The Animal Story Book
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Title: The Animal Story Book
Editor: Andrew Lang
Illustrator: H. J. Ford
Release date: December 4, 2011 [eBook #38208]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38208
Credits: Produced by Louise Davies, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK ***
Produced by Louise Davies, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
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produced from images generously made available by The
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Transcriber's Note
Illustration captions in {brackets} have been added by the
transcriber, with reference to the list of illustrations, for the
convenience of the reader.
THE
ANIMAL STORY BOOK
EDITED BY
ANDREW LANG
_WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD_
[Illustration: {TWO ORAN OTANS}]
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS
1914
_Copyright, 1896,_
By Longmans, Green, & Co.
_All rights reserved._
First Edition, September, 1896.
Reprinted, November, 1896, July, 1899,
June, 1904, February, 1909,
September, 1914.
THE FAIRY BOOK SERIES
Edited by Andrew Lang
_New and Cheaper Issue_
EACH VOLUME, $1.00 NET
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. With 138 Illustrations.
THE RED FAIRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. With 101 Illustrations.
THE GREY FAIRY BOOK. With 65 Illustrations.
THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK. With 104 Illustrations.
THE PINK FAIRY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations.
THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE TRUE STORY BOOK. With 66 Illustrations.
THE RED TRUE STORY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations.
THE RED BOOK OF ANIMAL STORIES. With 65 Illustrations.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS. With 66 Illustrations.
THE VIOLET FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 54 other
Illustrations.
THE CRIMSON FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 43 other
Illustrations.
THE BROWN FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 42 other
Illustrations.
THE OLIVE FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 43 other
Illustrations.
THE ORANGE FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 50 other
Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF ROMANCE. With 8 Coloured Plates and 44 other
Illustrations.
THE RED ROMANCE BOOK. With 8 Coloured Plates and 44 other
Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF PRINCES AND PRINCESSES. By Mrs. Lang. With 8
Coloured Plates and 43 other Illustrations.
THE RED BOOK OF HEROES. By Mrs. Lang. With 8 Coloured Plates
and 40 other Illustrations.
THE LILAC FAIRY BOOK. With 6 Coloured Plates and 46 other
Illustrations.
THE ALL SORTS OF STORIES BOOK. By Mrs. Lang. With 5 Coloured
Plates and 43 other Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND HEROES. By Mrs. Lang. With 12 Coloured
Plates and 18 other Illustrations.
THE STRANGE STORY BOOK. By Mrs. Lang. With Portrait of Andrew
Lang, 12 Coloured Plates and 18 other Illustrations.
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO., NEW YORK
[Illustration: ANDROCLES IN THE ARENA]
_To_
_MASTER FREDERICK LONGMAN_
This year our Book for Christmas varies,
Deals not with History nor Fairies
(I can't help thinking, children, you
Prefer a book which is _not_ true).
We leave these intellectual feasts,
To talk of Fishes, Birds, and Beasts.
These--though his aim is hardly steady--
These are, I think, a theme for Freddy!
Trout, though he is not up to fly,
He soon will catch--as well as I!
So, Freddy, take this artless rhyme,
And be a Sportsman in your time!
_PREFACE_
Children who have read our Fairy Books may have noticed that there are
not so very many fairies in the stories after all. The most common
characters are birds, beasts, and fishes, who talk and act like
Christians. The reason of this is that the first people who told the
stories were not very clever, or, if they were clever, they had never
been taught to read and write, or to distinguish between Vegetable,
Animal, and Mineral. They took it that all things were 'much of a
muchness:' they were not proud, and held that beast and bird could
talk like themselves, only, of course, in a different language.
After offering, then, so many Fairy Books (though the stories are not
all told yet), we now present you (in return for a coin or two) with a
book about the friends of children and of fairies--the beasts. The
stories are all true, more or less, but it is possible that Monsieur
Dumas and Monsieur Theophile Gautier rather improved upon their tales.
I own that I have my doubts about the bears and serpents in the tales
by the Baron Wogan. This gentleman's ancestors were famous Irish
people. One of them held Cromwell's soldiers back when they were
pursuing Charles II. after Worcester fight. He also led a troop of
horse from Dover to the Highlands, where he died of a wound, after
fighting for the King. The next Wogan was a friend of Pope and Swift;
he escaped from prison after Preston fight, in 1715, and, later,
rescued Prince Charlie's mother from confinement in Austria, and took
her to marry King James. He next became Governor of Don Quixote's
province, La Mancha, in Spain, and was still alive and merry in 1752.
Baron Wogan, descended from these heroes, saw no longer any king to
fight for, so he went to America and fought bears. No doubt he was as
brave as his ancestors, but whether all his stories of serpents are
absolutely correct I am not so certain. People have also been heard to
express doubts about Mr. Waterton and the Cayman. The terrible tale of
Mr. Gully and his deeds of war I _know_ to be accurate, and the story
of Oscar, the sentimental tyke, is believed in firmly by the lady who
wrote it. As for the stories about Greek and Roman beasts, Pliny, who
tells them, is a most respectable author. On the whole, then, this is
more or less of a true story-book.
There ought to be a moral; if so, it probably is that we should be
kind to all sorts of animals, and, above all, knock trout on the head
when they are caught, and don't let the poor things jump about till
they die. A chapter of a very learned sort was written about the
cleverness of beasts, proving that there must have been great
inventive geniuses among beasts long ago, and that now they have
rather got into a habit (which I think a very good one) of being
content with the discoveries of their ancestors. This led naturally to
some observations on Instinct and Reason; but there may be children
who are glad that there was no room for this chapter.
The longer stories from Monsieur Dumas were translated from the French
by Miss Cheape.
'A Rat Tale' is by Miss Evelyn Grieve, who knew the rats.
'Mr. Gully' is by Miss Elspeth Campbell, to whom Mr. Gully belonged.
'The Dog of Montargis,' 'More Faithful than Favoured,' and 'Androcles'
are by Miss Eleanor Sellar.
Snakes, Bears, Ants, Wolves, Monkeys, and some Lions are by Miss Lang.
'Two Highland Dogs' is by Miss Goodrich Freer.
'Fido' and 'Oscar' and 'Patch' are by Miss A. M. Alleyne.
'Djijam' is by his master.
'The Starling of Segringen' and 'Grateful Dogs' are by Mr. Bartells.
'Tom the Bear,' 'The Frog,' 'Jacko the Monkey' and 'Gazelle' are from
Dumas by Miss Blackley.
All the rest are by Mrs. Lang.
_CONTENTS_
PAGE
'Tom': an Adventure in the Life of a Bear in Paris 1
Sai the Panther 14
The Buzzard and the Priest 25
Cowper and his Hares 30
A Rat Tale 34
Snake Stories 43
What Elephants can Do 50
The Dog of Montargis 56
How a Beaver builds his House 64
The War Horse of Alexander 68
Stories about Bears 71
Stories about Ants 82
The Taming of an Otter 88
The Story of Androcles and the Lion 91
Monsieur Dumas and his Beasts 99
The Adventures of Pyramus 154
The Story of a Weasel 160
Stories about Wolves 163
Two Highland Dogs 174
Monkey Tricks and Sally at the Zoo 191
How the Cayman was killed 194
The Story of Fido 200
Beasts Besieged 205
Mr. Gully 209
Stories from Pliny 213
The Strange History of Cagnotte 215
Still Waters Run Deep; or, the Dancing Dog 219
Theo and his Horses: Jane, Betsy, and Blanche 225
Madame Theophile and the Parrot 231
The Battle of the Mullets and the Dolphins 233
Monkey Stories 237
Eccentric Bird Builders 245
The Ship of the Desert 248
Hame, hame, hame, where I fain wad be 253
Nests for Dinner 257
Fire-eating Djijam 259
The Story of the Dog Oscar 264
Dolphins at Play 274
The Starling of Segringen 278
Grateful Dogs 280
Gazelle 282
Cockatoo Stories 289
The Otter who was reared by a Cat 292
Stories about Lions 295
Builders and Weavers 307
More Faithful than Favoured 310
Dolphins, Turtles, and Cod 316
More about Elephants 321
Bungey 329
Lions and their Ways 333
The History of Jacko I. 338
Signora and Lori 348
Of the Linnet, Popinjay, or Parrot, and other Birds
that can Speak 351
Patch and the Chickens 354
The Fierce Falcon 356
Mr. Bolt, the Scotch Terrier 360
A Raven's Funeral 364
A Strange Tiger 368
Halcyons and their Biographers 373
The Story of a Frog 375
The Woodpecker Tapping on the Hollow Oak Tree 384
Dogs Over the Water 387
The Capocier and his Mate 394
Owls and Marmots 396
Eagles' Nests 399
_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_
PAGE
Tom is invited to the Ball 3
'The Minuet was Tom's greatest Triumph' 9
Tom discovered in the Box 12
'They at last all took hold of his Tail' 16
Terror of the Orang-outang at Sai 17
Sai has to take a Pill 21
The Cats no match for the Buzzard 27
The Buzzard carries off Hat and Wig 28
'Seeing such a number of Rats, he left his Horses
and ran for his Life' 37
The Rats in the Larder 41
The Baron kills the Snake 44
The Baron slays the Horned Snake 46
How the Indians make the Horned Snake disgorge his
Dinner 48
The Elephant helps the Gardener 53
De Narsac recognises his Friend's Dog 57
The Dog flies at Macaire in the presence of the King 61
The Baron kills the Bear 75
The Grizzly 79
Androcles in the Lion's Cave 93
Androcles in the Arena 97
'Monsieur Dumas, may I accommodate you with my
Monkey and my Parrot?' 107
The Auvergnat and his Monkey 111
The Last of the Laidmanoirs and Mademoiselle
Desgarcins 120
Dumas arrives at Stora with his Vulture 127
'It's a regular Kennel' 131
Jugurtha becomes Diogenes 135
Pritchard and the Hens 142
'Pritchard reappeared next moment with a Hare
in his Mouth' 145
Cartouche outwits Pyramus 156
Mademoiselle de Laistre and her Weasel 161
'When Day broke' 166
The Death of the Famous Wolf of Gevaudan 171
'The Long Vigil' 187
The Capture of the Cayman 197
The Wounding of Fido 201
The Dream of the Hungry Lion 207
Cagnotte comes out of his Skin 217
'And what do you Think she Saw' 221
Blanche telling Ghost Stories to Jane in the Stable 227
How the Dolphins helped the Fishermen to catch
the Mullets 234
Two Oran Otans 238
The Baboons who stole the Poor Man's Dinner 241
Birds' Nests for Dinner 258
'In the full enjoyment of a large lighted Log
on the Dining-room Carpet' 261
'Oscar would charge and rout them' 265
'Oscar felt rather Frightened' 269
'Oh, Oscar, Oscar, lad what _have_ you Done?' 271
The Boy goes to School on the Dolphin's back 275
Dumas finds Joseph standing on Gazelle's back 284
Dumas brings Gazelle to No. 109 Faubourg St.-Denis 288
The Lion caught in the Pit 297
The Ambush 300
'All Three stopped to gaze at the Man who dared to
put himself in their Path' 303
'And pinned Him to the Ground' 314
'Long, Long Ago.' The Elephant dreams of his Old
Companions 323
The Elephant falls on his knees before the little
Scotch Terrier 327
Bungey at the Spanish Ambassador's House 331
The Hottentot noticed a huge Lion lying in the Water 335
Annoyance of the Captain on finding his Flask of
Rum upset 339
Lori refuses to Share with the Signora 349
A Raven's Funeral 365
The Tiger and his Friend 369
Love's disgraceful Behaviour out Shooting 377
The Sole Result of his Day's Sport 380
Mademoiselle Camargo becomes a Barometer 381
The Faithful Spaniel 389
_'TOM'_
_AN ADVENTURE IN THE LIFE OF A BEAR IN PARIS_
From Alexandre Dumas.
Some sixty years ago and more, a well-known artist named Decamps lived
in Paris. He was the intimate friend of some of the first authors,
artists, and scientific men of the day, and was devotedly fond of
animals of all sorts. He loved to paint them, and he kept quite a
small menagerie in his studio where a bear, a monkey, a tortoise, and
a frog lived (more or less) in peace and harmony together.
The bear's name was 'Tom,' the monkey was called 'Jacko I.,'[1] the
frog was 'Mademoiselle Camargo,' and the tortoise 'Gazelle.'
[1] To distinguish him from Jacko II., a monkey belonging to Tony
Johannot, the painter.
Here follows the story of Tom, the bear.
It was the night of Shrove Tuesday in the year 1832. Tom had as yet
only spent six months in Paris, but he was really one of the most
attractive bears you could wish to meet.
He ran to open the door when the bell rang, he mounted guard for hours
together, halberd in hand, standing on his hind legs, and he danced a
minuet with infinite grace, holding a broomstick behind his head.
He had spent the whole day in the exercise of these varied
accomplishments, to the great delight of the frequenters of his
master's studio, and had just retired to the press which did duty as
his hutch, to seek a little repose, when there was a knock at the
street door. Jacko instantly showed such signs of joy that Decamps
made a shrewd guess that the visitor could be no other than Fan, the
self-elected tutor in chief to the two animals--nor was he mistaken.
The door opened, Fan appeared, dressed as a clown, and Jacko flung
himself in rapture into his arms.
'Very good, very good,' said Fan, placing the monkey on the table and
handing him a cane. 'You're really a charming creature. Carry arms,
present arms, make ready, fire! Capital!'
'I'll have a complete uniform made for you, and you shall mount guard
instead of me. But I haven't come for you to-night; it's your friend
Tom I want. Where may he be?'
'Why, in his hutch, I suppose,' said Decamps.
'Tom! here, Tom!' cried Fan.
Tom gave a low growl, just to show that he knew very well who they
were talking of, but that he was in no hurry to show himself.
'Well!' exclaimed Fan, 'is this how my orders are obeyed? Tom, my
friend, don't force me to resort to extreme measures.'
Tom stretched one great paw beyond the cupboard without allowing any
more of his person to be seen, and began to yawn plaintively like a
child just wakened from its first sleep.
'Where is the broomstick?' inquired Fan in threatening tones, and
rattling the collection of Indian bows, arrows, and spears which stood
behind the door.
'Ready!' cried Decamps, pointing to Tom, who, on hearing these well
known sounds, had roused himself without more ado, and advanced
towards his tutor with a perfectly innocent and unconscious air.
'That's right,' said Fan: 'now be a good fellow, particularly as one
has come all this way on purpose to fetch you.'
[Illustration: TOM IS INVITED TO THE BALL]
Tom waved his head up and down.
'So, so--now shake hands with your friends:--first rate!'
'Do you mean to take him with you?' asked Decamps.
'Rather!' replied Fan; 'and give him a good time into the bargain.'
'And where are you going?'
'To the Carnival Masked Ball, nothing less! Now then Tom, my friend,
come along. We've got a cab outside waiting by the hour.'
As though fully appreciating the force of this argument, Tom trundled
down stairs four steps at a time followed by his friend. The driver
opened the cab door, and Tom, under Fan's guidance, stepped in as if
he had done nothing else all his life.
'My eye! that's a queer sort of a fancy dress,' said cabby; 'anyone
might take him for a real bear. Where to, gentlemen?'
'Odeon Theatre,' said Fan.
'Grrrooonnn,' observed Tom.
'All right,' said the cabman. 'Keep your temper. It's a good step from
here, but we shall get there all in good time.'
Half an hour later the cab drew up at the door of the theatre. Fan got
down first, paid the driver, handed out Tom, took two tickets, and
passed in without exciting any special attention.
At the second turn they made round the crush-room people began to
follow Fan. The perfection with which the newcomer imitated the walk
and movements of the animal whose skin he wore attracted the notice of
some lovers of natural history. They pressed closer and closer, and
anxious to find out whether he was equally clever in imitating the
bear's voice, they began to pull his hairs and prick his
ears--'Grrrooonnn,' said Tom.
A murmur of admiration ran through the crowd--nothing could be more
lifelike.
Fan led Tom to the buffet and offered him some little cakes, to which
he was very partial, and which he proceeded to swallow with so
admirable a pretence of voracity that the bystanders burst out
laughing. Then the mentor poured out a tumbler full of water, which
Tom took gingerly between his paws, as he was accustomed to whenever
Decamps did him the honour of permitting him to appear at table, and
gulped down the contents at one draught. Enthusiasm knew no bounds!
Indeed such was the delight and interest shown that when, at length,
Fan wished to leave the buffet, he found they were hemmed in by so
dense a crowd that he felt nervous lest Tom should think of clearing
the road with claws and teeth. So he promptly led his bear to a
corner, placed him with his back against the wall, and told him to
stay there till further orders.
As has been already mentioned, this kind of drill was quite familiar
to Tom, and was well suited to his natural indolence, and when a
harlequin offered his hat to complete the picture, he settled himself
comfortably, gravely laying one great paw on his wooden gun.
'Do you happen to know,' said Fan to the obliging harlequin, '_who_
you have lent your hat to?'
'No,' replied harlequin.
'You mean to say you don't guess?'
'Not in the least.'
'Come, take a good look at him. From the grace of all his movements,
from the manner in which he carries his head, slightly on one side,
like Alexander the Great--from the admirable imitations of the bear's
voice--you don't mean to say you don't recognise him?'
'Upon my word I don't.'
'Odry!'[2] whispered Fan mysteriously; 'Odry, in his costume from "The
Bear and the Pacha"!'
[2] A well-known actor of the time.
'Oh, but he acts a _white_ bear, you know.'
'Just so; that's why he has chosen a brown bear's skin as a disguise.'
'Ho, ho! You're a good one,' cried harlequin.
'Grrooonnn,' observed Tom.
'Well, now you mention it, I _do_ recognise his voice. Really, I
wonder it had not struck me before. Do ask him to disguise it better.'
'Yes, yes,' said Fan, moving towards the ball-room, 'but it will never
do to worry him. However, I'll try to persuade him to dance a minuet
presently.'
'Oh, could you really?'
'He promised to do so. Just give a hint to your friends and try to
prevent their teasing him.'
'All right.'
Tom made his way through the crowd, whilst the delighted harlequin
moved from one mask to another, telling his news with warnings to be
discreet, which were well received. Just then, too, the sounds of a
lively galop were heard, and a general rush to the ball-room took
place, harlequin only pausing to murmur in Tom's ear: 'I know you, my
fine mask.'
'Grroooonnn,' replied Tom.
'Ah, it's all very well to growl, but you'll dance a minuet, won't
you, old fellow?'
Tom waved his head up and down as his way was when anyone asked him a
question, and harlequin, satisfied with this silent consent, ran off
to find a columbine and to dance the galop.
