a pardon of life_. It is true that all men do die, but it is not
true that they are all the subject of pardon. Those who are pardoned
are “the many,” who are sentenced to live forever. The sentence to
pardon of life is through Jesus Christ who in pouring out His blood
upon the cross, was made a sacrifice for sin. “He was delivered for our
offences, and raised again for our justification,” that is, for the
pardon of those _who believe the gospel_. As it is written, “he that
believeth the gospel, and is baptized, shall be saved.” Hence, “_the
obedience of faith_” is made the condition of righteousness, and this
obedience implies the existence of a “_law of faith_,” as attested
by that of Moses, which is “_the law of works_.” Having believed the
gospel and been baptized, such a person is required to “walk worthy of
the vocation,” or calling, “wherewith he has been called,” that by so
doing he may be “accounted worthy” of being “born of spirit,” that he
may become “spirit,” or a spiritual body, and so enter the kingdom of
God, crowned with “glory, honor, incorruptibility and life.” From all
the above, it must be obvious to the unbiassed mind, that all will not
arise to newness of life, “for as many of you, as have been _baptized
into Christ_ have put on Christ, and if ye be Christ’s, _then_ are
ye the seed of Abraham, and _heirs_ according to the promise.” When
they have been thus baptized, then they have received the spirit of
adoption, or have been elected into God’s family, and then they can
address God as their Father who is in heaven.

Thus adopted into God’s family through faith in Jesus Christ, it must
not be supposed that they have attained to that perfect condition of
knowing all that is to be known. New glories will continually open
up to their admiring vision, and new facts be revealed through the
eternity of futurity. Man will carry his earth-acquired knowledge into
the other world, and little by little will he add to his fund. Those
who have made the best of their time in their probationary existence,
will rank as much above their fellows in the heaven-life as they
did in the earth-life, and like the others will reach up to higher
acquirements. There will be no equalization of talents, capacities
and possessions, but each will be satisfied with his own, and all
will endeavor to be as like unto Christ as the conditions of their
heavenly environment will permit. There will be grades of ability and
character in the new life, but all of the very highest standard when
measured by what prevails in the earth-life. This is the teaching of
the Scriptures. “_There is_ one glory of the sun, and another glory of
the moon, and another glory of the stars; for _one_ star differeth from
_another_ star in glory. So also _is_ the resurrection of the dead.”

Now as to the part that animals and plants shall figure in the new
existence. Revelation, as has been seen, was given to man. This does
not imply that the lower forms of life were not made “partakers of
the divine nature.” When man was placed upon this earth, or rather
when in the sequence of events, which was brought about by the
prescribed scheme of Divinity, he appeared upon the earth, he was
given the control of all the creatures of God’s hands, to rule them
as his judgment seemed best. They were a necessary part of the plan
of creation. God gave the man directions concerning them, and what
they are, and we refer to the domesticated species especially, they
have thus been made through man’s wise, intelligent and thoughtful
selection. This has been the instrument through which God has worked
in building up a history and a character for the humbler works of His
hands. That they shall pass into the future life with him, at least
such as have shown their fitness to endure, there can be no doubt
in the mind of any one who pauses a few brief moments in the rush
and turmoil of everyday life and considers the matter with all due
seriousness. All existence, as we have elsewhere claimed, is a unit.
All life, like all love, is divine. There can nothing exist that does
not contain some sort of development of soul. There is no escape from
this assertion. Instead of isolating ourselves then from the humbler
creatures of God’s workmanship, let us recognize them as our kin and
include them in the grand scheme of redemption, and as partakers with
us in the future state of Divine Love and in higher and endlessly
higher development and progress.

MAN’S PREËMINENCE.

There is a popular tradition that somewhere in the Scriptures we are
taught that of all living denizens of the earth, man alone possesses
a spirit, and that he alone survives in spirit after the death of the
material body. Were this the truth, no room would exist for argument
to those who profess belief in a literal rendering of the Scriptures,
and who base their faith upon that literal belief. However much such a
statement might seem to controvert all ideas of benevolence, justice
and common-sense, such believers would feel bound to accept it on
trust, and to wait a future time for its full comprehension.