Meanwhile, Tom remained alone with the waiters; motionless at his
post, but with longing eyes turned towards the counter on which the
most tempting piles of cake were heaped on numerous dishes. The
waiters, remarking his rapt attention, and pleased to tempt a
customer, stretched out a dish, Tom extended his paw and gingerly took
a cake--then a second--then a third: the waiters seemed never tired of
offering, or Tom of accepting these delicacies, and so, when the
galop ended and the dancers returned to the crush-room, he had made
short work of some dozens of little cakes.
Harlequin had recruited a columbine and a shepherdess, and he
introduced these ladies as partners for the promised minuet. With all
the air of an old friend he whispered a few words to Tom, who, in the
best of humours after so many cakes, replied with his most gracious
growl. The harlequin, turning towards the gallery, announced that his
lordship had much pleasure in complying with the universal request,
and amidst loud applause, the shepherdess took one of Tom's paws and
the columbine the other. Tom, for his part, like an accomplished
cavalier, walked between his two partners, glancing at them by turns
with looks of some surprise, and soon found himself with them in the
middle of the pit of the theatre which was used as a ball-room. All
took their places, some in the boxes, others in the galleries, the
greater number forming a circle round the dancers. The band struck up.
The minuet was Tom's greatest triumph and Fan's masterpiece, and with
the very first steps success was assured and went on increasing with
each movement, till at the last figure the applause became delirious.
Tom was swept off in triumph to a stage box where the shepherdess,
removing her wreath of roses, crowned him with it, whilst the whole
theatre resounded with the applause of the spectators.
Tom leant over the front of the box with a grace all his own; at the
same time the strains of a fresh dance were heard, and everyone
hurried to secure partners except a few courtiers of the new star who
hovered round in hope of extracting an order for the play from him,
but Tom only replied to their broadest hints with his perpetual
'Grroonnn.'
By degrees this became rather monotonous, and gradually Tom's court
dwindled away, people murmuring that, though his dancing powers were
certainly unrivalled, his conversation was a trifle insipid. An hour
later Tom was alone! So fleeting is public favour.
[Illustration: 'THE MINUET WAS TOM'S GREATEST TRIUMPH']
And now the hour of departure drew near. The pit was thinning and the
boxes empty, and pale rays of morning light were glinting into the
hall when the box-opener, who was going her rounds, heard sounds of
snoring proceeding from one of the stage boxes. She opened the door,
and there was Tom, who, tired out after his eventful night, had fallen
fast asleep on the floor. The box-opener stepped in and politely
hinted that it was six o'clock and time to go home.
'Grrooonnn,' said Tom.
'I hear you,' said the box-opener; 'you're asleep, my good man, but
you'll sleep better still in your own bed. Come, come, your wife must
be getting quite anxious! Upon my word I don't believe he hears a word
I say. How heavily he sleeps!' And she shook him by the shoulder.
'Grrrooonnn!'
'All right, all right! This isn't a time to make believe. Besides, we
all know you. There now, they're putting out the lights. Shall I send
for a cab for you?'
'Grrroooonnn.'
'Come, come, the Odeon Theatre isn't an inn; come, be off! Oh,
_that's_ what you're after, is it? Fie, Monsieur Odry, fie! I shall
call the guard; the inspector hasn't gone to bed yet. Ah, indeed! You
won't obey rules! You are trying to beat me, are you? You would beat a
woman--and a former artiste to M. Odry, would you? For shame! But we
shall see. Here, help--police--inspector--help!'
'What's the matter?' cried the fireman on duty.
'Help!' screamed the box-opener, 'help!'
'What's the matter?' asked the sergeant commanding the patrol.
'Oh, it's old mother what's her name, shrieking for help in one of the
stage boxes.'
'Coming!' shouted the sergeant.
'This way, Mr. Sergeant, this way,' cried the box-opener.
'All right, my dear, here I am. But where are you?'
'Don't be afraid; there are no steps--straight on this way--he's in
the corner. Oh, the rascal, he's as strong as a Turk!'
'Grrrooonnn,' said Tom.
'There, do you hear him? Is that to be called a Christian language?'
'Come, come, my friend,' said the sergeant, who had at last managed to
distinguish Tom in the faint twilight. 'We all know what it is to be
young--no one likes a joke better than I do--but rules are rules, and
the hour for going home has struck, so right about face, march! and
quick step too.'
'Grrrooonnn'--
'Very pretty; a first-rate imitation. But suppose we try something
else now for a change. Come, old fellow, step out with a good will.
Ah! you won't. You're going to cut up rough, are you? Here, my man,
lay hold and turn him out.'
'He won't walk, sergeant.'
'Well, what are the butt ends of your muskets for? Come, a tap or two
will do no harm.'
'Grrrooonnn--Grrrooonnn--Grrrooonnn--'
'Go on, give it him well!'
'I say, sergeant,' said one of the men, 'it strikes me he's a _real_
bear. I caught hold of him by the collar just now, and the skin seems
to grow on the flesh.'
'Oh, if he's a real bear treat him with every consideration. His owner
might claim damages. Go and fetch the fireman's lantern.'
'Grrrooonnn.'
'Here's the lantern,' said a man; 'now then, throw some light on the
prisoner.'
The soldier obeyed.
'It is certainly a real snout,' declared the sergeant.
'Goodness gracious me!' shrieked the box-opener as she took to her
heels, 'a real live bear!'
'Well, yes, a real live bear. Let's see if he has any name or address
on him and take him home. I expect he has strayed, and being of a
sociable disposition, came in to the Masked Ball.'
'Grrrooonnn.'
'There, you see, he agrees.'
'Hallo!' exclaimed one of the soldiers.
'What's the matter?'
[Illustration: TOM DISCOVERED IN THE BOX]
'He has a little bag hung round his neck.'
'Open the bag.'
'A card.'
'Read the card.'
The soldier took it and read:
'My name is Tom. I live at No. 109 Rue Faubourg St.-Denis. I have
five francs in my purse. Two for a cab, and three for whoever takes me
home.'
'True enough; there are the five francs,' cried the sergeant. 'Now
then, two volunteers for escort duty.'
'Here!' cried the guard in chorus.
'Don't all speak at once! Let the two seniors have the benefit of the
job; off with you, my lads.'
Two of the municipal guards advanced towards Tom, slipped a rope round
his neck and, for precaution's sake, gave it a twist or two round his
snout. Tom offered no resistance--the butt ends of the muskets had
made him as supple as a glove. When they were fifty yards from the
theatre, 'Bah!' said one of the soldiers, ''tis a fine morning.
Suppose we don't take a cab. The walk will do him good.'
'Besides,' remarked the other, 'we should each have two and a half
francs instead of only one and a half.'
'Agreed.'
Half an hour later they stood at the door of 109. After some knocking,
a very sleepy portress looked out.
'Look here, Mother Wideawake,' said one of the guard; 'here's one of
your lodgers. Do you recognise him?'
'Why, I should rather think so. It's Monsieur Decamps' bear!'
The same day, Odry the actor received a bill for little cakes,
amounting to seven francs and a half.
_SAI THE PANTHER_
From Loudon's _Magazine of Natural History_.
About seventy or eighty years ago two little panthers were deserted by
their mother in one of the forests of Ashantee. They were too young to
get food for themselves, and would probably have died had they not
been found by a passing traveller, and by him taken to the palace as a
present to the king. Here they lived and played happily for several
weeks, when one day the elder and larger, whose name was Sai, gave his
brother, in fun, such a dreadful squeeze that, without meaning it, he
suffocated him. This frightened the king, who did not care to keep
such a powerful pet about him, and he gave him away to Mr. Hutchison,
an English gentleman, who was a sort of governor for the English
traders settled in that part of Africa.
Mr. Hutchison and Sai took a great fancy to each other, and spent a
great deal of time together, and when, a few months later, Mr.
Hutchison returned to Cape Coast he brought Sai with him. The two
friends always had dinner at the same time, Sai sitting at his
master's side and eating quietly whatever was given him. In general he
was quite content with his portion, but once or twice, when he was
hungrier than usual, he managed to steal a fowl out of the dish. For
the sake of his manners the fowl was always taken from him, although
he was invariably given some other food to satisfy his hunger.
At first the inhabitants of the castle and the children were much
afraid of him, but he soon became very tame, and his teeth and claws
were filed so that he should not hurt anyone, even in play. When he
got a little accustomed to the place, he was allowed to go where he
liked within the castle grounds, and a boy was told off to look after
him. Sometimes the boy would go to sleep when he ought to have been
watching his charge, and then Sai, who knew perfectly well that this
was not at all right, would steal quietly away and amuse himself till
he thought his keeper would be awake again. One day, when he returned
from his wanderings, he found the boy, as usual, comfortably curled up
in a cool corner of the doorstep sound asleep. Sai looked at him for a
moment, and then, thinking that it was full time for him to be taught
his duty, he gave him one pat on his head, which sent the boy over
like a ninepin and gave him a good fright, though it did not do him
any harm.
Sai was very popular with everybody, but he had his own favourites,
and the chief of these was the governor, whom he could not bear to let
out of his sight. When his master went out he would station himself at
the drawing-room window, where he could watch all that was going on,
and catch the first sight of his returning friend. Being by this time
nearly grown up, Sai's great body took up all the space, to the great
disgust of the children, who could see nothing. They tried to make him
move, first by coaxings and then by threats, but as Sai did not pay
the smallest attention to either one or the other, they at last all
took hold of his tail and pulled so hard that he was forced to move.
[Illustration: 'THEY AT LAST ALL TOOK HOLD OF HIS TAIL']
Strange to say, the black people were a great deal more afraid of Sai
than any of the white ones, and one of his pranks nearly caused the
death of an old woman who was the object of it. It was her business to
sweep out and keep clean the great hall of the castle, and one morning
she was crouching down on all fours with a short broom in her hand,
thinking of nothing but how to get the dust out of the floor, when
Sai, who had hidden himself under a sofa, and was biding his time,
suddenly sprang on to her back, where he stood triumphantly. The old
woman believed her last hour had come, and the other servants all ran
away shrieking, lest it should be their turn next. Sai would not
budge from his position till the governor, who had been alarmed by the
terrible noise, came to see what was the matter, and soon made Master
Sai behave himself.
[Illustration: TERROR OF THE ORANG-OUTANG AT SAI]
At this time it was settled that Sai was to travel to England under
the care of one of his Cape Coast friends and be presented to the
Duchess of York, who was very fond of animals. In those days, of
course, journeys took much longer than they do now, and there were
other dangers than any which might arise from storms and tempests.
While the strong cage of wood and iron was being built which was to
form Sai's house on the way to England, his lady keeper thought it
would be a good opportunity to make friends with him, and used to
spend part of every day talking to him and playing with him; for this,
as everyone knows, is the only way to gain the affection of bird or
beast. It was very easy to love Sai; he was so gentle and caressing,
especially with children; and he was very handsome besides in his
silky yellow coat with black spots, which, as the French say, does not
spoil anything. Many creatures and many men might have made a great
fuss at being shut into a cage instead of being allowed to walk about
their own house and grounds, but everyone had always been kind to Sai,
so he took for granted it was all right, and made himself as
comfortable as he could, and was quite prepared to submit to anything
disagreeable that he thought reasonable. But it very nearly happened
that poor Sai had no voyage at all, for while he was being hauled from
the canoe which had brought him from the shore into the ship, the men
were so afraid to come near him that they let his cage fall into the
sea, and if the sailors from the vessel had not been very quick in
lowering a boat it would have been too late to save him. As it was,
for many days he would not look up or eat or speak, and his friend was
quite unhappy about him, although the same symptoms have sometimes
been shown by human beings who have only been _on_ the sea instead of
_in_ it. At last he was roused from his sad condition by hearing the
lady's voice. He raised his head and cocked his ears, first a little,
then more; and when she came up to the cage he rolled over and over
with delight, and howled and cried and tried to reach her. When he got
a little calmer she told him to put his paws through the bars and
shake hands, and from that moment Sai was himself again.
Now it was a very strange taste on the part of a panther whose fathers
and grandfathers had lived and died in the heart of African forests,
but Sai loved nothing so much as lavender water, which white people
use a great deal in hot countries. If anyone took out a handkerchief
which had been sprinkled with lavender water, Sai would instantly
snatch it away, and in his delight would handle it so roughly that it
was soon torn to atoms. His friend in charge knew of this odd fancy,
and on the voyage she amused herself regularly twice a week with
making a little cup of paper, which she filled with the scent and
passed through the bars, taking care never to give it him till he had
drawn back his claws into their sheaths. Directly he got hold of the
cup Sai would roll over and over it, and would pay no attention to
anyone as long as the smell lasted. It almost seemed as if he liked it
better than his food!
For some reason or other the vessel lay at anchor for nearly two
months in the river Gaboon, and Sai might have been allowed to leave
his cage if he had not been an animal of such very strong prejudices.
Black people he could not endure, and, of course, they came daily in
swarms with food for the ship. Pigs, too, he hated, and they ran
constantly past his cage, while as for an orang-outang monkey about
three feet high, which a black trader once tried to sell to the
sailors, Sai showed such mad symptoms at the very sight of it that the
poor beast rushed in terror to the other end of the vessel, knocking
down everything that came in its way. If the monkey took some time
to recover from his fright, it was very long before Sai could
forget the shock he had received. Day and night he watched and
listened, and sometimes, when he fancied his enemy was near, he would
give a low growl and arch his back and set up his tail; yet, as far as
we know, he had never from his babyhood killed anything.
[Illustration: SAI HAS TO TAKE A PILL]
But when at last the winds were favourable, and the ship set sail for
the open sea, other adventures were in store for the passengers.
Pirates infested the coast of Africa in those days, and they came on
board and carried off everything of value, including the stores of
provisions. The only things they did not think worth removing were the
parrots, of which three hundred had been brought by the sailors, and
as these birds could not stand the cold, and died off fast as the ship
steered north, Sai was allowed one a day, which just managed to keep
him alive. Still, there is very little nourishment to be got out of a
parrot, especially when you eat it with the feathers on, and Sai soon
became very ill and did not care even for parrots. His keeper felt his
nose and found it dry and feverish, so she begged that she might take
him out of his cage and doctor him herself. A little while before, Sai
would have been enchanted to be free, but now he was too ill to enjoy
anything, and he just stretched himself out on deck, with his head on
his mistress's feet. Luckily she had some fever medicine with her,
good for panthers as well as men and women, and she made up three
large pills which she hoped might cure Sai. Of course it was not to be
expected that he would take them of his own free will, so she got the
boy who looked after him to hold open his mouth, while she pushed down
the pills. Then he was put back into his cage, the boy insisting on
going with him, and both slept comfortably together. In a few days,
with the help of better food than he had been having, he got quite
well, and on his arrival in England won the admiration of the Duchess
of York, his new mistress, by his beauty and gentle ways. As his
country house was not quite ready for him, he was left for a few
weeks with a man who understood animals, and seemed contented and
happy, and was allowed to walk about as he liked. Here the Duchess of
York used constantly to visit him and play with him, even going to see
him the very day before he--and she--were to move into the country. He
was in excellent spirits, and appeared perfectly well, but he must
somehow have taken a chill, for when, on the following day, the
Duchess's coachman came to fetch him, he found poor Sai had died after
a few hours' illness from inflammation of the lungs.
After all he is not so much to be pitied. He had had a very happy
life, with plenty of fun and plenty of kindness, and he had a very
rapid and painless death.
_THE BUZZARD AND THE PRIEST_
Bingley's _Animal Biography_.
About one hundred and forty years ago a French priest received a
present of a large brown and grey bird, which had been taken in a
snare intended for some other creature, and was very wild and savage.
The man who brought it was quite ignorant what kind of bird it was,
but the priest knew it to be the common buzzard, and made up his mind
to try to tame it. He began by keeping it shut up, and allowing it to
take no food except out of his hand, and after about six weeks of this
treatment it grew much quieter, and had learnt to know its master. The
priest then thought it would be safe to give the buzzard a little more
freedom, and after carefully tying its wings, so that it could not fly
away, he turned it out into the garden. Of course it was highly
delighted to find itself in the sun once more, and hopped about with
joy, and the time passed quickly till it began to get hungry, when it
was glad to hear its master calling it to come in to dinner. Indeed,
the bird always seemed so fond of the priest, that in a few days he
thought he might leave it quite free, so he unfastened its wings and
left them loose, merely hanging a label with his own name round its
neck, and putting a little bell round its leg. But what was the poor
man's disgust, to see the buzzard instantly spread out its great wings
and make for the neighbouring forest, deaf to all his calls! He
naturally expected that, in spite of his trouble and precautions, the
bird had flown away for ever, and sat sadly down to prepare his next
day's sermon. Now sermons are things that take up a great deal of
attention, and he had almost forgotten his lost favourite when he was
startled by a tremendous noise in the hall outside his study, and on
opening the door to see what was the matter, he saw his buzzard
rushing about, followed by five others, who were so jealous of its
copper plate and bell, that they had tried to peck them off, and the
poor thing had flown as fast as it could to its master's house, where
it knew it was safe.
After this it took care not to wander too far from home, and came back
every night to sleep on the priest's window sill. Soon it grew bolder
still, and would sit on the corner of the table when he was at dinner,
and now and then would rub his head against his shoulder, uttering a
low cry of affection and pleasure. Sometimes it would even do more,
and follow him for several miles when he happened to be riding.
But the buzzard was not the only pet the priest had to look after.
There were ducks, and chickens, and dogs, and four large cats. The
ducks and chickens it did not mind, at least those that belonged to
the house, and it would even take its bath at the same time with the
ducklings, and never trod upon them when they got in its way, or got
cross and pecked them. And if hawks or any such birds tried to snap up
the little ones who had left their mother's wing to take a peep at the
world, the buzzard would instantly fly to their help, and never once
was beaten in the battle. Curiously enough, however, it seemed to
think it might do as it liked with the fowls and ducks that belonged
to other people, and so many were the complaints of cocks and hens
lamed and killed, that the priest was obliged to let it be known that
he would pay for all such damage, in order to save his favourite's
life. As to dogs and cats, it always got the better of _them_; in any
experiment which it amused the priest to make. One day he threw a
piece of raw meat into the garden where the cats were collected, to
be scrambled for. A young and active puss instantly seized it and ran
away with her prize, with all the other cats after her. But quick as
she was, the buzzard, who had been watching her movements from the
bough of a tree, was quicker still. Down it pounced on her back,
squeezed her sides with its claws, and bit her ears so sharply, that
she was forced to let go. In one moment another cat had picked the
morsel up in its teeth, but it did not hold it long. The process that
had answered for one cat would answer for a second, as the buzzard
very well knew. Down he swooped again, and even when the whole four
cats, who saw in him a common enemy, attacked the bird at once, they
proved no match for him, and in the end they were clever enough to
find that out.