Even the possession of reason is denied by many persons to animals,
their several actions being ascribed to the power of instinct, and it
is therefore not the least bit strange that all but a comparatively
few should believe that when an animal dies, its life-principle dies
too. The animating power, they claim, is annihilated, while the body
is resolved into its constituent elements so as to take form in other
bodies.

Two passages of Scripture, one in the Psalms and the other in
Ecclesiastes, are almost entirely, if not wholly, responsible for
this belief. The former, which runs in the authorized version,
“Nevertheless, man being in honor, abideth not; he is like the beasts
that perish,” is that which is generally quoted as decisive of the
whole question. “Man, being in honor, hath no understanding, but is
compared to the beasts that perish” is another translation, but differs
not materially from the other. The second passage referred to from
Ecclesiastes, reads: “Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward,
and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?” Now,
it is upon the strength of these two passages that we are called upon
to believe that when a beast dies its life, like that of an expired
lamp, goes out forever. Nothing is more dangerous in the exposition of
Scripture than attempting to explain a passage, however simple it may
seem to be, without reference to the original text, for the translator
may have mistaken the true sense of the words, or he may have
inadequately expressed their signification, or, owing to a change in
meaning, the words of a passage may now bear an exactly contrary sense
to that conveyed when they were first written.

But laying aside this point for the present, and accepting the passage
as it stands, as well as the literal meaning of the words as generally
understood, there can be no doubt that we must believe that beasts are
not possessed of immortal life. If, however, we are to take the literal
sense of the Bible, and no other, we are equally forced to believe that
man has no life after death. The book of Psalms is full of examples.
Let us take a few from the many that might be given: “In death there
is no remembrance of thee: in the grave, who shall give thee thanks?”
“The dead praise not the Lord, neither any that go down into silence.”
“His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very day
his thoughts perish.” Taken solely in their literal sense, there can
be no doubt of their meaning. Nothing more gloomy, dreary or more
despondent can be found in the entire range of heathen literature than
these passages, and others that might be quoted from the inspired
Psalmist, in the contemplation of death. In the very book from which
the single passage was taken, which is claimed to deny immortality to
the lower animals, there are five times as many passages that proclaim
the same sad end to the life of man. We are distinctly and definitely
told therein that those who have died have no remembrance of God,
and cannot praise Him. Death has been spoken of as the “land of
forgetfulness”--the place of darkness, where all man’s thoughts perish.
Certainly no more than this can be said of the “beasts that perish.”

Other holy writers make similar affirmations. Speaking of mankind in
general, who “dwell in houses of clay,” Job says: “They are destroyed
from morning to evening; _they perish forever_, without any regarding
it.” Again he says, and the passage is more definite than the
preceding: “As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that
goeth down to the grave shall come up no more.” And still again: “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.” Chapters III and X tell of the
piteous lamentations of Job over his life, wherein he complains that he
ever was born, that existence was ever given to him, that he was ever
taken from a state of absolute nonentity, and that even death itself
can bring no relief to his miseries except extinction.

Turning to Ecclesiastes, in which book occurs the solitary passage
which is held to disprove a future existence to the lower animals,
there are passages which are even more emphatic as to the immortality
of man. Read what is declared: “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 preëminence over a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto
one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” Further 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.” “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.” Literally interpreted, no one can doubt
the import of these words from Ecclesiastes, for they definitely state
that, as regards a future life, there is no distinction between man and
beast, and that when they die they all go to the same place. It is also
distinctly stated that after death man can do no work, know nothing,
nor receive any reward. Were we to deduce our ideas of the condition
of man after death from the irrepressibly sad and gloomy passages from
Job and Ecclesiastes, most deplorable and hopeless would be the very
thought of dissolution. But we do not accept them in this light. They
are written symbolically, and there underlies them a spiritual sense.
It is not, however, the latter sense that concerns us at present, but
the literal meaning of the translation, and, according to that literal
meaning, if we take two texts to prove that beasts have no future life,
we are compelled by no less than fourteen passages to believe that man,
in common with beasts, has no better prospect. We have no right to say
which passages are to be taken literally, and which parabolically,
but must apply the same test to all alike, and treat all in a similar
manner.