[Illustration: THE CATS NO MATCH FOR THE BUZZARD]
It is not easy to know what buzzards in general think about things,
but this one hated scarlet as much as any bull. Whenever he saw a red
cap on any of the peasants' heads, he would hide himself among the
thick boughs overhanging the road where the man had to pass, and would
nip it off so softly that the peasant never felt his loss. He would
even manage to take off the wigs which every one wore then, and that
was cleverer still, and off he would carry both wigs and caps to a
tall tree in a park near by, and hang them all over it, like a new
kind of fruit.
[Illustration: THE BUZZARD CARRIES OFF HAT AND WIG]
As may be imagined, a bird so bold made many enemies, and was often
shot at by the keepers, but for a long time it appeared to bear a
charmed life, and nothing did it any harm. However, one unlucky day a
keeper who was going his rounds in the forest, and who did not know
what a strange and clever bird this buzzard was, saw him on the back
of a fox which he had attacked for want of something better to do, and
fired two shots at them. One shot killed the fox; the other broke the
wing of the buzzard, but he managed to fly out of reach of the
keeper, and hid himself. Meanwhile the tinkling of the bell made the
keeper guess that this must be the priest's pet, of which he had so
often heard; and being anxious to do what he could to repair the
damage he had done, he at once told the priest what had happened. The
priest went out directly to the forest, and gave his usual whistle,
but neither on that evening nor on several others was there any reply.
At last on the seventh night he heard a low answer, and on searching
narrowly all through the wood, the priest found the poor buzzard,
which had hopped nearly two miles towards its old home, dragging its
broken wing after it. The bird was very thin, but was enchanted to see
his old master, who carried him home and nursed him for six weeks,
when he got quite well, and was able to fly about as boldly as ever.
_COWPER AND HIS HARES_
From Bingley's _British Quadrupeds_.
No one was fonder of animals, or kinder to them, than Cowper the poet,
who lived towards the end of the last century; but of all creatures he
loved hares best, perhaps because he, like them, was timid and easily
frightened. He has left a very interesting account of three hares that
were given to him when he was living in the country in the year 1774,
and as far as possible the poet shall tell his own story of the
friendship between himself and his pets--Puss, Tiney, and Bess, as he
called them.
Cowper was not at all a strong man, and suffered terribly from fits of
low spirits, and at these times he could not read, and disliked the
company of people, who teased him by giving him advice or asking him
questions. It was during one of these seasons of solitude and
melancholy that he noticed a poor little hare belonging to the
children of one of his neighbours, who, without meaning really to be
unkind, had worried the little thing almost to death. Soon they got
tired even of playing with it, and the poor hare was in danger of
being starved to death, when their father, whose heart was more tender
than theirs, proposed that it should be given to their neighbour Mr.
Cowper.
Now Cowper, besides feeling pity for the poor little creature, felt
that he should like to teach and train it, and as just then he was too
unhappy to care for his usual occupations, he gladly accepted the
present. In a very short time Puss was given two companions, Tiney
and Bess, and could have had dozens more if Cowper had wanted them,
for the villagers offered to catch him enough to have filled the whole
countryside if he would only give the order.
However, Cowper decided that three would be ample for his purposes,
and as he wished them to learn nice clean habits, he began with his
own hands to build them a house. The house contained a large hall and
three bedrooms, each with a separate bed, and it was astonishing how
soon every hare knew its own bedroom, and how careful he was (for in
spite of their names they were all males) never to go into those of
his friends.
Very soon all three made themselves much at home in their comfortable
quarters, and Puss, the first comer, would jump on his master's lap
and, standing up on his hind legs, would bite the hair on his temples.
He enjoyed being carried about like a baby, and would even go to sleep
in Cowper's arms, which is a very strange thing for a hare to do. Once
Puss got ill, and then the poet took care to keep him apart from the
other two, for animals have a horror of their sick companions, and are
generally very unkind to them. So he nursed Puss himself, and gave him
all sorts of herbs and grasses as medicine, and at last Puss began to
get better, and took notice of what was going on round him. When he
was strong enough to take his first little walk, his pleasure knew no
bounds; and in token of his gratitude he licked his master's hand,
first back, then front, and then between every finger. As soon as he
felt himself quite strong again, he went with the poet every day,
after breakfast, into the garden, where he lay all the morning under a
trailing cucumber, sometimes asleep, but every now and then eating a
leaf or two by way of luncheon. If the poet was ever later than usual
in leaving the house, Puss would down on his knees and look up into
his eyes with a pleading expression, or, if these means failed, he
would seize his master's coat between his teeth, and pull as hard as
he could towards the window. Puss was, perhaps, the pleasantest of all
the hares, but Bess, who died young, was the cleverest and most
amusing. He had his little tempers, and when he was not feeling very
well, he was glad to be petted and made much of; but no sooner had he
recovered than he resented any little attentions, and would growl and
run away or even bite if you attempted to touch him. It was impossible
really to tame Tiney, but there was something so serious and solemn in
all he did, that it made you laugh even to watch him.
Bess, the third, was very different from the other two. He did not
need taming, for he was tame from the beginning, as it never entered
into his head that anyone could be unkind to him. In many things he
had the same tastes as his friends. All three loved lettuces,
dandelions, and oats; and every night little dishes were placed in
their bedrooms, in case they might feel hungry. One day their master
was clearing out a birdcage while his three hares were sitting by, and
he placed on the floor a pot containing some white sand, such as birds
use instead of a carpet. The moment they saw the sand, they made a
rush for it and ate it up greedily. Cowper took the hint, and always
saw, after that, that sand was placed where the hares could get at it.
After supper they all spent the evenings in the parlour, and would
tumble over together, and jump over each other's backs, and see which
could spring the farthest, just like a set of kittens. But the
cleverest of them all was Bess, and he was also the strongest.
Poor Bess! he was the first to die, soon after he was grown up, and
Tiney and Puss had to get on as best they could without him, which was
not half as much fun. There was no one now to invent queer games, or
to keep the cat in order when it tried to take liberties; and no one,
too, to prevent Tiney from bullying Puss, as he was rather fond of
doing. Tiney lived to be nine, quite a respectable age for a hare, and
died at last from the effects of a fall. Puss went on for another
three years, and showed no signs of decay, except that he was a little
less playful, which was only to be expected. His last act was to make
friends with a dog called Marquis, to whom he was introduced by his
master; and though the spaniel could not take the place of Puss's
early companions, he was better than nobody, and the two got on quite
happily together, till the sad day (March 9, 1796) when Puss stretched
himself at his master's feet and died peacefully and without pain,
aged eleven years and eleven months.
_A RAT TALE_
Huggy was an old rat when he died--very old indeed. He was born in the
middle of a corn-rick, and there he might have lived his little life
had not the farmer who owned the rick caused it to be pulled down.
That was Huggy's first experience of flitting, and it was done in such
a hurry that he had hardly time to be sorry. It was pitch dark when
his mother shook him up roughly and told him to 'come along, or he
would be killed by the farmer,' and poor Huggy, blinking his sleepy
eyes, struggled out of his snug little bed into the cold black night.
Several old rats met him at the entrance, and sternly bade him stay
where he was and make no noise, for the leader was about to speak.
Huggy was wide-awake by this time. The rat spirit of adventure was
roused within him by the scent of coming danger, and eagerly he
listened to the shrill, clear voice of the leader:
'Friends, old and young, this is not a time for many words, but I want
you all to know the cause of this sudden disturbance. Last night I was
scavenging round the farmer's kitchen, seeking what I might devour,
when in came the stable-boy tapping an empty corn-sieve which he had
in his hand. He said a few words to the farmer, who rose hastily, and
together they left the kitchen, I following at a convenient distance.
They went straight to the stable, and talked for some time with their
backs to the corn-bin, which was standing open in the window. After a
while I managed to scramble up and peer into it, only to confirm what
I dreaded most--the corn-bin was empty! To-morrow they will pull down
this rick, thresh the corn, and replenish the empty bin. So, my
friends, unless we mean to die by dog, stick, or fork, we had better
be off as soon as it is daylight.'
There was a shuffle of feet all round, and a general rush of anxious
mothers into the rick to fetch out their young. Huggy was waiting at
the entrance; so, as soon as he caught sight of his mother, he raced
off with her to join the fast-assembling crowd at the back of the
rick. The leader ranged them in lines of ten abreast, and, after
walking up and down to see that all were in their places, he gave a
shrill squeak, and the column started. They marched steadily for about
two miles--slowly, of course, because of the young ones. Nothing
proved an obstacle to them. Sometimes a high wall crossed their path,
but they merely ran up one side and down the other, as if it was level
road. Sometimes it was a broad river which confronted them, but that
they swam without hesitation--rats will not stop at such trifles.
At length they came to a field where a man with a pair of horses was
ploughing. His coat, in which his dinner was wrapt, lay on the wall
some little distance from him. Seeing such a number of rats, he left
his horses and ran for his life, and hid behind a knoll, whence he
could view the proceedings without himself being seen. To his great
disgust, he saw the creatures first crowd round his coat, then run
over it, and finally eat out of his pocket the bread and cheese his
wife had provided for his dinner!
That was a stroke of luck for the rats. They had not counted on so
early a breakfast; so it was with lightsome hearts they performed the
rest of their journey.
Huggy was very glad when it was over. He had never been so far in his
life--he was only three weeks old. Their new home proved to be a
cellar, which communicated on one side with sundry pipes running
straight to the kitchen, and on the other with a large ventilator
opening to the outside air. A paradise for rats! and as to the
inhabitants of the house--we shall see.
It was early in the afternoon when they arrived, so they had plenty of
time to settle down before night. Huggy, having selected his corner,
left his mother to make it comfortable for him, and scampered off for
'a poke round,' as he called it. First he went to the kitchen, peeped
up through a hole in the floor, and, seeing no one about, cautiously
crept out and sniffed into all the cupboards. As he was emerging from
the last he beheld a sight which made his little heart turn sick.
There, in a corner which Huggy had not noticed before, lay a huge dog
half asleep! And so great was Huggy's fright that he squeaked, very
faintly indeed, yet loud enough to set Master Dog upon his feet. Next
minute they were both tearing across the kitchen. Huggy was a wee bit
in front, but so little that he could feel the dog's hot breath behind
him. There was the hole--bump--scrabble, scrabble--Huggy was safe!
Safe! yes--but oh, so frightened!--and what made him smart so
dreadfully? Why, his tail ... was gone--bitten off by the dog! Ah,
Huggy, my poor little rat, if it had not been for that foolish little
squeak of fright you might have been as other rats are--but now! Huggy
almost squeaked again, it was so very sad--and painful. Slowly he
crept back to the cellar, where he had to endure the jeers of his
young companions and the good advice of his elders.
[Illustration: 'SEEING SUCH A NUMBER OF RATS, HE LEFT HIS HORSES AND
RAN FOR HIS LIFE']
It was some weeks before Huggy fully recovered himself, and more weeks
still before he could screw up his courage to appear among his
companions as the 'tailless rat;' but at long and at last he did crawl
out, and, because he looked so shy and frightened, the other rats were
merciful, and let him alone. The old rat, too--the leader--took a
great fancy to him, and used to allow Huggy to accompany him on his
various exploits, which was considered a great privilege among the
older rats, and Huggy was very proud of it. One night he and the
leader were out together, when their walk happened to take them (as it
generally did) round by the pantry. As a matter of course, they went
in, and had a good meal off a loaf which the careless table-maid had
left standing on the shelf. Beside the loaf was a box of matches, and
Huggy could not be happy till he had found out what was inside. First
he gnawed the box a little, then he dragged it up and down, then he
gnawed a little more, and, finding it was not very good to eat, he
began to play with it. Suddenly, without any warning, there was a
splutter and a flare. Huggy and the leader were outside in a
twinkling, leaving the pantry in a blaze. Luckily no great damage was
done, for the flames were seen and put out in time.
So, little by little, Huggy was led on. In vain did his mother plead
with him to be careful. He was 'a big rat now, and could look after
himself,' he said. The following week the leader organised a party to
invade the hen-house. Of course Huggy was among the number chosen. It
required no little skill to creep noiselessly up the broken ladder,
visiting the various nests ranged along each side of the walls; for
laying hens are nervous ladies, and, if startled, make enough noise to
waken a town. But the leader had selected his party well, and not a
sound was made till the proper time came. Once up the ladder, each rat
took it in turn to slip in behind the hen, and gently roll one egg at
a time from under her. The poor birds rarely resisted; experience had
taught them long since the futility of such conduct. It was the young
and ignorant fowls who gave all the trouble; they fluttered about in a
fright and disturbed the whole house. But the rats knew pretty well
which to go to; so they worked on without interruption. When they had
collected about a dozen eggs, the next move was to take them safely
down the ladder into the cellar. This was very soon done. Huggy lay
down on his back, nestled an egg cosily between himself and his two
front paws; a feather was put through his mouth, by which means a rat
on either side dragged him along. Huggy found it rather rough on his
back going down the ladder, but, with a good supper in view, he could
bear most things. The eggs having been brought thus to the level of
the ground, the rats dragged them in the same way slowly and carefully
down to the cellar.
So time went on. Night after night parties of rats went out, and each
morning they returned with tales of adventure and cunning--all more or
less daring. But the leader was getting old. Huggy had noticed for
some time how grey and feeble he was becoming; nor was he much
surprised when, one day, the leader told him that he (Huggy) would
have to take his place as leader of the rats. Two days after this the
old rat died, leaving Huggy to succeed him; and a fine lot of scrapes
did that rat and his followers get into.
The larder was their favourite haunt, where joints of meat were hung
on hooks 'quite out o' reach o' them rats,' as the cook said. But
Huggy thought differently, and in a trice ten large rats had run up
the wall and down the hook, and were gobbling the meat as fast as they
could. But there was one hook in the centre of the ceiling which Huggy
could not reach; from this hook a nice fat duck was suspended by a
string. 'If only I could get on to that hook I should gnaw the string,
and the duck would fall, and----'
Huggy got no further. An idea had come to him which he communicated
quickly to the others. The plan seemed to be appreciated, for they all
ran to an old chair, which was standing just under this difficult
centre hook. The strongest rat went first, climbed up the back of the
chair, and balanced himself on the top; Number 2 followed, and
carefully balanced on Number 1; Number 1 then squeaked, which meant he
could bear no more. It was a pity he could not stand _one_ more; for,
as they were, the topmost rat could just reach the prize, and though
he nibbled all round as far as he could, it was not what might be
called 'a square meal.' The cook was indeed amazed when, next morning,
she found only three-fourths of her precious duck remaining. 'Ah!' she
said, 'I'll be even with you yet, you cunning beasts!' And that night
she sliced up part of a duck with some cheese, and put it in a plate
on the larder floor. At his usual hour, when all was dark and quiet,
Huggy and his followers arrived, and, seeing their much-coveted prize
under their very noses, were cautious. But Huggy was up to the trick.
'To-night and to-morrow night you may eat it,' he said, 'but beware of
the third.' So they partook of the duck, and enjoyed it that night and
the next, but the third the dish was left untouched.
[Illustration: {THE RATS IN THE LARDER}]
The cook was up betimes that morning, so that she might bury the
corpses before breakfast. Her dog (the same who had robbed Huggy of
his tail), according to his custom, followed her into the larder. On
seeing the plate just as she had left it the night before, the cook,
in her astonishment, forgot the dog, who, finding no one gainsay him,
licked the dish with infinite relish. Poor dog! In spite of all
efforts to save him he died ten minutes afterwards; and the cook
learnt her lesson also, for she never tried poisoning rats again.
Here end the chief events of Huggy's life--all, at least, that are
worth recording.
Some years after the death of the dog I was sitting in the gloaming
close to a steep path which led from the cellar down to the river,
when what should I see but three large rats coming slowly towards me.
The middle one was the largest, and evidently blind, for he had in his
mouth a long straw, by which the other two led him carefully down the
path. As the trio passed I recognised the centre one to be Huggy the
Tailless.
Next morning my little Irish terrier, Jick, brought him to me in his
mouth, dead; and I buried him under a Gloire de Dijon in a sunny
corner of the garden.
* * * * *
Fantastic as some of the incidents may sound, they are, nevertheless,
true, having been collected mainly from an old rat-catcher living in
the town of Hawick.
_SNAKE STORIES_
In 1850 Baron de Wogan, a French gentleman, left his native land and
set sail for North America, to seek his fortune and adventures. He was
descended from two noble adventurers, the Wogan who led a cavalry
troop from Dover to the Highlands, to fight for Charles II., and the
Wogan who rescued Queen Clementina, wife of James III., from prison in
Innspruck. In 1850 adventures, wild beasts, and Red Indians were more
plentiful than now, and Wogan had some narrow escapes from snakes and
bears. Soon after coming to North America he had his first adventure
with a rattlesnake; he was then camping at the gold fields of
California, seeking for gold in order to have money enough to start on
his voyages of discovery. His house was a log hut, built by himself,
and his bed a sack filled with dry oak leaves.
One day, finding that his mattress required renewing, he went out with
the sack and his gun. Having filled the sack with leaves, he went off
with his gun in search of game for his larder, and only came home at
nightfall. After having cooked and eaten his supper, he threw himself
on his new mattress, and soon was asleep. He awoke about three, and
would soon have fallen asleep again, but he felt something moving in
the sack. His first thought was that it was a rat, but he soon felt by
the way it moved that it was no quadruped, but a reptile, no rat, but
a snake! He must have put it in the sack with the leaves, as might
easily happen in winter when these creatures are torpid from the cold,
and sleep all curled up. With one leap the Baron was out of its
reach, but wishing to examine it more closely, he took his gun to
protect him in case of danger, and came near the bed again; but the
ungrateful beast, forgetting that they had been bedfellows, threw
itself on the gun and began to bite the muzzle. Fearing that it might
turn and bite him next the Baron pulled the trigger, and hitting the
serpent, literally cut it in two. It measured two feet long, and when
the Baron cut off its tail, he found a quantity of scales which made
the rattling sound from which this serpent gets its name.