All classical readers are familiar with that wonderful eleventh book of
Homer’s Odyssey, called the Necyomanteia, or Invocation of the Dead, in
which Ulysses is depicted as descending into the regions of departed
spirits for the purpose of invoking them and obtaining advice as to his
future adventures. Dreary, and horrible indeed, are the revelations
which the whole of the strange history makes of the condition of the
future life. All is wild and dark, and hunger, thirst and discontent
prevail. Nothing is heard of elysian fields, where piety, wisdom and
virtue abound. Gloom, misery and vain regrets for earth pervade the
entire episode. When is considered this heathen poet’s ideas concerning
the future state of man, it is no wonder that sensual pleasures should
be held as the principal object of his life when he is to look forward
to such a future, a future from which neither wisdom, nor virtue,
nor piety could save him, and where there is nothing but an eternity
of gloom, remorse and hopeless despondency. Sad as this picture is,
yet it is far brighter than that of the Psalmist, the Preacher, or
Job. Those who have passed into the world of spirits still retain
their individuality after death, being distinguished in the spirit as
they had been in the flesh. Memory survives the body’s death. Naught
of their earthly career is forgotten. They still have an interest
in their friends that remain in the body whom they love, and over
whose well-being they unceasingly watch. No such consolation, as has
been described, exists in the future state of man if the passages of
Scripture that have been quoted are taken in a literal sense. Man, in
that event, passes at death into a place of darkness, forgetfulness and
silence, where there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom,
and where even his very thoughts perish. No other interpretation, if
taken literally, can be put upon them, for the statements are too
explicit to be explained away or softened.

In the outward sense of their writings the Psalmist, Job and the
Preacher are on an equality with Horace in their absolute unbelief in
a future existence, and in a consequent desire to snatch what fleeting
pleasures they can from earth before the inexorable law of fate
consigns them to dark oblivion. Startling as it may seem to compare the
teachings of a Greek idolater and of a Latin Epicurean heathen with
those of sacred writers, yet it is still more startling to show that
the teachings of the Epicurean sensualist are not a whit wiser than
those of the Scriptural writer, while those of the Greek poet are very
much better. Such, however, is the fact, and, if we are to be bound by
the literal interpretation of the Scriptures, there is no possibility
of denying it without doing violence to reason and common-sense.

We are now brought face to face with the point previously mentioned.
Does the authorized version give a full and correct interpretation of
the original? It is claimed that it does not. The word “perish,” it is
said, does not occur at all in the Hebrew text, nor is even the idea
expressed. No such translation as “beasts that perish,” which appears
twice in our version, is justified by the Hebrew, the words of the
original implying “dumb beasts.” The idea of perishing, in the sense
of annihilation, does not seem to be implied. Let us take the Jewish
Bible, which is acknowledged to be the best and closest translation
in the English language, and examine it. Both in verses 12 and 20 of
Psalm XLIX, where the passage occurs, the rendering reads: “Man _that
is_ in honor, and understandeth _this_ not, is like the beasts _that
are_ irrational.” As an alternative reading for “irrational,” the word
“dumb” is given in a footnote. A somewhat similar reading is found in
the Septuagint, which, according to Brunton, runs as follows: “Man that
is in honor understands not; he is compared to the senseless cattle,
and is like them.” In Wycliffe’s Bible, which is a translation from
the Vulgate, the passage is rendered: “A man whanne he was in honour
understood not; he is comparisoned to unwise beestis, and is maad lijk
to tho.” The “Douay” Bible, made by the English Roman Catholic College
of Douay, and which is the version accepted by that branch of the
Church in England, renders the passage: “Man, when he was in honor,
did not understand; he hath been compared to senseless beasts and made
like to them.” Numerous other translations might be adduced, and it is
safe to say that scarcely any of them imply the idea of perishing in
the sense of being reduced to nothing. Even supposing that the word
“perish” is translated correctly, it does not therefore follow that
annihilation is meant. Take the tenth verse of the same Psalm in our
authorized version: “For he seeth that wise men die, and likewise the
fool and the brutish person perish, and leave their wealth to others.”
Surely no sensible, intelligent person would construe this passage
into a declaration that the wise and fool and brutish had no existence
after the death of the body.

That the last verse of the Psalm is a summary of the whole poem,
seems not improbable. A vivid picture of the true object of man’s
life in this world is drawn by the Psalmist, and also of his tendency
to lose sight thereof. In it he sets forth the shortness of human
existence, and shows that neither riches, station in life, nor fame,
which appertain to the mere earthly career of man, can endure after
his death. He, therefore, reasonably concludes that men who fix
their hearts upon these earthly vanities ignore the honor of their
manhood, and degrade themselves to the plane of the dumb beasts, whose
operations are, as far as we know, restricted to this present world.

From what has been adduced it will at once be evident that the idea
that beasts are said by the Psalmist to have no future life may be
dismissed from our minds, and that the passage may be rejected as
totally irrelevant to the subject. This is of the greatest importance,
as the passage in question is the only one which even appears to make
any definite statement as to the condition of the lower animals after
death. Every reasonable person will now see how essential it is that
the true meaning of the Hebrew text should be known, and that the
Psalmist should not be charged with the introduction of a doctrine to
which, whether true or false, he makes not the slightest reference.

Having settled beyond the possibility of refutation the true meaning
implied by the “beasts that perish,” we will now turn to the passage in
Ecclesiastes, which, as has been seen, is the only one which contains
any direct reference to the future of the lower orders of animal
existence: “Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the
spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?”--exclaimeth the
Preacher. Here we have an admission that, whether the spirit ascend or
descend, both man and beasts do have spirits, and these are undoubtedly
the same in essence, for the Hebrew word is identical is both cases.
In the Jewish Bible the rendering is _verbatim_ the same as that of
our authorized version. Read, instead of an isolated verse, the entire
passage:--

“I said in mine 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 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 preëminence 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?”

Every page of Ecclesiastes breathes of the self-reproach of the
Preacher for a wasted life. Speaking from his own sad, bitter
experience, he shows that riches, glory, pleasure and even wisdom are
nothing but utter emptiness. The same theme pervades the forty-ninth
Psalm, but the Psalmist treats it with grave solemnity, admonishing
his hearers of the shortness of human life, and showing that if a
man forgets the glory of his manhood, made in the image of God, he
puts himself on the level of the dumb brutes. Though reaching the
same conclusion, yet the Preacher views the subject from a different
standpoint. Employing biting sarcasm rather than solemn warning, he
exposes the vanity of all worldly and selfish pleasures, and the
miserable fate that awaits the voluptuary, and then ironically advises
his readers to place in such their entire happiness.

So palpable is the bitter irony of the author throughout the book,
and even in the twenty-first verse of the third chapter, yet by no
manner of interpretation can this specialized text be made to mean that
beasts are annihilated after death, while men rise again and soar above
earthly things to honor and glory. Ironically the writer assumes in
it that his readers do not know the difference between the spirit of
man and that of beast, and, reasoning from that position, advises them
that “_there is_ nothing better for a man _than that_ he should eat and
drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor.”

From what has been shown, it is evident that the passage from Psalms
does not even contain the idea of annihilation as regards beasts, and
that the one from Ecclesiastes is entirely misapprehended. That they
have no bearing upon the subject must now be manifest. We cannot,
therefore, resist the conclusion that the Scriptures do not deny future
life to the inferior animals.

This admission gives courage for a step still further forward. Man’s
latest achievement is to conceive that all existence is a unit. One
spirit pervades the whole natural world, an emanation from the Spirit
of Him who sitteth enthroned in the Eternal Heavens, and who not only
is, as Moses declares, “God of the spirits of all flesh,” but God of
the spirits of all animate nature. We cannot divorce the two great
kingdoms of nature. If there is a futurity of existence for man, whom
we are told was “made a little lower than the angels,” but who in
these latter days seems to have deteriorated, and who in thousands
of instances displays a character far less noble and honorable than
that of the dog which he kennels and feeds, then there must be for
the so-called brute, the companion of his joys and his sorrows. If
for beast, bird, reptile, fish and insect, and none can be so foolish
in the face of the most indubitable evidence to deny it, then there
must be for tree, shrub and flower, for God, who is infinite in love,
mercy and charity, would not be God if solely concerned with the future
of the smallest fractional part of His children. Man is psychically
related to all life. There is soul, in some sort of development, in
everything; and certainly God meant in His grand scheme of redemption
to lift the world, not a portion of it, but the entire world, out of
its lower ideas into its higher beauties and realities.

FUTURE LIFE.