[Illustration: THE BARON KILLS THE SNAKE]
As soon as the Baron had found enough gold, he bought a mule whom he
called Cadi, and whom he became very fond of, and set off into the
backwoods in search of sport and adventure. (Poor Cadi eventually met
a terrible end, but that is a Bear story.) He soon added another
companion, a young Indian girl, Calooa by name. She was the daughter
of a chief of the Utah tribe, and had been taken prisoner, with
several other women, by a tribe of hostile Indians whom the Baron fell
in with. She would have been tortured and then burnt with the other
prisoners had the Baron not saved her life by buying her for a silk
handkerchief, a knife and fork, and some coloured pictures. She
wandered with him and shared all his adventures, till she was found
again by her tribe and taken back to them. One hot day they had been
marching together about thirty miles through a country infested with
panthers and pumas. The Baron was heading the little procession, when
suddenly a cry from Calooa that she only used in moments of danger
made him turn round. Then he saw that what he had taken to be a huge
rotten branch of a tree, and had even thought of taking with him for
their camp fire, that evening, was in reality an enormous serpent. It
lay across the path asleep, its head resting on the trunk of a tree.
The Baron raised his gun to his shoulder, and came nearer the monster
to get a good aim. He fired, but missed. The horrid creature reared
itself nearly on end and looked at him with that fixed stare by which
the serpent fascinates and paralyses its victim. The Baron felt all
the fascination, but conquering it, he fired a second time, and this
time wounded the creature without killing it outright. Though mortally
wounded, the snake's dying struggles were so violent that the young
trees all round were levelled as if they had been cut with a scythe.
As soon as they were sure that life was extinct, Calooa and the Baron
came nearer to examine the snake's dead body. Though part of his tail
was missing, he measured nevertheless five yards long and eighteen
inches round. Thinking that it seemed of unusual girth, the Baron cut
it open with an axe, and found inside the body of a young prairie
wolf, probably about a week old. The peculiarity of this snake was
that it gave out a strong odour of musk, like the sea serpent in Mr.
Kipling's book.
[Illustration: {THE BARON SLAYS THE HORNED SNAKE}]
The most horrible serpent that the Baron encountered and slew was the
horned snake; he learned afterwards from the Indians that it is the
most deadly of all the snakes of North America, for not only is its
bite venomous, but its tail has a sting which contains the same
poison. It crawls like other snakes, but when it attacks it forms
itself into a circle, and then suddenly unbending itself flings itself
like a lion on its victim, head forward and tail raised, thus
attacking with both ends at once. If by chance it misses its aim and
its tail strikes a young tree and penetrates the bark, that tree
immediately begins to droop, and before long withers and dies. On the
occasion when the Baron encountered it, Calooa and he had been fleeing
all night fearing an attack of hostile Indians. About daylight they
ventured to stop to take rest and food. While Calooa lit the fire the
Baron took his gun and went in search of game. In about half an hour
he returned with a wild turkey. When they had cooked and eaten it, he
lay down and fell asleep, but had only slept two hours when he awoke,
feeling his hand touched. It was Calooa, who woke him with a
terror-stricken face. Looking in the direction she pointed, he saw
about fifty yards away an enormous horned snake wound round a branch
of sassafras. It was lying in wait for a poor little squirrel, that
cowered in the hollow of an oak. As soon as the squirrel dared to show
even the tip of its nose, the serpent flung itself at it, but in vain,
as its great head could not get into the hole.
[Illustration: HOW THE INDIANS MAKE THE HORNED SNAKE DISGORGE HIS
DINNER]
'Fortunately,' the Baron says, 'my gun was by my side. I rose and went
to the rescue of the defenceless little creature. When the serpent saw
me he knew he had another sort of enemy to deal with, and hissing
furiously hurled himself in my direction, though without quitting his
branch. I stopped and took aim. The serpent evidently understood my
attitude perfectly, for unwinding himself he began to crawl with all
his speed towards me. Between us there was fortunately an obstacle, a
fallen chestnut tree; to reach me he must either climb over it or go
round, and he was too furious to put up with any delay. Ten paces from
the tree I waited for him to appear, one knee on the ground, my gun at
my shoulder, and the other elbow resting on my knee to steady my aim.
At last I saw his horrid head appear above the fallen tree, at the
same moment I fired, and the ball pierced his head through and
through, though without instantly killing him. Quick as lightning he
wound himself round a branch, lashing out with his tail in all
directions. It was his dying struggle; slowly his fury subsided, and
uncoiling himself he fell dead alongside the tree. I measured him and
found he was eight feet long, and seven or eight inches round. He was
dark brown, and his head had two horns, or rather hard knobs. Wishing
to carry away some souvenir to remember him by when I should be at
home again in France, I tried to cut off his horns, but found it
impossible. Out of curiosity I then took an axe and cut him open, when
I found inside a little bird, dazed but living. Presently it revived
and began to flutter about, and soon flew away among the bushes and
was lost to sight. I did not then know that this is a common
occurrence, and that when the Indians find a serpent asleep, as is
generally the case after the creature has gorged itself, they hit it
on the head with a stick, which makes it throw up what it has
swallowed whole, and its victims are often still living.'
Calooa on one occasion had a narrow escape. She had put her hand into
a hollow in a branch of a cherry-tree where was a blue jay's nest, to
take eggs as she thought. Hardly had she put in her hand when she
screamed with pain; a rattlesnake that had taken possession of the
nest had stung her. The Baron, much alarmed, expected to see Calooa
die before his eyes. He did not know of the remedy the Indians use for
snake bites. Calooa herself was quite undisturbed, and hunted about
among the bushes till she found the plant she knew of, then crushing
some of the leaves between two stones, she applied them to the bite,
and in a couple of hours was completely cured.
Besides these snakes the Baron learned from the Indians that there is
another even more dangerous, not from its sting, which is not
poisonous, but because it winds itself round its victim, and strangles
him to death. Fortunately the Baron never met one, or he would
probably not have lived to tell his snake stories.
_WHAT ELEPHANTS CAN DO_
Long, long ago the earth was very different from what it is now, and
was covered with huge forests made up of enormous trees, and in these
forests there roamed immense beasts, whose skeletons may sometimes be
seen in our museums.
Of all these beasts there is only one remaining, and that is the
elephant. Now the elephant is so big and shapeless that he makes one
think he has been turned out by a child who did not know how to finish
his work properly. He seems to need some feet badly and to want
pinching about his body. He would also be the better for a more
imposing tail; but such as he is, the elephant is more useful and
interesting than many creatures of ten times his beauty. Large and
clumsy though he may be, he alone of all animals has 'between his eyes
a serpent for a hand,' and he turns his trunk to better account than
most men do their two hands.
Ever since we first read about elephants in history they were just the
same as they are now. They have not learnt, from associating with men,
fresh habits which they hand down from father to son; each elephant,
quick though he is to learn, has to be taught everything over again.
Yet there is no beast who has lived in such unbroken contact with man
for so many thousands of years. We do not know when he first began to
be distinguished for his qualities from the other wild animals, but as
far back as we can trace the sculptures which adorn the Indian temples
the elephant has a place. Several hundred years before Christ, the
Greek traveller Herodotus was passing through Babylon and found a
large number of elephants employed in the daily life of the city, and
from time to time we catch glimpses of them in Eastern warfare, though
it was not till the third century B.C. that they were introduced into
Europe by Alexander the Great. The Mediterranean nations were quick to
see the immense profit to which the elephant could be put, both in
respect to the great weights he could carry, and also for his
extraordinary teachableness. In India at the present day he performs
all kinds of varied duties, and many are the stories told about his
cleverness, for he is the only animal that can be taught to push as
well as pull.
Most of us have seen elephants trained to perform in a circus, and
there is something rather sad in watching their great clumsy bodies
gambolling about in a way that is unnatural as well as ungraceful. But
there is no question as to the amount that elephants can be taught,
particularly by kindness, or how skilfully they will revenge
themselves for any ill-treatment.
In the early part of this century an elephant was sent by a lady in
India as a present to the Duke of Devonshire, who had a large villa at
Chiswick.
This lucky captive had a roomy house of its own, built expressly for
it in the park, a field to walk about in, and a keeper to look after
it, and to do a little light gardening besides. This man treated the
elephant (a female) with great kindness, and they soon became the best
of friends. The moment he called out she stopped, and at his bidding
would take a broom in her trunk and sweep the dead leaves off the
grass; after which she would carefully carry after him a large pail of
water for him to re-fill his watering pot--for in those days the
garden-hose was not invented. When the tidying up was all done, the
elephant was given a carrot and some of the water, but very often the
keeper would amuse himself with handing her a soda-water bottle
tightly corked, and telling her to empty it. This she did by placing
the bottle in an inclined position on the ground and holding it at the
proper angle with her foot, while she twisted the cork out with her
trunk. This accomplished, she would empty all the water into her trunk
without spilling a drop, and then hand the bottle back to her keeper.
In India small children are often given into the charge of an
elephant, and it is wonderful to see what care the animals take of
them. One elephant took such a fancy to a small baby, that it used to
stand over its cradle, and drive away the flies that teased it while
it slept. When it grew restless the elephant would rock the cradle, or
gently lift it to the floor and let it crawl about between its legs,
till the child at last declined to take any food unless her friend was
by to see her eat it.
Amazing tales have been told of what elephants can be trained to do,
but none is stranger than a story related by a missionary named
Caunter, about some wild elephants in Ceylon. Some native soldiers who
had been set to guard a large storehouse containing rice, were
suddenly ordered off to put down a rising in a village a little
distance away. Hardly were their backs turned when a wild elephant was
seen advancing to the storehouse, which was situated in a lonely
place, and after walking carefully round it, he returned whence he
came. In a short time he was noticed advancing for the second time,
accompanied by a whole herd of elephants, all marching in an orderly
and military manner.
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT HELPS THE GARDENER]
Now in order to secure the granary as much as possible, the only
entrance had been made in the roof, and had to be reached by a ladder.
This was soon found out by the elephants, who examined the whole
building attentively, and being baffled in their designs, retired to
consult as to what they should do next. Finally one of the largest
among them began to attack one of the corners with his tusks, and some
of the others followed his example. When the first relay was tired
out, another set took its place, but all their efforts seemed
useless; the building was too strong for them. At length a third
elephant came forward and attacked the place at which the others had
laboured with such ill-success, and, by a prodigious effort, he
managed to loosen one brick. After this it did not take long to dig a
hole big enough to let the whole herd pass through, and soon the two
spectators, hidden in a banyan-tree, saw little companies of three or
four enter the granary and take their fill of rice until they all were
satisfied. The last batch were still eating busily, when a shrill
noise from the sentinel they had set on guard caused them to rush out.
From afar they could perceive the white dress of the soldiers who had
subdued the unruly villagers and were returning to their post, and the
elephants, trunks in air, took refuge in the jungle, and only wagged
their tails mockingly at the bullets sent after them by the
discomfited soldiers.
_THE DOG OF MONTARGIS_
For three days Aubrey de Montdidier had not been seen by his friends
and comrades in arms. On Sunday morning he had attended mass in the
Church of Our Lady, but it was noticed that in the afternoon he was
absent from the great tournament which was held at Saint Katherine's.
This astonished his friend the young Sieur de Narsac, who had
appointed to meet him there, that they might watch together the
encounter between a Burgundian knight and a gentleman from Provence,
both renowned in tilting, who were to meet together for the first time
that day in Paris. It was unlike Aubrey to fail to be present on such
an occasion, and when for three successive days he did not appear at
his accustomed haunts, his friends grew anxious, and began to question
among themselves whether some accident might not have befallen him.
Early on the morning of the fourth day De Narsac was awakened by a
continuous sound, as of something scratching against his door.
Starting up to listen, he heard, in the intervals of the scratching, a
low whine, as of a dog in pain. Thoroughly aroused, he got up and
opened the door. Stretched before it, apparently too weak to stand,
was a great, gaunt greyhound, spent with exhaustion and hunger. His
ribs stood out like the bars of a gridiron beneath his smooth coat;
his tongue hung down between his jaws, parched and stiff; his eyes
were bloodshot, and he trembled in every limb.
[Illustration: DE NARSAC RECOGNISES HIS FRIEND'S DOG]
On seeing De Narsac the poor creature struggled to his feet, feebly
wagged his tail, and thrust his nose into the young man's hands. Then
only did De Narsac recognise in the half-starved skeleton before him
the favourite dog and constant companion of his friend, Aubrey de
Montdidier. It was clear from the poor animal's emaciated appearance
that it was in the last stage of exhaustion. Summoning his servant, De
Narsac ordered food and water to be brought at once, and the dog
devoured the huge meal set before it. From his starved appearance, and
from the voracity with which he devoured the food set before him, it
was evident that he had had nothing to eat for some days. No sooner
was his hunger appeased than he began to move uneasily about the room.
Uttering low howls of distress from time to time, he approached the
door; then, returning to De Narsac's side, he looked up in his face
and gently tugged at his mantle, as if to attract attention. There was
something at once so appealing and peculiar in the dog's behaviour
that De Narsac's curiosity was aroused, and he became convinced that
there was some connection between the dog's starved appearance and
strange manner and the unaccountable disappearance of his master.
Perhaps the dog might supply the clue to Aubrey's place of
concealment. Watching the dog's behaviour closely, De Narsac became
aware that the dumb beast was inviting him to accompany him.
Accordingly he yielded to the dog's apparent wish, and, leaving the
house, followed him out into the streets of Paris.
Looking round from time to time to see that De Narsac was coming after
him, the greyhound pursued its way through the narrow, tortuous
streets of the ancient city, over the Bridge, and out by the Porte
St.-Martin, into the open country outside the gates of the town. Then,
continuing on its track, the dog headed for the Forest of Bondy, a
place of evil fame in those far-off days, as its solitudes were known
to be infested by bands of robbers. Stopping suddenly in a deep and
densely wooded glade of the wood, the dog uttered a succession of low,
angry growls; then, tugging at De Narsac's mantle, it led him to some
freshly turned-up earth, beneath a wide-spreading oak-tree. With a
piteous whine the dog stretched himself on the spot, and could not be
induced by De Narsac to follow him back to Paris, where he straightway
betook himself, as he at once suspected foul play. A few hours later
a party of men, guided to the spot by the young Sieur de Narsac,
removed the earth and dead leaves and ferns from the hole into which
they had been hastily flung, and discovered the murdered body of
Aubrey de Montdidier. Hurriedly a litter was constructed of boughs of
trees, and, followed by the dog, the body was borne into Paris, where
it was soon afterwards buried.
From that hour the greyhound attached himself to the Sieur de Narsac.
It slept in his room, ate from his table, and followed close at his
heels when he went out of doors. One morning, as the two were
threading their way through the crowded Rue St.-Martin, De Narsac was
startled by hearing a low, fierce growl from the greyhound. Looking
down he saw that the creature was shaking in every limb; his smooth
coat was bristling, his tail was straight and stiff, and he was
showing his teeth. In another moment he had made a dart from De
Narsac's side, and had sprung on a young gentleman named Macaire, in
the uniform of the king's bodyguard, who, with several comrades in
arms, was sauntering along on the opposite side of the street. There
was something so sudden in the attack that the Chevalier Macaire was
almost thrown on the ground. With their walking-canes he and his
friends beat off the dog, and on De Narsac coming up, it was called
away, and, still trembling and growling, followed its master down the
street.
A few days later the same thing occurred. De Narsac and the Chevalier
Macaire chanced to encounter each other walking in the royal park. In
a moment the dog had rushed at Macaire, and, with a fierce spring at
his throat, had tried to pull him to the ground. De Narsac and some
officers of the king's bodyguard came to Macaire's assistance, and the
dog was called off. The rumour of this attack reached the ears of the
king, and mixed with the rumour were whisperings of a long-standing
quarrel between Macaire and Aubrey de Montdidier. Might not the dog's
strange and unaccountable hatred for the young officer be a clue to
the mysterious murder of his late master? Determined to sift the
matter to the bottom, the king summoned De Narsac and the dog to his
presence at the Hotel St.-Pol. Following close on his master's heels,
the greyhound entered the audience-room, where the king was seated,
surrounded by his courtiers. As De Narsac bowed low before his
sovereign, a short, fierce bark was heard from the dog, and, before he
could be held back, he had darted in among the startled courtiers, and
had sprung at the throat of the Chevalier Macaire, who, with several
other knights, formed a little group behind the king's chair.
It was impossible longer to doubt that there was some ground for the
surmises that had rapidly grown to suspicion, and that had received
sudden confirmation from the fresh evidence of the dog's hatred.
The king decided that there should be a trial by the judgment of God,
and that a combat should take place between man, the accused, and dog,
the accuser. The place chosen for the combat was a waste, uninhabited
plot of ground, frequently selected as a duelling-ground by the young
gallants of Paris.
In the presence of the king and his courtiers the strange unnatural
combat took place that afternoon. The knight was armed with a short
thick stick; the dog was provided with an empty barrel, as a
retreating ground from the attacks of his adversary. At a given signal
the combatants entered the lists. The dog seemed quite to understand
the strange duel on which it was engaged. Barking savagely, and
darting round his opponent, he made attempts to leap at his throat;
now on this side, now on that he sprang, jumping into the air, and
then bounding back out of reach of the stick. There was such swiftness
and determination about his movements, and something so unnatural in
the combat, that Macaire's nerve failed him. His blows beat the air,
without hitting the dog; his breath came in quick short gasps;
there was a look of terror on his face, and for a moment, overcome by
the horror of the situation, his eye quailed and sought the ground. At
that instant the dog sprang at his throat and pinned him to the earth.
In his terror, he called out and acknowledged his crime, and implored
the king's mercy. But the judgment of God had decided. The dog was
called off before it had strangled its victim, but the man was hurried
away to the place of execution, and atoned that evening for the murder
of the faithful greyhound's master.
[Illustration: THE DOG FLIES AT MACAIRE IN THE PRESENCE OF THE KING]
The dog has been known to posterity as the Dog of Montargis, as in the
Castle of Montargis there stood for many centuries a sculptured stone
mantelpiece, on which the combat was carved.
_HOW A BEAVER BUILDS HIS HOUSE_
Bingley's _Animal Biography_.
If we could look back and see England and Wales as they were about a
thousand years ago, we should most likely think that the best houses
and most prosperous villages were the work not of the Saxon or British
natives, but of the little beavers, which were then to be found in
some of the rivers, though they have long ceased to exist there. Those
who want to see what beavers can do, must look to America, and there,
either in Canada or even as far south as Louisiana, they will find the
little creatures as busy as ever and as clever at house-building as
when they taught our forefathers a lesson in the time of Athelstan or
Canute.
A beaver is a small animal measuring about three feet, and has fine
glossy dark brown hair. Its tail, which is its trowel, and call bell,
and many other things besides, is nearly a foot long, and has no hair
at all, and is divided into little scales, something like a fish.
Beavers cannot bear to live by themselves, and are never happy unless
they have two or three hundred friends close at hand whom they can
visit every day and all day, and they are the best and most kindly
neighbours in the world, always ready to help each other either in
building new villages or in repairing old ones.