That the Scriptures, contrary to popular tradition, do not deny a
future life to the lower animals has already been conclusively shown.
But do they declare anything in favor of another world for beast as
well as for man? This is a question which we shall now endeavor to
answer. As to man’s immortality, the Old Testament Scriptures teach the
doctrine by inference rather than by direct assertion, for the reason,
as has been presumed, that the writers of the several books, which were
selected at a comparatively late period from among many others and
formed into the volume popularly designated the Bible, assumed as a
matter of course that man was immortal, and therefore did not concern
themselves about a matter which they supposed everybody knew. But as
far as the Old Testament goes, inference tells more strongly in favor
of the beast’s immortality than that of man. Although in either case
there does not appear to be any definite assertion of a futurity of
existence, yet there is no such denial of the immortality of the beast
as has already been shown in the case of the man.

Beasts, as readers of the Old Testament only too well know, were
included in the merciful provision of the Sabbath, which, in its
essence, was a spiritual and not simply a physical ordinance. And,
again, we find many provisions in the ancient Scriptures against
maltreating the lower animals, or giving them unnecessary pain, and
these provisions stand side by side in the Divine Law with those which
apply to man. All are familiar with the prohibition of “seething a kid
in its mother’s milk,” and the non-muzzling of the ox in treading out
the corn lest he should suffer the pangs of hunger in the presence of
the food which he may not eat. Even bird’s nesting was regulated by
Divine Law. “If a bird’s nest chance to be before thee in the way in
any tree, or on the ground, _whether they_ be young ones, or eggs,
and the dam sitting upon the young, or upon the eggs, thou shalt not
take the dam with the young: _But_ thou shalt in any wise let the dam
go, and take the young to thee; that it may be well with thee, and
_that_ thou mayest prolong _thy_ days.” Moreover, as many animals must
be killed daily, some for sacrifice and others solely for food, the
strictest regulations were enjoined that their death should be sharp
and quick, and that the whole of their blood should be poured out upon
the ground lest they suffer lingering pain.

In keeping with the same consideration felt by Deity towards the kid
and ox and bird, as expressed in the Law, we would refer to the few
concluding sentences of the Book of Jonah:--

“Thou hast had pity on the gourd, for the which thou hast not labored,
neither madest it grow; which came up in a night, and perished in a
night.

“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_?”

“Every beast of the forest is mine,” saith the Lord, “and the
cattle upon a thousand hills.” And again, “I know all the fowls of
the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine.” Similar
passages, in which God announces himself as the protector of the beast
as well as of man, could be given, for the Scriptures are full of them.
Who does not recall the well-known saying of our Lord respecting the
lives of the sparrows: “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and
one of them shall not fall on the ground without the notice of your
Father.”

Cowper in his “Task,” makes allusion to this branch of our subject in
the following lines:--

“Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,
But God will never. When He charged the Jew
To assist his foe’s down-fallen beast to rise;
And when the bush-exploring boy, that seized
The young, to let the parent-bird go free;
Proved He not plainly that His meaner works,
Are yet His care, and have an interest all--
All in the universal Father’s love?”

One passage there is which certainly does point to a future for the
beast as well as for man, and which places them both on the very same
plane. It is found in Genesis, ninth chapter and fifth verse, and
constitutes a part of the law which was delivered to Noah, and which
was subsequently incorporated in the fuller law given through Moses.
“And surely your blood of your lives will I require,” said God to Noah
and his sons, “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.” In Exodus, chapter twenty-one and twenty-eighth
verse, we read, “If an ox gore a man or a woman, that they die: then
the ox shall be surely stoned, and his flesh shall not be eaten; but
the owner of the ox _shall be_ quit.”

While there are no passages of Scripture, as has been seen, which deny
immortality of life to the lower animals, yet there are certainly some
which tend to show it by inference. But the Scriptures were written for
human beings, and not for the lower animals, and therefore it could
hardly be expected that any information could be gained therefrom on
the subject. As we find so few direct references to the future state
of man, it is not at all to be expected that we should receive direct
instruction upon the after-life of the beast.

But just as man has had within himself for untold ages an intuitive
witness to his own immortality, yet there are those, lovers and
friends of the so-called brute, who have an instinctive sense that
animals, some of whom surpass in love, unselfishness, generosity,
conscience and self-sacrifice many of their human brethren, must share
with him in addition to these virtues an immortal spirit in which they
take their rise. No more eminent personage than Bishop Butler was a
believer in this idea. Substantially he asserts that the Scriptures
give no reasons why the lower animals should not possess immortal
souls. Similar sentiments have been voiced by equally distinguished
writers.