Of course the first thing to be done when you wish to erect a house or
a village is to fix on a suitable site, and the spot which every
beaver of sense thinks most desirable is either a large pond or, if no
pond is to be had, a flat low plain with a stream running through,
out of which a pond can be made.
It must be a very, very long while since beavers first found out that
the way to make a pond out of a stream was to build a dam across it so
strong that the water could not break through. To begin with, they
have to know which way the stream runs, and in this they never make a
mistake. Then they gather together stakes about five feet long, and
fix them in rows tight into the ground on each side of the stream; and
while the older and more experienced beavers are doing this--for the
safety of the village depends on the strength of the foundation--the
younger and more active ones are fetching and heaping up green
branches of trees. These branches are plaited in and out of the rows
of stakes, which by this time stretch right across the river, and form
a dam often as much as a hundred feet from end to end. When the best
workmen among them declare the foundation solid, the rest form a large
wall over the whole, of stones, clay, and sand, which gradually tapers
up from ten or twelve feet at the bottom, where it has to resist the
pressure of the stream, to two or three at the top, so that the
beavers can, if necessary, pass each other in comfort. And when the
dam is pronounced finished, the overseer or head beaver goes carefully
over every part, to see that it is the proper shape and exactly smooth
and even, for beavers cannot bear bad work, and would punish any of
their tribe who were lazy or careless.
The dam being ready and the pond made, they can now begin to think
about their houses, and as all beavers have a great dislike to damp
floors and wet beds, they have to raise their dwellings quite six or
eight feet above the level of the stream, so that no sudden swelling
of the river during the rainy season shall make them cold and
uncomfortable. Beavers are always quite clear in their minds as to
what they want, and how to get it, and they like to keep things
distinct. When they are in the water they are perfectly happy, but
when they are out of it they like to be dry, and in order to keep
their houses warm and snug they wait till the water is low during the
summer, and then they can drive piles into the bed of the stream with
more safety and less trouble than if the river is running hard. It
generally takes two or three months before the village is finished,
and the bark and shoots of young trees, which is their favourite food,
collected and stored up. But the little round huts, not unlike
beehives, are only intended for winter homes, as no beaver would think
of sleeping indoors during the summer, or, indeed, of staying two days
in the same place. So every three or four years they spend the long
days in making their village of earth, stones, and sticks, plastered
together with some kind of mortar which they carry about on their
tails, to spread neatly over the inside of their houses. All that a
beaver does is beautifully finished as well as substantial. The walls
of his house are usually about two feet thick, and sometimes he has as
many as three stories to his house, when he has a large family or a
number of friends to live with him. One thing is quite certain: no
beaver will ever set up housekeeping alone; but sometimes he will be
content with one companion, and sometimes he will have as many as
thirty. But however full the hut may be, there is never any confusion;
each beaver has his fixed place on the floor, which is covered with
dried leaves and moss, and as they manage to keep open a door right
below the surface of the stream, where their food is carefully stored
up, there is no fear that they will ever be starved out. And there
they lie all through the winter, and get very fat.
Once a French gentleman who was travelling through Louisiana, was very
anxious to see the little beaver colony at work, so he hid himself
with some other men close to a dam, and in the night they cut a
channel about a foot wide right through, and very hard labour they
found it.
The men had made no noise in breaking the dam, but the rush of the
water aroused one beaver who slept more lightly than the rest, and he
instantly left his hut and swam to the dam to examine what was wrong.
He then struck four loud blows with his tail, and at the sound of his
call every beaver left his bed and came rushing to see what was the
matter. No sooner did they reach the dam and see the large hole made
in it, than they took counsel, and then the one in whom they put the
most trust gave orders to the rest, and they all went to the bank to
make mortar. When they had collected as much as they could carry, they
formed a procession, two and two, each pair loading each others'
tails, and so travelling they arrived at the dam, where a relay of
fresh labourers were ready to load. The mortar was then placed in the
hole and bound tight by repeated blows from the beavers' tails. So
hard did they work and so much sense did they show, that in a short
time all was as firm as ever. Then one of the leading spirits clapped
his tail twice, and in a moment all were in bed and asleep again.
Beavers are very hard-working, but they know how to make themselves
comfortable too, and if they are content with bark and twigs at home,
they appreciate nicer food if they can get it. A gentleman once took a
beaver with him to New York, and it used to wander about the house
like a dog, feeding chiefly upon bread, with fish now and then for a
treat. Not being able to find any moss or leaves for a bed, it used to
seize upon all the soft bits of stuff that came in its way, and carry
them off to its sleeping corner. One day a cat discovered its hiding
place, and thought it would be a nice comfortable place for her
kittens to sleep, and when the beaver came back from his walk he
found, like the three bears, that someone was sleeping in his bed. He
had never seen things of that kind before, but they were small and he
was big, so he said nothing and lay down somewhere else. Only, if ever
their mother was away, he would go and hold one of them to his breast
to warm it, and keep it there till its mother came back.
_THE WAR HORSE OF ALEXANDER_
Part of the story of Bucephalus is taken from Plutarch.
There are not so many stories about horses as there are about dogs and
cats, yet almost every great general has had his favourite horse, who
has gone with him through many campaigns and borne him safe in many
battle-fields. At a town in Sicily called Agrigentum, they set such
store by their horses, that pyramids were raised over their
burial-place, and the Emperor Augustus built a splendid monument over
the grave of an old favourite.
The most famous horse, perhaps, who ever lived, was one belonging to
Alexander the Great, and was called Bucephalus. When the king was a
boy, Bucephalus was brought before Philip, King of Macedon,
Alexander's father, by Philonicus the Thessalian, and offered for sale
for the large sum of thirteen talents. Beautiful though he was, Philip
wisely declined to buy him before knowing what manner of horse he was,
and ordered him to be led into a neighbouring field, and a groom to
mount him. But it was in vain that the best and most experienced
riders approached the horse; he reared up on his hind legs, and would
suffer none to come near him. So Philonicus the Thessalian was told to
take his horse back whence he came, for the king would have none of
him.
Now the boy Alexander stood by, and his heart went out to the
beautiful creature. And he cried out, 'What a good horse do we lose
for lack of skill to mount him!' Philip the king heard these words,
and his soul was vexed to see the horse depart, but yet he knew not
what else to do. Then he turned to Alexander and said: 'Do you think
that you, young and untried, can ride this horse better than those who
have grown old in the stables?' To which Alexander made answer, 'This
horse I know I could ride better than they.' 'And if you fail,' asked
Philip, 'what price will you pay for your good conceit of yourself?'
And Alexander laughed out and said gaily, 'I will pay the price of the
horse.' And thus it was settled.
So Alexander drew near to the horse, and took him by the bridle,
turning his face to the sun so that he might not be frightened at the
movements of his own shadow, for the prince had noticed that it scared
him greatly. Then Alexander stroked his head and led him forwards,
feeling his temper all the while, and when the horse began to get
uneasy, the prince suddenly leapt on his back, and gradually curbed
him with the bridle. Suddenly, as Bucephalus gave up trying to throw
his rider, and only pawed the ground impatient to be off, Alexander
shook the reins, and bidding him go, they flew like lightning round
the course. This was Alexander's first conquest, and as he jumped down
from the horse, his father exclaimed, 'Go, my son, and seek for a
kingdom that is worthy, for Macedon is too small for such as thee.'
Henceforth Bucephalus made it clear that he served Alexander and no
one else. He would submit quietly to having the gay trappings of a
king's steed fastened on his head, and the royal saddle put on, but if
any groom tried to mount him, back would go his ears and up would go
his heels, and none dared come near him. For ten years after Alexander
succeeded his father on the throne of Macedon (B.C. 336), Bucephalus
bore him through all his battles, and was, says Pliny, 'of a passing
good and memorable service in the wars,' and even when wounded, as he
once was at the taking of Thebes, would not suffer his master to mount
another horse. Together these two swam rivers, crossed mountains,
penetrated into the dominions of the Great King, and farther still
into the heart of Asia, beyond the Caspian and the river Oxus, where
never European army had gone before. Then turning sharp south, he
crossed the range of the Hindoo Koosh, and entering the country of the
Five Rivers, he prepared to attack Porus, king of India. But age and
the wanderings of ten years had worn Bucephalus out. One last victory
near the Hydaspes or Jelum, and the old horse sank down and died, full
of years and honours (B.C. 326). Bitter were the lamentations of the
king for the friend of his childhood, but his grief did not show
itself only in weeping. The most splendid funeral Alexander could
devise was given to Bucephalus, and a gorgeous tomb erected over his
body. And more than that, Alexander resolved that the memory of his
old horse should be kept green in these burning Indian deserts,
thousands of miles from the Thessalian plains where he was born, so
round his tomb the king built a city, and it was called
'BUCEPHALIA.'
_STORIES ABOUT BEARS_
Baron de Wogan, a French gentleman, whose adventures with snakes are
also curious, was the hero of some encounters with the grizzly bear of
North America. First, I would have you understand what sort of a
creature he had for an opponent. Imagine a monster measuring when
standing upright eight or nine feet, weighing 900 lbs., of a most
terrifying appearance, in agility and strength surpassing all other
animals, and cruel in proportion. Like his cousin the brown bear, whom
he resembles in shape, he is a hermit and lives alone in the immense
trackless forests which covered the Rocky Mountains, and indeed (at
least in olden times) the greater part of North America. During the
day he sleeps in the depths of some mountain cavern, and wakes up at
dusk to go out in search of prey. All the beasts of the forest live in
terror of him--even the white bear flies before him. He would go down
to the valleys and attack the immense herds of buffaloes which grazed
there, and which were powerless against him, in spite of their numbers
and their great horns. They join themselves closely together and form
one compact rank, but the grizzly bear hurls himself at them, breaks
their ranks, scatters them, and then pursuing them till he catches
them up, flings himself on the back of one, hugs it in his iron
embrace, breaks its skull with his teeth, and so goes slaying right
and left before he eats one. Before the Baron's first, so to say,
hand-to-hand encounter with a grizzly, he had been long enough in the
country to know something of their ways, and how worse than useless a
shot is unless in a fatal spot.
After the return to her tribe of Calooa, a young Indian girl, who had
been his one human companion in many days of wandering, the Baron was
left with only his mule Cadi for friend and companion, and naturally
felt very lonely. He set his heart on getting to the top of the Rocky
Mountains, at the foot of which he then happened to be. Their
glittering summits had so irresistible an attraction for him, that he
did not stay to consider the difficulties which soon beset him at
every step. No sooner did he conquer one than another arose, added to
which the cold of these high regions was intense, and it constantly
snowed. After three days he had to declare himself not only beaten,
but so worn out that he must take a week's rest if he did not want to
fall ill. First it was necessary to have some sort of a shelter, and
by great good luck he found just at hand a cavern in the rock, which,
without being exactly a palace, seemed as if it would answer his
purpose.
Upon closer examination he found that it had more drawbacks than he
cared about. All round were scattered gnawed bones of animals, and the
prints of bear's claws on the ground left no doubt as to who the last
inmate had been. The Baron, however, preferred to risk an invasion
rather than seek another abode, and prepared for probable inroads by
making across the entrance to the cave a barricade of branches of oak
tied together with flax, a quantity of which grew near. He then lit a
good fire inside the cave, but as the last tenant had not considered a
chimney necessary; the dense smoke soon obliged him to beat a hasty
retreat. Besides he had to go out to get supplies for his larder, at
present as bare as Mother Hubbard's. With his usual good luck the
Baron found, first, a large salmon flapping wildly in its effort to
get out of a pool, where the fallen river had left it. This he killed,
and next he shot a young deer about a mile away and carried it to
camp on his back. In order to preserve these eatables he salted some
of them with salt that he had previously found in a lake near, and had
carefully preserved for future use. He then dug a hole in a corner of
the cave, putting a thick layer of dry hay at the bottom, and buried
his provisions Indian fashion, in order to preserve them.
As it was still only twelve o'clock, the Baron thought he would spend
the rest of the day in exploring the neighbourhood; first he examined
the cave, which he found to be formed of big blocks of rock firmly
joined together; above the cave rose the cliff, and in front of it
grew a fir-tree, which served at the same time to defend the entrance,
and as a ladder to enable him to mount the cliff. As he could not take
Cadi with him, he fastened him to the fir-tree by his halter and girth
joined together, so as to leave him plenty of room to graze. Then he
put some eatables in his game bag, and set off on a tour of discovery.
When he had walked about three hours, and had reached a rocky point
from which he had a fine view of the surrounding country, he sat down
to rest under an oak-tree. He knew nothing more till the cold awoke
him--it was now six o'clock, and he had slept three hours. He started
with all the haste he could to get back to his cave and Cadi before
dark, but so tired and footsore was he that he was obliged to give in
and camp where he was, for night was coming on fast. It was bitterly
cold and snow fell constantly, so he lit a large fire, which at the
same time warmed him, and kept away the bears whom he heard wandering
round the camp most of the night. As soon as the sun was up in the
morning, he set off with all his speed to see what had become of Cadi;
but though fifteen miles is not much to bears balked of their prey, it
is much to a weary and footsore man, and when he had hobbled to within
half a mile of the camp, he saw that it was too late: the bears, whom
he had driven away from his camp in the night with fire-brands, had
scented poor Cadi, and four of them were now devouring him--father,
mother, and two cubs. Imagine his rage and grief at seeing his only
friend and companion devoured piecemeal before his very eyes!
His first impulse was to fire, but he reflected in time that they were
four to one, and that, instead of avenging Cadi, he would only share
his fate. He decided to wait on a high rock till the meal was ended.
It lasted an hour, and then he saw the whole family set off to climb
the mountain, from the top of which he had been watching them. They
seemed to be making straight for him, and as it would be certain death
to sit and wait for them, he slipped into a cranny in the rock, hoping
that he might not be perceived; even if he was, he could only be
attacked by one at a time. He had not long to wait: soon all four
bears passed in single file, without smelling him or being aware of
him; for this he had to thank poor Cadi: their horrid snouts and jaws
being smeared with his blood prevented their scenting fresh prey.
[Illustration: {THE BARON KILLS THE BEAR}]
When he had seen them at a safe distance, he ventured to go down to
the cave he could no longer call his own. Of Cadi, nothing remained
but his head, still fastened to the tree by his halter. The barricade
was gone, too, and from the cave came low but unmistakable growls.
With one bound the Baron was up the tree, and from the tree on to the
cliff. From there he threw stones down before the entrance to the
cave, to induce the present inmate to come out, in order that he might
take possession again. The bear soon came out, and, perceiving him,
made for the fir-tree. By its slow and languid movements the Baron saw
that it was curiosity more than anger that prompted it, and, moreover,
it was evidently a very old bear, probably a grandfather, whose
children and grandchildren had been to pay it a visit. Curiosity or
not, the Baron had no wish to make a closer acquaintance, and fired a
shot at the brute by way of a hint to that effect. This immediately
turned his curiosity into wrath. Seizing the fir-tree, which he was
going to use as a ladder, he began to climb up. A second shot hit him
in the shoulder. He fell mortally wounded, but even after a third
shot, which took him in the flank, his dying struggles lasted twenty
minutes, during which he tore at the roots of the fir-trees with his
terrific claws. The Baron did not care to waste any of his bullets,
now getting scarce, in putting out of his pain one of Cadi's
murderers. When finally the bear was dead, the Baron came down to take
possession of his cave, and at the same time of the bear's skin. On
penetrating into the cave, he found that the rascal had paid him out
in his own coin, and, in revenge for the Baron taking his cave, had
eaten his provisions. The Baron was quits in the end, however, as the
bear's carcase furnished him meat enough for several days. The Baron
cut off pounds of steak, which he salted and dried over the fire. The
useless remains he threw over the nearest precipice, so that they
should not attract wild beasts, to keep him awake all night with their
cries. Then, having made a huge fire in front of the entrance, which,
moreover, he barricaded with branches, he threw himself on his bed of
dry leaves to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
Some time passed before the Baron's next encounter with a bear. He was
camping one night in a dense forest, sleeping, as usual, with one eye
and one ear open, and his weapon at hand, all ready loaded. His rest
was broken by the usual nightly sounds of the forest, of leaves
crunched and branches broken, showing that many of the inmates of the
woods were astir; but he did not let these usual sounds disturb him,
till he heard in the distance the hoarse and unmistakable cry of the
bear; then he thought it time to change the shot in his gun for
something more worthy of such a foe. This preparation made, he set off
at dawn on his day's march, which up to midday led him along the bank
of a large river. He thought no more of the blood-curdling howls of
the night, till suddenly he heard from a distance terror-stricken
cries. He put his ear to the ground, Indian fashion, to listen
better, and as the danger, whatever it was, seemed to be coming
nearer, he jumped into a thicket of wild cherry and willow trees, and
waited there in ambush, gun in hand. In a few minutes, a band of
Indians with their squaws appeared on the opposite bank of the river,
and straightway leaped into the water, like so many frogs jumping into
an undisturbed swamp. At first he thought he was being attacked, but
soon saw it was the Indians who were being pursued, and that they all,
men and women, were swimming for dear life; moreover, the women were
laden with their children, one, and sometimes two, being strapped to
their backs in a sort of cradle of birch bark. This additional weight
made them swim slower than the men, who soon reached the opposite
shore, and then took to their heels helter-skelter, except three, who
remained behind to encourage the women.