Southey, writing of the death of a favorite spaniel that had been the
companion of his boyhood, says:--

“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
Infinite Goodness to the little bounds
Of their own charity, may envy thee.”

Thus does Lamartine, in “Jocelyn’s Episode,” beautifully express
himself in addressing a faithful and affectionate canine by the name of
Fido:--

“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.”

Not by man alone have these higher qualities been accorded to the
brute. Women have praised the good within the lower animals, and been
quite as willing to share with them the benefits of an immortal life.
Eugenie de Guérin, a woman distinguished for her devotional piety,
and an author of no mean repute, was, like the most of her sex, quite
passionately fond of pets. Hers was a turtle-dove. Its voice was
the first to greet her in the morning. There was a pleasure in its
soft, gentle cooings, as they fell upon her ear, that sent a sweet
consolation to her busy, thinking soul. But the time came at last when
she must part with her treasure. The morn dawned bright, an August
morning, and the bird was well and happy, but, with the falling of the
shadows at even-tide, its little life went out. A bitter trial it was
for the mistress, who loved with a perfect love her feathered friend.
While wrestling with her intense sorrow, and after she had sincerely
placed its mortal remains in a dainty cavity beneath the roses, it
was that she wrote: “I have a tolerably strong belief in the souls of
animals, and I should even like there to be a little paradise for the
good and gentle, like turtle-doves, dogs and lambs. But what to do with
wolves and other wicked animals? To damn them?--that embarrasses me.”

Less devotional, perhaps, and looking rather to logic than to
intuition, was the mind of Mrs. Somerville. With such a difference
in constitution between the two women, we would naturally look for
the greatest divergence of opinion upon a matter of this kind, but,
astonishing to relate, there is noticeable a marked unanimity. Speaking
of death, and the accompanying change of environing objects, this
gifted writer, in her eighty-ninth year, says in her “Memoirs”:--

“I shall regret the sky, the sea, with all their beautiful coloring;
the earth, with its verdure and flowers; but far more shall I grieve to
leave animals that have followed our steps affectionately for years,
without knowing for certainty their ultimate fate, though I firmly
believe that the living principle is never extinguished. Since the
atoms of matter are indestructible, as far as we know, it is difficult
to believe that the span which gives to their union life, memory,
affection, intelligence and fidelity is evanescent.

“Every atom in the human frame, as well as in that of animals,
undergoes a periodical change by continual waste and renovation: the
abode is changed, not its inhabitant. If animals have no future, the
existence of many is most wretched. Multitudes are starved, cruelly
beaten, and loaded during life; many die under a barbarous vivisection.

“I cannot believe that any creature was created for uncompensated
misery: it would be contrary to the attributes of God’s mercy and
justice. I am sincerely happy to find that I am not the only believer
in the immortality of the lower animals.”

To have given the many opinions that have been expressed by the good
and wise of the past in favor of the belief that animals received, in
common with man, a particle of the divine essence, and hence became
immortal, would have extended this chapter beyond intended limits.
We have room for just another witness. No one is better known for
his convictions upon this subject than the late Dr. Wood, whose
contributions to natural history are known the world over. Speaking of
the death of his dog Rory, a creature that manifested in the flesh the
strongest affection for his keeper, the Doctor says:--

“I could not believe that an animal which would die of grief, as he
died, for the absence of his master, would have his existence limited
to this present world, and that such intensity of love should terminate
at the same moment that the material heart ceased to beat.”