[Illustration: {THE GRIZZLY}]
The Baron at first thought it was an attack of other Indians, and that
it would be prudent to beat a retreat, when suddenly the same terrible
cry that had kept him awake in the latter part of the night resounded
through the forest, and at the same time there appeared on a high bank
on the other shore a huge mass of a dirty grey colour, which hurled
itself downhill, plunged into the river, and began to swim across at a
terrific speed. It was a grizzly bear of tremendous size. So fast did
it swim, that in no time it had nearly caught up with the last of the
squaws, a young woman with twin babies at her back, whose cries, often
interrupted by the water getting into their mouths, would have melted
the heart of a stone. The three Indians who had remained on the bank
did their utmost to stop the bear by shooting their poisoned arrows at
it; but the distance was too great, and the huge animal came on so
fast that in another minute mother and children would be lost. The
Baron could not remain a spectator of so terrible a scene. He came out
of the thicket where he was hidden, and frightened the Indians almost
as much as if he had been another bear. Resting his gun on the trunk
of a tree, he fired at the distance of 125 yards, and hit the animal
right on the head. It dived several times, and the water all round was
dyed red with blood; but the wound was not mortal, and it continued on
its way, only more slowly. After urging the Indian, who seemed to be
the unhappy woman's husband, to go into the water to help her--for,
through terror and fatigue, she could no longer swim--the Baron took
deliberate aim again and fired. The second shot, like the first, hit
the bear on the head, but again without killing it. It stopped the
brute, however, long enough to let the poor woman get to shore, where
she fainted, and was carried away by the men to the forest, leaving
the Baron and the bear to fight out their duel alone. The Baron had
barely time to reload and climb to the top of one of the trees, when
the bear was already at the foot of it. So near was he when he stood
upright, that the Baron could feel his horrid breath. Up to then the
Baron thought that all bears could climb like squirrels; fortunately
for him he was mistaken. Expecting to be taken by storm, he fired
straight in the creature's face. The two balls took a different
course: one went through the jaw and came out by the neck, the other
went into the chest. The bear uttered a terrific roar, stiffened
itself in a last effort to reach him, and fell heavily on its back at
the foot of the tree. The Baron might have thought him dead had he not
already seen such wonderful resurrections on the part of bears; but
the four shots, though at first they dazed and troubled the beast,
seemed afterwards to act as spurs, and he rose furious and returned to
the charge. The Baron tried to use his revolver, but, finding it
impossible, he drew out his axe from his belt, and dealt a violent
blow at the bear's head, which nearly split it in two, and sent the
blood splashing in all directions. The bear again fell to the ground,
this time to rise no more. The Baron being now convinced that the
grizzly bear is no tree-climber, took his time to draw out his
revolver, to take aim and fire. The shot put out one of the bear's
eyes, the axe had already taken out the other. This finished him, but
his death struggles lasted twenty minutes, during which the tree was
nearly uprooted. When all was at an end the Baron came down; he cut
off the formidable claws, and broke off the teeth with an axe to make
a trophy in imitation of the Indians, and then proceeded to skin him
and cut him up. The Indians, who had been watching the combat at a
safe distance, now came back, enthusiastic. They surrounded them, the
victor and the vanquished, and danced a war-dance, singing impromptu
words. The Baron, seated on the bear's carcase, joined in the chorus;
but the Indians, not content with that, insisted on his joining in the
dance as well. The rejoicing over, the Baron divided among the twenty
Indians the flesh of the bear--about 15 lb. or 20 lb. fell to each.
The skin he kept to himself, and the claws, of which the Indians made
him a warrior's necklace, hanging it round his neck like an order of
knighthood.[3]
[3] The young reader must no longer expect such adventures as the
Baron de Wogan achieved.
_STORIES ABOUT ANTS_
If any one will watch an ant-hill on a fine day in April, he will see
the little inhabitants begin to rouse themselves from their winter's
sleep, which lasts from the month of October, with the red ant at all
events. Groups of them come out to the top of the ant-hill to warm and
thaw themselves in the rays of the sun. Some, more active and robust,
run in and out, waking up the lazy, hurrying the laggards, and rousing
all the little community to begin their summer habits. But this
activity does not last long; they are as yet only half awake, and
still numb and torpid from the winter's cold, and the little throng
increases or diminishes as the sun shines or disappears behind a
cloud. As two, half-past two, and three o'clock arrive, they have
nearly all disappeared inside the ant-heap, leaving only a few
warriors, of a larger make and tried courage, to watch over the
well-being of the little republic and to close up all openings with
tiny chips of wood, dry leaves, and shreds of moss, so as to hide the
entrances from human eye. Two or three sentinels wander round to see
that all is secure. And then they enter, and all is still.
If we come back again in about a week, we shall find the ants in the
middle of their regular migration to their summer quarters, not far
from their winter ones. This takes place, with the red ant, at all
events, with great regularity every April and October. The red ant is
beyond doubt a slave-owner; the slaves may be easily recognised from
their masters by being of a smaller make and light yellow colour. As
soon as the masters have fixed the day of their 'flitting,' they
begin probably to ensure the consent of the slaves by violently
seizing them, and rolling them into a ball, and then grasping them
firmly they set off towards the summer quarters at full gallop, if an
ant can be said to gallop. The master ant is in a great hurry to get
rid of his living burden; he goes straight ahead in spite of all
obstacles, avoiding all interruptions and delays, and as soon as he
arrives at the summer ant-heap, plunges in, deposits the slave all
breathless and terrified from his forced journey, and sets off back
for another.
Darwin, who closely studied the migrations of the ant, says that they
differ in their means of transport: one sort is carried by the slaves;
the other, our friend the red ant, scientifically called 'formica
sanguinea,' carries his property carefully in his mouth. It seems
strange to us that the master should carry the slave, but no stranger
than it would appear to the ants if they should begin to study our
habits, that some of us should sit in a carriage and be driven by the
coachman. The slave, once installed in his summer quarters, seldom
appears again before the autumn exodus, unless in the event of some
disturbance in the camp, or its invasion by some ants of a hostile
tribe, when the slaves take part in the defence and especially watch
over the young ones. The slaves seem to be carpenters and miners, and
warriors when necessary. They build the dwelling, repair it, of which
it has constant need, and defend it in case of attack with dauntless
courage. But their principal duties seem to be to take charge of the
development of the young, and to feed the masters--no small task, as
there seem to be ten masters to one slave, and they seem incapable of
eating unless fed. Experiments have been tried of removing the slaves
from them, and though sugar and every sort of tempting food is put
down beside them, they will starve rather than help themselves. In
fact, one wonders what the masters can be left for but to drive the
slaves, which they do with great ardour. A French gentleman who spent
years studying the habits of the ants, tried one day, by way of
experiment, to take a slave away from its master; he had great
difficulty in removing it from its bearer, who struggled furiously and
clung to its burden. When at last the slave was set free, instead of
profiting by its liberty, it turned round and round in a circle as if
dazed, then hid itself under a dead leaf. A master ant presently came
along, an animated conversation took place, and the slave ant was
seized upon and borne off again to bondage. The same gentleman another
day observed a slave ant venture out to the entrance to the ant-hill
to enjoy the warmth of the sun. A great master ant spied it and set to
with blows of its horns (antennae they are called) to persuade it that
that was not its place. Finding the slave persisted in not
understanding, the master resorted to force, and seizing it by its
head, without taking the trouble to roll it up, as they are generally
carried, he hurled it into the ant-hill, where no doubt it received
the punishment it deserved.
If we came back to the ant-heap a week after our last visit, we should
find the migration finished if the weather has been fine; but ants,
especially after their first awaking, are extremely sensitive to wind
and rain, and only work well in fine weather. They are equally
affected by weather before a storm: even though the sun may be
shining, they will remain in the ant-heap with closed doors. If it is
shut before midday, the storm will burst before evening; if it is shut
before eight or nine in the morning, the rain will fall before noon.
All this time we have been speaking only of the red ant; but there are
any number of different kinds in Europe, not to mention the enormous
ants of the tropics, who march in such armies that the people fly
before them, deserting their villages. Different species differ
totally in their habits and ways of building and living. The greater
number of species live apart, and not in a community with an
elaborately constructed house like the red ant. The little black ant
is the commonest in this country, and the busiest and most active. She
is the first to awake, in March, sometimes in February, and the last
to sleep, sometimes not till November. Their instincts and habits of
activity, however, are apt to deceive them, and they get up too soon.
The French gentleman already mentioned observed an instance of the
kind. On February 24, after an unusually mild winter, the sun shone as
if it were already summer, and it was difficult to persuade oneself
that it was not, except that there were no leaves on the trees, no
birds singing in the branches, and no insects humming in the air.
First our friend went to examine the red-ant heap, which was closed as
usual, all the inhabitants being still plunged in their winter sleep.
The black ants, on the contrary, were all awake and lively, and seemed
persuaded that the fine weather had come to stay. Their instincts
deceived them, for that night it froze; rain, snow, and fog succeeded
each other in turn, and when next he visited the ant-heap he found
them lying in masses, stiff and dead, before the entrance to their
dwelling.
Between the red and black ants there is great enmity, and terrible
combats take place. When they fight they grasp each other like men
wrestling, and each tries to throw the other down, and break his back.
The conquered remain on the battlefield, nearly broken in two, and
feebly waving their paws, till they slowly expire in agonies. The
conqueror, on the other hand, carries away his dead to burial and his
wounded to the camp, and then, entering triumphantly himself, closes
the doors after him. The gentleman already quoted witnessed the
funeral of an ant. He had passed the ant-heap about a quarter of an
hour, and left, as he thought, all the inhabitants behind him, when he
saw what appeared to be an enormous red ant making for home. On
stooping to look more closely, he saw that it was one ant carrying
another. He succeeded in separating them from each other, and then
saw that the burden was neither a slave nor a prisoner, but a dead
comrade being carried back to the ant-heap for a decent burial; for if
ants fall into the hands of the enemy, they are subjected if alive to
the most cruel tortures and if dead to mutilations. Usually, when an
ant is relieved of anything it is carrying--whether it be a slave, a
wounded ant, or some eatable--it will set off at full speed and let
the burden be picked up by the next passing ant; but this one made no
attempt to run away, and only turned round and round in a perplexed
and irresolute way, till its dead friend was put down beside it, then
it seized its precious burden and set off homewards with it.
Travellers even tell that in Algeria there are ant cemeteries near the
ant-heaps.
No lover of animals doubts that they have a language of their own,
which we are too stupid or deaf to understand. Anyone who studies the
ways of the ants sees, beyond a doubt, that they too have a way of
communicating with each other. For instance, an ant was one day seen
at some distance from the ant-hill, and evidently in no hurry to go
back to it. In the middle of the path she perceived a large dead
snail. She began by going round and round it, then climbed on its
back, and walked all over it. Having satisfied herself that it was a
choice morsel, but too large for her to carry home alone, she set off
at once to seek help. On the way she met one of her companions; she
ran at once to her; they rubbed their antennae together, and evidently
an animated conversation took place, for the second ant set off
immediately in the direction of the snail. The first one continued on
her way home, communicating with every ant she met in the same way; by
the time she disappeared inside the ant-heap, an endless file of busy
little ants were on their way to take their share of the spoil. In ten
minutes the snail was completely covered by the little throng, and by
the evening every trace of it had vanished.
Recent observations have proved that the time-honoured idea of the
ant storing up provision for the winter is a delusion, a delusion
which La Fontaine's famous fable, 'Le Fourmis et la Cigale,' has done
much to spread and confirm. It is now known, as we have already seen,
that ants sleep all winter, and that the food which we constantly see
them laden with is for immediate consumption in the camp. They eat all
kinds of insects--hornets and cockchafers are favourite dishes--but
the choicest morsel is a fine fat green caterpillar, caught alive.
They seize it, some by its head, some by its tail; it struggles, it
writhes, and sometimes succeeds in freeing itself from its enemies;
but they do not consider themselves beaten, and attack it again.
Little by little it becomes stupefied from the discharges of formic
acid the ants throw out from their bodies, and presently it succumbs
to their renewed forces. Finally, though the struggle may last an hour
or more, it is borne to the ant-heap and disappears, to be devoured by
the inmates. Perhaps these short 'Stories about Ants' may induce some
of you to follow the advice of the Preacher, and 'go to the ant'
yourselves for more.
_THE TAMING OF AN OTTER_
From Bingley's _British Quadrupeds_.
Otters used once to be very common in England in the neighbourhood of
rivers, and even in some instances of the sea, but in many places
where they once lived in great numbers they have now ceased to exist.
They destroy large quantities of fish, though they are so dainty that
they only care for the upper parts of the body. If the rivers are
frozen and no fish are to be had, they will eat poultry, or even
lambs; and if these are not to be found, they can get on quite well
for a long time on the bark of trees or on young branches.
Fierce though otters are when brought to bay, they can easily be tamed
if they are caught young enough. More than a hundred years ago the
monks of Autun, in France, found a baby otter only a few weeks old,
and took it back to the convent, and fed it upon milk for nearly two
months, when it was promoted to soup and fish and vegetables, the food
of the good monks. It was not very sociable with strange animals, but
it made great friends with a dog and cat who had known it from a baby,
and they would play together half the day. At night it had a bed in
one of the rooms, but in the day it always preferred a heap of straw
when it was tired of running about. Curious to say, this otter was not
at all fond of the water, and it was very seldom that it would go near
a basin of water that was always carefully left near its bed. When it
did, it was only to wash its face and front paws, after which it would
go for a run in the court-yard, or curl itself to sleep in the sun.
Indeed it seemed to have such an objection to water of all kinds, that
the monks wondered whether it knew how to swim. So one day, when they
were not so busy as usual, some of the brothers took it off to a
good-sized pond, and waited to see what it would do. The otter smelt
about cautiously for a little, and then, recognising that here was
something it had seen before, ducked its head and wetted its feet as
it did in the mornings. This did not satisfy the monks, who threw it
right in, upon which it instantly swam to the other shore, and came
round again to its friends.
All tame otters are not, however, as forgetful of the habits and
manners of their race as this one was, and in some parts they have
even been taught to fish for their masters instead of themselves.
Careful directions are given for their proper teaching, and a great
deal of patience is needful, because if an animal is once frightened
or made angry, there is not much hope of training it afterwards. To
begin with, it must be fed while it is very young on milk or soup, and
when it gets older, on bread and the heads of fishes, and it must get
its food from one person only, to whom it will soon get accustomed and
attached. The next step is to have a sort of leather bag made, stuffed
with wool and shaped like a fish, large enough for the animal to take
in its mouth. Finally, he must wear a collar formed on the principle
of a slip noose, which can tighten when a long string that is fastened
to it, is pulled. This is, of course, to teach the otter to drop the
fish after he has caught it.
The master then leads the otter slowly behind him, till by this means
he has learned how to follow, and then he has to be made to understand
the meanings of certain words and tones. So the man says to him, 'Come
here,' and pulls the cord; and after this has been repeated several
times, the otter gradually begins to connect the words with the
action. Then the string is dropped, and the otter trots up obediently
without it. After that, the sham fish is placed on the ground, and
the collar, which seems rather like a horse's bit, is pulled so as to
force the mouth open, while the master exclaims 'Take it!' and when
the otter is quite perfect in this (which most likely will not happen
for a long time) the collar is loosened, and he is told to 'drop it.'
Last of all, he is led down to a river with clear shallow water, where
a small dead fish is thrown in. This he catches at once, and then the
cord which has been fastened to his neck is gently pulled, and he
gives up his prize to his master. Then live fish are put in instead of
the dead one, and when they are killed, the otter is given the heads
as a reward.
Of course some masters have a special talent for teaching these
things, and some otters are specially apt pupils. This must have been
the case with the otter belonging to a Mr. Campbell who lived near
Inverness. It would sometimes catch eight or ten salmon in a day, and
never attempted to eat them; while a man in Sweden, called Nilsson,
and his family, lived entirely on the fish that was caught for them by
their otter. When he is in his wild state, the otter lives in holes in
the rocks, or among the roots of trees, though occasionally he has
been known to burrow under ground, having his door in the water, and
only a very tiny window opening landwards, so that he may not die of
suffocation.
_THE STORY OF ANDROCLES AND THE LION_
Many hundred years ago, there lived in the north of Africa a poor
Roman slave called Androcles. His master held great power and
authority in the country, but he was a hard, cruel man, and his slaves
led a very unhappy life. They had little to eat, had to work hard, and
were often punished and tortured if they failed to satisfy their
master's caprices. For long Androcles had borne with the hardships of
his life, but at last he could bear it no longer, and he made up his
mind to run away. He knew that it was a great risk, for he had no
friends in that foreign country with whom he could seek safety and
protection; and he was aware that if he was overtaken and caught he
would be put to a cruel death. But even death, he thought, would not
be so hard as the life he now led, and it was possible that he might
escape to the sea-coast, and somehow some day get back to Rome and
find a kinder master.
So he waited till the old moon had waned to a tiny gold thread in the
skies, and then, one dark night, he slipped out of his master's house,
and, creeping through the deserted forum and along the silent town, he
passed out of the city into the vineyards and corn-fields lying
outside the walls. In the cool night air he walked rapidly. From time
to time he was startled by the sudden barking of a dog, or the sound
of voices coming from some late revellers in the villas which stood
beside the road along which he hurried. But as he got further into the
country these sounds ceased, and there was silence and darkness all
round him. When the sun rose he had already gone many miles away from
the town in which he had been so miserable. But now a new terror
oppressed him--the terror of great loneliness. He had got into a wild,
barren country, where there was no sign of human habitation. A thick
growth of low trees and thorny mimosa bushes spread out before him,
and as he tried to thread his way through them he was severely
scratched, and his scant garments torn by the long thorns. Besides the
sun was very hot, and the trees were not high enough to afford him any
shade. He was worn out with hunger and fatigue, and he longed to lie
down and rest. But to lie down in that fierce sun would have meant
death, and he struggled on, hoping to find some wild berries to eat,
and some water to quench his thirst. But when he came out of the
scrub-wood, he found he was as badly off as before. A long, low line
of rocky cliffs rose before him, but there were no houses, and he saw
no hope of finding food. He was so tired that he could not wander
further, and seeing a cave which looked cool and dark in the side of
the cliffs, he crept into it, and, stretching his tired limbs on the
sandy floor, fell fast asleep.
Suddenly he was awakened by a noise that made his blood run cold. The
roar of a wild beast sounded in his ears, and as he started trembling
and in terror to his feet, he beheld a huge, tawny lion, with great
glistening white teeth, standing in the entrance of the cave. It was
impossible to fly, for the lion barred the way. Immovable with fear,
Androcles stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the lion to spring on
him and tear him limb from limb.
[Illustration: ANDROCLES IN THE LION'S CAVE]
But the lion did not move. Making a low moan as if in great pain, it
stood licking its huge paw, from which Androcles now saw that blood
was flowing freely. Seeing the poor animal in such pain, and noticing
how gentle it seemed, Androcles forgot his own terror, and slowly
approached the lion, who held up its paw as if asking the man to help
it. Then Androcles saw that a monster thorn had entered the paw,
making a deep cut, and causing great pain and swelling. Swiftly but
firmly he drew the thorn out, and pressed the swelling to try to stop
the flowing of the blood. Relieved of the pain, the lion quietly lay
down at Androcles' feet, slowly moving his great bushy tail from side
to side as a dog does when it feels happy and comfortable.
From that moment Androcles and the lion became devoted friends. After
lying for a little while at his feet, licking the poor wounded paw,
the lion got up and limped out of the cave. A few minutes later it
returned with a little dead rabbit in its mouth, which it put down on
the floor of the cave beside Androcles. The poor man, who was starving
with hunger, cooked the rabbit somehow, and ate it. In the evening,
led by the lion, he found a place where there was a spring, at which
he quenched his dreadful thirst.
And so for three years Androcles and the lion lived together in the
cave; wandering about the woods together by day, sleeping together at
night. For in summer the cave was cooler than the woods, and in winter
it was warmer.
At last the longing in Androcles' heart to live once more with his
fellow-men became so great that he felt he could remain in the woods
no longer, but that he must return to a town, and take his chance of
being caught and killed as a runaway slave. And so one morning he left
the cave, and wandered away in the direction where he thought the sea
and the large towns lay. But in a few days he was captured by a band
of soldiers who were patrolling the country in search of fugitive
slaves, and he was put in chains and sent as a prisoner to Rome.
Here he was cast into prison and tried for the crime of having run
away from his master. He was condemned as a punishment to be torn to
pieces by wild beasts on the first public holiday, in the great circus
at Rome.
When the day arrived Androcles was brought out of his prison, dressed
in a simple, short tunic, and with a scarf round his right arm. He
was given a lance with which to defend himself--a forlorn hope, as he
knew that he had to fight with a powerful lion which had been kept
without food for some days to make it more savage and bloodthirsty. As
he stepped into the arena of the huge circus, above the sound of the
voices of thousands on thousands of spectators he could hear the
savage roar of the wild beasts from their cages below the floor on
which he stood.
Of a sudden the silence of expectation fell on the spectators, for a
signal had been given, and the cage containing the lion with which
Androcles had to fight had been shot up into the arena from the floor
below. A moment later, with a fierce spring and a savage roar, the
great animal had sprung out of its cage into the arena, and with a
bound had rushed at the spot where Androcles stood trembling. But
suddenly, as he saw Androcles, the lion stood still, wondering. Then
quickly but quietly it approached him, and gently moved its tail and
licked the man's hands, and fawned upon him like a great dog. And
Androcles patted the lion's head, and gave a sob of recognition, for
he knew that it was his own lion, with whom he had lived and lodged
all those months and years.
And, seeing this strange and wonderful meeting between the man and the
wild beast, all the people marvelled, and the emperor, from his high
seat above the arena, sent for Androcles, and bade him tell his story
and explain this mystery. And the emperor was so delighted with the
story that he said Androcles was to be released and to be made a free
man from that hour. And he rewarded him with money, and ordered that
the lion was to belong to him, and to accompany him wherever he went.
And when the people in Rome met Androcles walking, followed by his
faithful lion, they used to point at them and say, 'That is the lion,
the guest of the man, and that is the man, the doctor of the lion.'[4]
[4] Apparently this nice lion did not bite anybody, when he took
his walks abroad. Or, possibly, he was muzzled.--Ed.
[Illustration: ANDROCLES IN THE ARENA]
_MONSIEUR DUMAS AND HIS BEASTS_
I
Most people have heard of Alexandre Dumas, the great French novelist
who wrote 'The Three Musketeers' and many other delightful historical
romances. Besides being a great novelist, M. Dumas was a most kind and
generous man--kind both to human beings and to animals. He had a great
many pets, of which he gives us the history in one of his books. Here
are some of the stories about them in his own words.
I was living, he says, at Monte Cristo (this was the name of his villa
at St.-Germains); I lived there alone, except for the visitors I
received. I love solitude, for solitude is necessary to anyone who
works much. However, I do not like complete loneliness; what I love is
that of the Garden of Eden, a solitude peopled with animals.
Therefore, in my wilderness at Monte Cristo, without being quite like
Adam in every way, I had a kind of small earthly paradise.
This is the list of my animals. I had a number of dogs, of which the
chief was Pritchard. I had a vulture named Diogenes; three monkeys,
one of which bore the name of a celebrated translator, another that of
a famous novelist, and the third, which was a female, that of a
charming actress. We will call the writer Potich, the novelist the
Last of the Laidmanoirs, and the lady Mademoiselle Desgarcins. I had a
great blue and yellow macaw called Buvat, a green and yellow parroquet
called Papa Everard, a cat called Mysouff, a golden pheasant called
Lucullus, and finally, a cock called Caesar. Let us give honour where
honour is due, and begin with the history of Pritchard.
I had an acquaintance named M. Lerat, who having heard me say I had no
dog to take out shooting, said, 'Ah! how glad I am to be able to give
you something you will really like! A friend of mine who lives in
Scotland has sent me a pointer of the very best breed. I will give him
to you. Bring Pritchard,' he added to his two little girls.
How could I refuse a present offered so cordially? Pritchard was
brought in.
He was an odd-looking dog to be called a pointer! He was long-haired,
grey and white, with ears nearly erect, mustard-coloured eyes, and a
beautifully feathered tail. Except for the tail, he could scarcely be
called a handsome dog.
M. Lerat seemed even more delighted to give the present than I was to
receive it, which showed what a good heart he had.
'The children call the dog Pritchard,' he said; 'but if you don't like
the name, call him what you please.'
I had no objection to the name; my opinion was that if anyone had
cause to complain, it was the dog himself. Pritchard, therefore,
continued to be called Pritchard. He was at this time about nine or
ten months old, and ought to begin his education, so I sent him to a
gamekeeper named Vatrin to learn his duties. But, two hours after I
had sent Pritchard to Vatrin, he was back again at my house. He was
not made welcome; on the contrary, he received a good beating from
Michel, who was my gardener, porter, butler, and confidential servant
all in one, and who took Pritchard back to Vatrin. Vatrin was
astonished; Pritchard had been shut up with the other dogs in the
kennel, and he must have jumped over the enclosure, which was a high
one. Early the next morning, when the housemaid had opened my front
door, there was Pritchard sitting outside. Michel again beat the dog,
and again took him back to Vatrin, who this time put a collar round
his neck and chained him up. Michel came back and informed me of this
severe but necessary measure. Vatrin sent a message to say that I
should not see Pritchard again until his education was finished. The
next day, while I was writing in a little summer-house in my garden, I
heard a furious barking. It was Pritchard fighting with a great
Pyrenean sheepdog which another of my friends had just given me. This
dog was named Mouton, because of his white woolly hair like a sheep's,
not on account of his disposition, which was remarkably savage.
Pritchard was rescued by Michel from Mouton's enormous jaws, once more
beaten, and for the third time taken back to Vatrin. Pritchard, it
appears, had eaten his collar, though how he managed it Vatrin never
knew. He was now shut up in a shed, and unless he ate the walls or the
door, he could not possibly get out. He tried both, and finding the
door the more digestible, he ate the door; and the next day at
dinner-time, Pritchard walked into the dining-room wagging his plumy
tail, his yellow eyes shining with satisfaction. This time Pritchard
was neither beaten nor taken back; we waited till Vatrin should come
to hold a council of war as to what was to be done with him. The next
day Vatrin appeared.
'Did you _ever_ see such a rascal?' he began. Vatrin was so excited
that he had forgotten to say 'Good morning' or 'How do you do?'
'I tell you,' said he, 'that rascal Pritchard puts me in such a rage
that I have crunched the stem of my pipe three times between my teeth
and broken it, and my wife has had to tie it up with string. He'll
ruin me in pipes, that brute--that vagabond!'
'Pritchard, do you hear what is said about you?' said I.
Pritchard heard, but perhaps did not think it mattered much about
Vatrin's pipes, for he only looked at me affectionately and beat upon
the ground with his tail.
'I don't know what to do with him,' said Vatrin. 'If I keep him he'll
eat holes in the house, I suppose; yet I don't like to give him
up--he's only a dog. It's humiliating for a man, don't you know?'
'I'll tell you what, Vatrin,' said I. 'We will take him down to
Vesinet, and go for a walk through your preserves, and then we shall
see whether it is worth while to take any more trouble with this
vagabond, as you call him.'
'I call him by his name. It oughtn't to be Pritchard; it should be
Bluebeard, it should be Blunderbore, it should be Judas Iscariot!'
Vatrin enumerated all the greatest villains he could think of at the
moment.
I called Michel.
'Michel, give me my shooting shoes and gaiters; we will go to Vesinet
to see what Pritchard can do.'
'You will see, sir,' said Michel, 'that you will be better pleased
than you think.' For Michel always had a liking for Pritchard.
We went down a steep hill to Vesinet, Michel following with Pritchard
on a leash. At the steepest place I turned round. 'Look there upon the
bridge in front of us, Michel,' I said, 'there is a dog very like
Pritchard.' Michel looked behind him. There was nothing but the
leather straps in his hand; Pritchard had cut it through with his
teeth, and was now standing on the bridge amusing himself by looking
at the water through the railing.
'He _is_ a vagabond!' said Vatrin. 'Look! where is he off to now?'
'He has gone,' said I, 'to see what my neighbour Correge has got for
luncheon.' Sure enough, the next moment Pritchard was seen coming out
of M. Correge's back door, pursued by a maid servant with a broom. He
had a veal cutlet in his mouth, which he had just taken out of the
frying-pan.
'Monsieur Dumas!' cried the maid, 'Monsieur Dumas! stop your dog!'
We tried; but Pritchard passed between Michel and me like a flash of
lightning.
'It seems,' said Michel, 'that he likes his veal underdone.'
'My good woman,' I said to the cook, who was still pursuing Pritchard,
'I fear that you are losing time, and that you will never see your
cutlet again.'
'Well, then, let me tell you, sir, that you have no right to keep and
feed a thief like that.'
'It is you, my good woman, who are feeding him to-day, not I.'
'Me!' said the cook, 'it's--it's M. Correge. And what will M. Correge
say, I should like to know?'
'He will say, like Michel, that it seems Pritchard likes his veal
underdone.'
'Well, but he'll not be pleased--he will think it's my fault.'
'Never mind, I will invite your master to luncheon with me.'
'All the same, if your dog goes on like that, he will come to a bad
end. That is all I have to say--he will come to a bad end.' And she
stretched out her broom in an attitude of malediction towards the spot
where Pritchard had disappeared.
We three stood looking at one another. 'Well,' said I, 'we have lost
Pritchard.'
'We'll soon find him,' said Michel.
We therefore set off to find Pritchard, whistling and calling to him,
as we walked on towards Vatrin's shooting ground. This search lasted
for a good half-hour, Pritchard not taking the slightest notice of our
appeals. At last Michel stopped.
'Sir,' he said, 'look there! Just come and look.'
'Well, what?' said I, going to him.
'Look!' said Michel, pointing. I followed the direction of Michel's
finger, and saw Pritchard in a perfectly immovable attitude, as rigid
as if carved in stone.
'Vatrin,' said I, 'come here.' Vatrin came. I showed him Pritchard.
'I think he is making a point,' said Vatrin. Michel thought so too.
'But what is he pointing at?' I asked. We cautiously came nearer to
Pritchard, who never stirred.
'He certainly is pointing,' said Vatrin. Then making a sign to
me--'Look there!' he said. 'Do you see anything?'
'Nothing.'
'What! you don't see a rabbit sitting? If I only had my stick, I'd
knock it on the head, and it would make a nice stew for your dinner.'
'Oh!' said Michel, 'if that's all, I'll cut you a stick.'
'Well, but Pritchard might leave off pointing.'
'No fear of him--I'll answer for him--unless, indeed, the rabbit goes
away.'
Vatrin proceeded to cut a stick. Pritchard never moved, only from time
to time he turned his yellow eyes upon us, which shone like a topaz.
'Have patience,' said Michel. 'Can't you see that M. Vatrin is cutting
a stick?' And Pritchard seemed to understand as he turned his eye on
Vatrin.
'You have still time to take off the branches,' said Michel.
When the branches were taken off and the stick was quite finished,
Vatrin approached cautiously, took a good aim, and struck with all his
might into the middle of the tuft of grass where the rabbit was
sitting. He had killed it!
Pritchard darted in upon the rabbit, but Vatrin took it from him, and
Michel slipped it into the lining of his coat. This pocket had
already held a good many rabbits in its time!
Vatrin turned to congratulate Pritchard, but he had disappeared.
'He's off to find another rabbit,' said Michel.
And accordingly, after ten minutes or so, we came upon Pritchard
making another point. This time Vatrin had a stick ready cut; and
after a minute, plunging his hands into a brier bush, he pulled out by
the ears a second rabbit.
'There, Michel,' he said, 'put that into your other pocket.'
'Oh,' said Michel, 'there's room for five more in this one.'
'Hallo, Michel! people don't say those things before a magistrate.'
And turning to Vatrin I added, 'Let us try once more, Vatrin--the
number three is approved by the gods.'
'May be,' said Vatrin, 'but perhaps it won't be approved by M.
Guerin.'
M. Guerin was the police inspector.
Next time we came upon Pritchard pointing, Vatrin said, 'I wonder how
long he would stay like that;' and he pulled out his watch.
'Well, Vatrin,' said I, 'you shall try the experiment, as it is in
your own vocation; but I am afraid I have not the time to spare.'
Michel and I then returned home. Vatrin followed with Pritchard an
hour afterwards.
'Five-and-twenty minutes!' he called out as soon as he was within
hearing. 'And if the rabbit had not gone away, the dog would have been
there now.'
'Well, Vatrin, what do you think of him?'
'Why, I say he is a good pointer; he has only to learn to retrieve,
and that you can teach him yourself. I need not keep him any longer.'
'Do you hear, Michel?'
'Oh, sir,' said Michel, 'he can do that already. He retrieves like an
angel!'
This failed to convey to me an exact idea of the way in which
Pritchard retrieved. But Michel threw a handkerchief, and Pritchard
brought it back. He then threw one of the rabbits that Vatrin carried,
and Pritchard brought back the rabbit. Michel then fetched an egg and
placed it on the ground. Pritchard retrieved the egg as he had done
the rabbit and the handkerchief.
'Well,' said Vatrin, 'the animal knows all that human skill can teach
him. He wants nothing now but practice. And when one thinks,' he
added, 'that if the rascal would only come in to heel, he would be
worth twenty pounds if he was worth a penny.'
'True,' said I with a sigh, 'but you may give up hope, Vatrin; that is
a thing he will never consent to.'
II
I think that the time has now come to tell my readers a little about
Mademoiselle Desgarcins, Potich, and the Last of the Laidmanoirs.
Mademoiselle Desgarcins was a tiny monkey; I do not know the place of
her birth, but I brought her from Havre, where I had gone--I don't
know why--perhaps to look at the sea. But I thought I must bring
something home with me from Havre. I was walking there on the quay,
when at the door of a bird-fancier's shop I saw a green monkey and a
blue and yellow macaw. The monkey put its paw through the bars of its
cage and caught hold of my coat, while the blue parrot turned its head
and looked at me in such an affectionate manner that I stopped,
holding the monkey's paw with one hand, and scratching the parrot's
head with the other. The little monkey gently drew my hand within
reach of her mouth, the parrot half shut its eyes and made a little
purring noise to express its pleasure.
[Illustration: 'MONSIEUR DUMAS, MAY I ACCOMMODATE YOU WITH MY MONKEY
AND MY PARROT?']
'Monsieur Dumas,' said the shopman, coming out with the air of a man
who was more decided to sell than I was to buy; 'Monsieur Dumas, may I
accommodate you with my monkey and my parrot?' It would have been
more to the purpose if he had said, 'Monsieur Dumas, may I _incommode_
you with my monkey and my parrot?' However, after a little bargaining,
I bought both animals, as well as a cage for the monkey and a perch
for the parrot; and as soon as I arrived at home, I introduced them to
Michel.
'This,' said Michel, 'is the green monkey of Senegal--_Cercopithecus
sabaea_.'
I looked at Michel in the greatest astonishment. 'Do you know Latin,
Michel?'
'I don't know Latin, but I know my "Dictionary of Natural History."'
'Oh, indeed! And do you know what bird this is?' I asked, showing him
the parrot.
'To be sure I know it,' said Michel. 'It is the blue and yellow
macaw--_Macrocercus arararanna_. Oh, sir, why did you not bring a
female as well as a male?'
'What is the use, Michel, since parrots will not breed in this
country?'
'There you make a mistake, sir; the blue macaw will breed in France.'
'In the south, perhaps?'
'It need not be in the south, sir.'
'Where then?'
'At Caen.'
'At Caen? I did not know Caen had a climate which permits parrots to
rear their young. Go and fetch my gazetteer.'
'You will soon see,' said Michel as he brought it. I read: 'Caen,
capital of the department of Calvados, upon the Orne and the Odon: 223
kilometres west of Paris, 41,806 inhabitants.'
'You will see,' said Michel, 'the parrots are coming.'
'Great trade in plaster, salt, wood--taken by English in 1346--retaken
by the French &c., &c.--never mind the date--That is all, Michel.'
'What! Your dictionary never says that the arararanna, otherwise
called the blue macaw, produces young at Caen?'
'No, Michel, it does not say that here.'
'What a dictionary! Just wait till I fetch you mine and you will see.'
Michel returned in a few minutes with his book of Natural History.
'You will soon see, sir,' he said, opening his dictionary in his turn.
'Parrot--here it is--parrots are monogamous.'
'As you know Latin, Michel, of course you know what monogamous means.'
'That means that they can sing scales--gamut, I suppose?'
'Well, no, Michel, not exactly. It means that they have only one
"wife."'
'Indeed, sir? That is because they talk like us most likely. Now, I
have found the place: "It was long believed that parrots were
incapable of breeding in Europe, but the contrary has been proved on a
pair of blue macaws which lived at Caen. M. Lamouroux furnishes the
details of these results."'
'Let us hear the details which M. Lamouroux furnishes.'
'"These macaws, from March 1818 until August 1822, including a period
of four years and a half, laid, in all, sixty-two eggs."'
'Michel, I never said they did not lay eggs; what I said was--'
'"Out of this number,"' continued Michel in a loud voice,
'"twenty-five young macaws were hatched, of which only ten died. The
others lived and continued perfectly healthy."'
'Michel, I confess to having entertained false ideas on the subject of
macaws.'
'"They laid at all seasons of the year,"' continued Michel, '"and more
eggs were hatched in the latter than in the former years."'
'Michel, I have no more to say.'
'"The number of eggs in the nest varied. There have been as many as
six at a time."'
'Michel, I yield, rescue or no rescue!'
'Only,' said Michel, shutting the book, 'you must be careful not to
give them bitter almonds or parsley.'
'Not bitter almonds,' I answered, 'because they contain prussic acid;
but why not parsley?'
Michel, who had kept his thumb in the page, reopened the book.
'"Parsley and bitter almonds,"' he read, '"are a violent poison to
parrots."'
'All right, Michel, I shall remember.'
I remembered so well, that some time after, hearing that M. Persil had
died suddenly (persil being the French for parsley), I exclaimed, much
shocked: 'Ah! poor man, how unfortunate! He must have been eating
parrot!' However, the news was afterwards contradicted.