When we think of the apparent inequality that is everywhere to be
seen in the lives both of man and beast, we cannot believe, as Mrs.
Somerville has remarked, that any being was “created for uncompensated
misery.” Some human beings are endowed with everything that a man can
desire--health, strength, riches, accomplishments and capacity for
enjoyment--while others are destitute of all these accessories to
happiness. Putting aside the fact that those whose lots seem to be the
most enviable are the least to be envied, we cannot help acknowledging
that this disparity does exist, and that the earthly lot of some is
very hard, while that of others is very easy. But we must remember
that there is taught in the New Testament the grand doctrine of
Compensation. Paul alludes to this when he remarks that the sufferings
of this world are not to be compared with the glories of the world to
come, and that the troubles, trials and tribulations of this life are
but the precursor of that glorified existence where all these things
will be utterly unknown. That some such arrangement would be nothing
more than justice there can be no question, and that some principle
of Divine Justice must exist was instinctively known long before it
was explicitly declared by the inspired apostle, for references to
such compensation are found throughout the Psalms. Even Job himself,
sunk as he was in the very depth of afflictions, could say: “Though
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him; but I will maintain my own ways
before Him. He also _shall be_ my salvation; for an hypocrite shall not
come before Him.” So far, then, as man is concerned, this problem of
apparent inequality is not so difficult of solution, for he knows only
too well that in spite of his hard and bitter earth-life that Divine
Justice will be more than vindicated in the life beyond the grave
to which he aspires. But in the case of the lower animals, granting
that they have no future existence, what, I ask, becomes of Divine
Justice? In this land of enlightenment we meet with many animals that
are treated with the greatest kindness by their masters, and others,
endowed with capacities that are not a whit inferior to their more
fortunate brethren, that are treated with the utmost cruelty. While one
is petted and pampered, another is abused and given over to the pangs
of hunger and starvation. If there is a future life for these animals,
it is simply impossible to recognize in their Maker that justice which
sensible, reasoning man should expect. Such an injustice, as shown by
the lives which we have contrasted, would be too flagrant for any human
being to perpetrate, unless such a being was wholly deficient in the
ideas of right and wrong. But on the supposition that these animals
possess immortal souls, and that there is for them a future life in
which these souls shall be developed to their fullest capacities, then
these apparent discrepancies can be reconciled with Absolute Justice
and Perfect Love. In His dealings with the lower animals, as with
ourselves, God looks to the spiritual rather than the material world,
and by the means of the one instructs and prepares his pupils for the
other. With Paul I firmly believe that suffering in the present world
has for its object a preparation for and an introduction to a future
life, and therefore am thoroughly convinced that any creature capable
of suffering has in that capacity its passport to an eternal world.

Another step, that is, the possession of Individuality, as connected
with Immortality, now presses forward for consideration. As for man,
did he not possess Individuality, no diverseness of management would be
needed, for all would be treated in a similar manner. No two faces in
man are precisely alike, for the very simple reason that no two souls,
of which the countenance is an indication, are alike. The same rule,
no matter what may be affirmed to the contrary, holds good among the
lower animals. To the casual observer no apparent difference can be
detected between any two individuals of a flock of sheep, a portrait
of one equally resembling that of any other. But a shepherd, who
understands his business, will readily distinguish every sheep of his
flock, as well as describe the mental peculiarities of each individual.
One ordinary yellow canary looks just like another yellow canary to the
ordinary vision, while in reality the mental character of each bird is
impressed just as strongly upon its countenance as are human qualities
upon that of man. This quality it is, both in man and beast, that
implies a separate treatment for each individual, and becomes a plea
for an immortality of life. I am not alone in this idea. It is simply
astounding how Individuality in the lower animals is ignored by man.
The generality of grooms treat all horses as though they were just so
many machines turned out of the same mould, and to be treated just like
machines. There is in every species a double kind of Individuality. One
kind there is that is common to the entire species, and then there is
in addition to this common characteristic another that distinguishes
each separate being from its fellows. It is the former that makes a
species what it is, and there can be no doubt that each will exist in
the future life, and that both may be capable of development. The dog,
the horse, the lion and the elephant, and in truth all animals that may
be fitted to survive, will be in the other world what they are in this.
They will be better animals in that world, just as we hope to be better
men, but they will not approach us any nearer than they do in the
earth-life.

Man does not, as some are foolish enough to claim, lower the condition
of humanity the least by granting immortality to the lower animals. If
they be immortal, as the evidence adduces most strongly shows, there
is not the slightest use of denial. We cannot shirk a fact, and even
if we could, we ought not to do it. Such an argument, which seeks to
elevate man by depreciating his lower fellow-creatures, is not very
creditable to humanity. In announcing the belief that the lower animals
share immortality with man in the higher world, as they share mortality
in this, does not claim for them the slightest equality. Man will be
man and beast will be beast, and insect will be insect, in the next
world as they are in this. They are living exponents of Divine Ideas,
as is evident from the Scriptures and the teachings of science, and
will be wanted to continue in the world of spirit the work which they
have begun in the world of matter. True it is, as has been asserted,
that because a man can transmit his ideas to the lower animals, there
is evidence that they possess a spirit which is able to communicate
with the spirit of man. When a man gives an order to his dog, and is
obeyed, there is proof that both possess spirits, similar in quality,
though differing in degree. We know that to give an order to a plant
would be useless and absurd, because the plant has not the spirit that
can respond to the spirit of the man in the same manner that a dog’s or
a horse’s spirit can, but the inability so to respond does not prove
that the plant is devoid of a spirit. That the spirit of the plant
does respond to the spirit of the man, when it adapts itself to the
conditions which the spirit of the man has imposed upon it, there can
be no question, or the many hundred plants which have been reclaimed
from a state of wildness by a judicious and careful management upon
the part of man would have been among the impossibilities of modern
civilization. The spirit of man must have entered into the spirit of
the plant, and held communion therewith, or the world to-day would not
have been blessed with its manifold cereals, fruits and vegetables,
all of which have been rendered possible for use by the spirit of man
entering into an understanding with the nature, wants and peculiar
dispositions of the plants about him. No less are plants living
exponents of Divine Ideas than worms, insects, beasts and men are,
and as such living exponents, they are as much needed in the future
existence, at least such as are fitted to continue in the spirit-world
the work begun in the world of matter, as are the higher forms of
animal beings. As plants go a great ways towards making this earth-life
a paradise of beauty and delight, and have ever been associated through
the ages with animal life, each of the two great kingdoms of life from
simple beginnings attaining to higher and still higher development up
to the present period--the Era of Mind--it cannot be possible that the
two will have become suddenly divorced when the temporal or earth-life
is about to pass into the eternal or spirit-life. Heaven would not
be Heaven without the plants that we have cultured, and tended, and
admired.

Concluding, then, let me say, I claim not for the lower animals the
slightest equality with man. What I claim for them is a higher _status_
in creation than is generally attributed to them. I claim for them
a future life, where they will receive a just compensation for the
sufferings which so many of them have to undergo in this world. Most
of the cruelties which are perpetrated upon animals are due to the
habit which man has, in his exalted opinion of self, of considering
them as mere automata, without susceptibilities, without reason and
without the capacity of a future. That I have achieved the purpose,
with which I set out, of proving that all life is immortal, or that
soul exists in plants and animals, I think must be admitted. If this
doctrine of immortality shall have the effect of bringing about a more
humane treatment of the animals over which man has been given dominion,
and thus contribute, be it ever so little, to their well-being and
happiness, even in this life, then the object attained will be felt to
be a just and worthy recompense for the thought and labor which have
been expended in its support and defence. Not alone are we of the upper
walks of being made the possessors of the inner life, but all nature
shares it in common with us, and love is its expression and the method
of its action.

THE END.

Transcriber’s Notes

Inconsistent and unusual or archaic spelling, use of accents and
diacriticals, hyphenation and capitalisation have been retained,
except as mentioned below.

Depending on the hard- and software used and their settings used to
read this text, not all elements may display as intended.

Page 7, List of Illustrations: the portrait of the author is not the
frontispiece, and is not included in this edition of the book.

Page 45, "a single red-eye speck": should probably read "a single red
eye-speck".

Page 73, "unutterly unable": as printed in the source document.

Page 99, Line Below Shows Natural Size: based on the size of the
physical book, this would make the insect’s natural size around 27 mm
(just over 1″).

Page 317/318, paragraph starting "Returning to the philology ...": a
closing quote mark is missing.

Page 464/465, paragraph starting "That there is a distinction ...": a
closing quote mark is missing.

Changes made

Illustrations have been moved out of text paragraphs.

Some obvious minor typographical and punctuation errors have been
corrected silently.

Lists of illustrations: illustration numbers have been added.

Page 44: "quiet unable" changed to "quite unable".

Page 62: "plants not natives to this country" changed to "plants not
native to this country".

Page 245: PANDION HALIÆTUS changed to _Pandion haliætus_ for
consistency.

Page 264: caption "Red-eyed Vireo’s Two-Storied Nest With Cow-bird’s
egg beneath" added cf. list of full-page plates.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Intelligence in Plants and Animals - Being a New Edition of the Author's Privately Issued "Soul and Immortality."" ***

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