The next day I desired Michel to tell the carpenter to make a new cage
for Mademoiselle Desgarcins, who would certainly die of cramp if left
in her small travelling cage. But Michel, with a solemn face, said it
was unnecessary. 'For,' said he, 'I am sorry to tell you, sir, that a
misfortune has happened. A weasel has killed the golden pheasant. You
will, however, have it for your dinner to-day.'
I did not refuse, though the prospect of this repast caused me no
great pleasure. I am very fond of game, but somehow prefer pheasants
which have been shot to those killed by weasels.
'Then,' said I, 'if the cage is empty, let us put in the monkey.' We
brought the little cage close to the big cage, and opened both doors.
The monkey sprang into her new abode, bounded from perch to perch, and
then came and looked at me through the bars, making grimaces and
uttering plaintive cries.
'She is unhappy without a companion,' said Michel.
'Suppose we give her the parrot?'
'You know that little boy, an Auvergnat, who comes here with his
monkey asking for pennies. If I were you, sir, I would buy that
monkey.'
'And why that monkey rather than another?'
'He has been so well educated and is so gentle. He has a cap with a
feather, and he takes it off when you give him a nut or a bit of
sugar.'
[Illustration: {THE AUVERGNAT AND HIS MONKEY}]
'Can he do anything else?'
'He can fight a duel.'
'Is that all?'
'No, he can also catch fleas on his master.'
'But, Michel, do you think that that youth would part with so useful
an animal?'
'We can but ask him, and there he is at this moment!' And he called
to the boy to come in. The monkey was sitting on a box which the
little boy carried on his back, and when his master took off his cap,
the monkey did the same. It had a nice gentle little face, and I
remarked to Michel that it was very like a well-known translator of my
acquaintance.
'If I have the happiness to become the owner of this charming animal,'
I continued, 'we will call it Potich.' And giving Michel forty francs,
I left him to make his bargain with the little Auvergnat.
III
I had not entered my study since my return from Havre, and there is
always a pleasure in coming home again after an absence. I was glad to
come back, and looked about me with a pleased smile, feeling sure that
the furniture and ornaments of the room, if they could speak, would
say they were glad to see me again. As I glanced from one familiar
object to another, I saw, upon a seat by the fire, a thing like a
black and white muff, which I had never seen before. When I came
closer, I saw that the muff was a little cat, curled up, half asleep,
and purring loudly. I called the cook, whose name was Madame Lamarque.
She came in after a minute or two.
'So sorry to have kept you waiting, but you see, sir, I was making a
white sauce, and you, who can cook yourself, know how quickly those
sauces curdle if you are not looking after them.'
'Yes, I know that, Madame Lamarque; but what I do not know is, where
this new guest of mine comes from.' And I pointed to the cat.
'Ah, sir!' said Madame Lamarque in a sentimental tone, 'that is an
antony.'
'An antony, Madame Lamarque! What is that?'
'In other words, an orphan--a foundling, sir.'
'Poor little beast!'
'I felt sure that would interest you, sir.'
'And where did you find it, Madame Lamarque?'
'In the cellar--I heard a little cry--miaow, miaow, miaow! and I said
to myself, "That _must_ be a cat!"'
'No! did you actually say that?'
'Yes, and I went down myself, sir, and found the poor little thing
behind the sticks. Then I recollected how you had once said, "We ought
to have a cat in the house."'
'Did I say so? I think you are making a mistake, Madame Lamarque.'
'Indeed, sir, you did say so. Then I said to myself, "Providence has
sent us the cat which my master wishes for." And now there is one
question I must ask you, sir. What shall we call the cat?'
'We will call it Mysouff, if you have no objection. And please be
careful, Madame Lamarque, that it does not eat my quails and
turtle-doves, or any of my little foreign birds.'
'If M. Dumas is afraid of that,' said Michel, coming in, 'there is a
method of preventing cats from eating birds.'
'And what is the method, my good friend?'
'You have a bird in a cage. Very well. You cover three sides of the
cage, you make a gridiron red-hot, you put it against the uncovered
side of the cage, you let out the cat, and you leave the room. The
cat, when it makes its spring, jumps against the hot gridiron. The
hotter the gridiron is the better the cat is afterwards.'
'Thank you, Michel. And what of the troubadour and his monkey?'
'To be sure; I was coming to tell you about that. It is all right,
sir; you are to have Potich for forty francs, only you must give the
boy two white mice and a guinea-pig in return.'
'But where am I to find two white mice and a guinea-pig?'
'If you will leave the commission to me, I will see that they are
found.'
I left the commission to Michel.
'If you won't think me impertinent, sir,' said Madame Lamarque, 'I
should so like to know what _Mysouff_ means.'
'Mysouff just means Mysouff, Madame Lamarque.'
'It is a cat's name, then?'
'Certainly, since Mysouff the First was so-called. It is true, Madame
Lamarque, you never knew Mysouff.' And I became so thoughtful that
Madame Lamarque was kind enough to withdraw quietly, without asking
any questions about Mysouff the First.
That name had taken me back to fifteen years ago, when my mother was
still living. I had then the great happiness of having a mother to
scold me sometimes. At the time I speak of, I had a situation in the
service of the Duc d'Orleans, with a salary of 1,500 francs. My work
occupied me from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon. We
had a cat in those days whose name was Mysouff. This cat had missed
his vocation--he ought to have been a dog. Every morning I started for
my office at half-past nine, and came back every evening at half-past
five. Every morning Mysouff followed me to the corner of a particular
street, and every evening I found him in the same street, at the same
corner, waiting for me. Now the curious thing was that on the days
when I had found some amusement elsewhere, and was not coming home to
dinner, it was no use to open the door for Mysouff to go and meet
me.[5] Mysouff, in the attitude of the serpent with its tail in its
mouth, refused to stir from his cushion. On the other hand, the days I
did come, Mysouff would scratch at the door until someone opened it
for him. My mother was very fond of Mysouff; she used to call him her
barometer.
[5] A remarkable instance of telepathy in the Cat.--A. L.
'Mysouff marks my good and my bad weather,' my dear mother would say;
'the days you come in are my days of sunshine; my rainy days are when
you stay away.'
When I came home, I used to see Mysouff at the street corner, sitting
quite still and gazing into the distance. As soon as he caught sight
of me, he began to move his tail; then as I drew nearer, he rose and
walked backwards and forwards across the pavement with his back arched
and his tail in the air. When I reached him, he jumped up upon me as a
dog would have done, and bounded and played round me as I walked
towards the house; but when I was close to it he dashed in at full
speed. Two seconds after, I used to see my mother at the door.
Never again in this world, but in the next perhaps, I shall see her
standing waiting for me at the door.
That is what I was thinking of, dear readers, when the name of Mysouff
brought back all these recollections; so you understand why I did not
answer Madame Lamarque's questions.
Henceforth Mysouff II. enjoyed the same privileges that Mysouff I. had
done, although, as will be seen later, he was not distinguished by
similar virtues, but was, in fact, a very different sort of cat.
IV
The following Sunday, when my son Alexandre and one or two intimate
friends were assembled in my room, a second Auvergnat boy, with a
second monkey, demanded admittance, and said that a friend having told
him that M. Dumas had bought his monkey for forty francs, two white
mice, and a guinea-pig, he was prepared to offer his for the same
price. My friends urged me to buy the second monkey.
'Do buy this charming creature,' said my artist friend Giraud.
'Yes, do buy this ridiculous little beast,' said Alexandre.
'Buy him, indeed,' said I; 'have I forty francs to give away every
day, to say nothing of a guinea-pig and two white mice?'
'Gentlemen,' said Alexandre, 'I am sorry to tell you that my father
is, without exception, the most avaricious man living.'
My guests exclaimed, but Alexandre said that one day he would prove
the truth of his assertion. I was now called upon to admire the
monkey, and to remark how like he was to a friend of ours. Giraud, who
was painting a portrait of this gentleman, said that if I would let
the monkey sit to him, it would help him very much in his work, and
Maquet, another of my guests, offered, amidst general applause, to
make me a present of it.[6] This decided me.
[6] Maquet. The immortal Augustus MacKeat.
'You see,' said Alexandre, 'he accepts.'
'Come, young man,' said I to the Auvergnat, 'embrace your monkey for
the last time, and if you have any tears to shed, shed them without
delay.'
When the full price was paid, the boy made an attempt to do as I told
him, but the Last of the Laidmanoirs refused to be embraced by his
former master, and as soon as the latter had gone away, he seemed
delighted and began to dance, while Mademoiselle Desgarcins in her
cage danced, too, with all her might.
'Look!' said Maquet, 'they like each other. Let us complete the
happiness of these interesting animals.'
We shut them up in the cage together, to the great delight of
Mademoiselle Desgarcins, who did not care for Potich, and much
preferred her new admirer. Potich, indeed, showed signs of jealousy,
but, not being armed with the sword which he used to have when he
fought duels, he could not wash out his affronts in the blood of his
rival, but became a prey to silent melancholy and wounded affection.
While we were still looking at the monkeys, a servant came in bringing
a tray with wine and seltzer water.
'I say,' said Alexandre, 'let us make Mademoiselle Desgarcins open the
seltzer-water bottle!' and he put the bottle inside the cage on the
floor. No sooner had he done so, than all three monkeys surrounded it
and looked at it with the greatest curiosity. Mademoiselle Desgarcins
was the first to understand that something would happen if she undid
the four crossed wires which held down the cork. She accordingly set
to work, first with her fingers, and then with her teeth, and it was
not long before she undid the first three. She next attacked the
fourth, while the whole company, both men and monkeys, watched her
proceedings with breathless attention. Presently a frightful explosion
was heard: Mademoiselle Desgarcins was knocked over by the cork and
drenched with seltzer water, while Potich and the Last of the
Laidmanoirs fled to the top of their cage, uttering piercing cries.
'Oh!' cried Alexandre, 'I'll give my share of seltzer water to see her
open another bottle!' Mademoiselle Desgarcins had got up, shaken
herself, and gone to rejoin her companions, who were still howling
lamentably.
'You don't suppose she'll let herself be caught a second time,' said
Giraud.
'Do you know,' said Maquet, 'I should not wonder if she would. I
believe her curiosity would still be stronger than her fear.'
'Monkeys,' said Michel, who had come in on hearing their cries, 'are
more obstinate than mules. The more seltzer-water bottles you give
them, the more they will uncork.'
'Do you think so, Michel?'
'You know, of course, how they catch them in their own country.'
'No, Michel.'
'What! you don't know _that_, gentlemen?' said Michel, full of
compassion for our ignorance. 'You know that monkeys are very fond of
Indian corn. Well, you put some Indian corn into a bottle, the neck of
which is just large enough to admit a monkey's paw. He sees the Indian
corn through the glass----'
'Well, Michel?'
'He puts his hand inside, and takes a good handful of the Indian corn.
At that moment the hunter shows himself. They are so obstinate--the
monkeys, I mean--that they won't let go what they have in their hand,
but as they can't draw their closed fist through the opening, there
they are, you see, caught.'
'Well, then, Michel, if ever our monkeys get out, you will know how to
catch them again.'
'Oh! no fear, sir, that is just what I shall do.'
The seltzer-water experiment was successfully repeated, to the triumph
of Michel and the delight of Alexandre, who wished to go on doing it;
but I forbade him, seeing that poor Mademoiselle Desgarcins' nose was
bleeding from the blow of the cork.
'It is not that,' said Alexandre; 'it is because you grudge your
seltzer water. I have already remarked, gentlemen, that my father is,
I regret to say, an exceedingly avaricious man.'
V
It is now my painful duty to give my readers some account of the
infamous conduct of Mysouff II. One morning, on waking rather late, I
saw my bedroom door gently opened, and the head of Michel thrust in,
wearing such a concerned expression that I knew at once that something
was wrong.
'What has happened, Michel?'
'Why, sir, those villains of monkeys have managed to twist a bar of
their cage, I don't know how, until they have made a great hole, and
now they have escaped.'
'Well--but, Michel, we foresaw that that might occur, and now you have
only to buy your Indian corn, and procure three bottles the right
size.'
'Ah! you are laughing, sir,' said Michel, reproachfully, 'but you
won't laugh when you know all. They have opened the door of the
aviary----'
'And so my birds have flown away?'
'Sir, your six pairs of turtle doves, your fourteen quails, and all
your little foreign birds, are eaten up!'[7]
[7] Let the reader compare the conduct of Mr. Gully, later!
'But monkeys won't eat birds!'
'No, but Master Mysouff will, and he has done it!'
'The deuce he has! I must see for myself.'
'Yes, go yourself, sir; you will see a sight--a field of battle--a
massacre of St. Bartholomew!'
As I was coming out, Michel stopped me to point to Potich, who had
hung himself by the tail to the branch of a maple, and was swinging
gracefully to and fro. Mademoiselle Desgarcins was bounding gaily
about in the aviary, while the Last of the Laidmanoirs was practising
gymnastics on the top of the greenhouse. 'Well, Michel, we must catch
them. I will manage the Last of the Laidmanoirs if you will get hold
of Mademoiselle Desgarcins. As to poor little Potich, he will come of
his own accord.'
'I wouldn't trust him, sir; he is a hypocrite. He has made it up with
the other one--just think of that!'
'What! he has made friends with his rival in the affections of
Mademoiselle Desgarcins?'
'Just so, sir.'
'That is sad indeed, Michel; I thought only human beings could be
guilty of so mean an action.'
'You see, sir, these monkeys have frequented the society of human
beings.'
[Illustration: {THE LAST OF THE LAIDMANOIRS AND MADEMOISELLE
DESGARCINS}]
I now advanced upon the Last of the Laidmanoirs with so much
precaution that I contrived to shut him into the greenhouse, where he
retreated into a corner and prepared to defend himself, while Potich,
from the outside, encouraged his friend by making horrible faces at me
through the glass. At this moment piercing shrieks were heard from
Mademoiselle Desgarcins; Michel had just caught her. These cries so
enraged the Last of the Laidmanoirs that he dashed out upon me; but I
parried his attack with the palm of my hand; with which he came in
contact so forcibly that he lost breath for a minute, and I then
picked him up by the scruff of the neck.
'Have you caught Mademoiselle Desgarcins?' I shouted to Michel.
'Have you caught the Last of the Laidmanoirs?' returned he.
'Yes!' we both replied in turn. And each bearing his prisoner, we
returned to the cage, which had in the meantime been mended, and shut
them up once more, whilst Potich, with loud lamentations, fled to the
top of the highest tree in the garden. No sooner, however, did he find
that his two companions were unable to get out of their cage, than he
came down from his tree, approached Michel in a timid and sidelong
manner, and with clasped hands and little plaintive cries, entreated
to be shut up again with his friends.
'Just see what a hypocrite he is!' said Michel.
But I was of opinion that the conduct of Potich was prompted by
devotion rather than hypocrisy; I compared it to that of Regulus, who
returned to Carthage to keep his promised word, or to King John of
France, who voluntarily gave himself up to the English for the
Countess of Salisbury's sake.
Michel continued to think Potich a hypocrite, but on account of his
repentance he was forgiven. He was put back into the cage, where
Mademoiselle Desgarcins took very little notice of him.
All this time Mysouff, having been forgotten, calmly remained in the
aviary, and continued to crunch the bones of his victims with the most
hardened indifference. It was easy enough to catch _him_. We shut him
into the aviary, and held a council as to what should be his
punishment. Michel was of opinion that he should be shot forthwith. I
was, however, opposed to his immediate execution, and resolved to wait
until the following Sunday, and then to cause Mysouff to be formally
tried by my assembled friends. The condemnation was therefore
postponed. In the meantime Mysouff remained a prisoner in the very
spot where his crimes had been committed. He continued, however, to
refresh himself with the remains of his victims without apparent
remorse, but Michel removed all the bodies, and confined him to a diet
of bread and water.
Next Sunday, having convoked a council of all my friends, the trial
was proceeded with. Michel was appointed Chief Justice and Nogent
Saint-Laurent was counsel for the prisoner. I may remark that the jury
were inclined to find a verdict of guilty, and after the first speech
of the Judge, the capital sentence seemed almost certain. But the
skilful advocate, in a long and eloquent speech, brought clearly
before us the innocence of Mysouff, the malice of the monkeys, their
quickness and incessant activity compared with the less inventive
minds of cats. He showed us that Mysouff was incapable of
contemplating such a crime; he described him wrapped in peaceful
sleep, then, suddenly aroused from this innocent slumber by the
abandoned creatures who, living as they did opposite the aviary, had
doubtless long harboured their diabolical designs. We saw Mysouff but
half awake, still purring innocently, stretching himself, opening his
pink mouth, from which protruded a tongue like that of a heraldic
lion. He shakes his ears, a proof that he rejects the infamous
proposal that is being made to him; he listens; at first he
refuses--the advocate insisted that the prisoner had begun by
refusing--then, naturally yielding, hardly more than a kitten,
corrupted as he had been by the cook, who instead of feeding him on
milk or a little weak broth, as she had been told to do, had
recklessly excited his carnivorous appetite by giving him pieces of
liver and parings of raw chops; the unfortunate young cat yields
little by little, prompted more by good nature and weakness of mind
than by cruelty or greed, and, only half awake, he does the bidding of
the villainous monkeys, the real instigators of the crime. The
counsel here took the prisoner in his arms, showed us his paws, and
defied any anatomist to say that with paws so made, an animal could
possibly open a door that was bolted. Finally, he borrowed Michel's
Dictionary of Natural History, opened it at the article 'Cat,'
'Domestic Cat,' 'Wild Cat'; he proved that Mysouff was no wild cat,
seeing that nature had robed him in white, the colour of innocence;
then smiting the book with vehemence, 'Cat!' he exclaimed, 'Cat! You
shall now hear, gentlemen, what the illustrious Buffon, the man with
lace sleeves, has to say about the cat.
'"The cat," says M. de Buffon, "is not to be trusted, but it is kept
to rid the house of enemies which cannot otherwise be destroyed.
Although the cat, especially when young, is pleasing, nature has given
it perverse and untrustworthy qualities which increase with age, and
which education may conceal, but will not eradicate." Well, then,'
exclaimed the orator, after having read this passage, 'what more
remains to be said? Did poor Mysouff come here with a false character
seeking a situation? Was it not the cook herself who found him--who
took him by force from the heap of sticks behind which he had sought
refuge? It was merely to interest and touch the heart of her master
that she described him mewing in the cellar. We must reflect also,
that those unhappy birds, his victims--I allude especially to the
quails, which are eaten by man--though their death is doubtless much
to be deplored, yet they must have felt themselves liable to death at
any moment, and are now released from the terrors they experienced
every time they saw the cook approaching their retreat. Finally,
gentlemen, I appeal to your justice, and I think you will now admit
that the interesting and unfortunate Mysouff has but yielded, not only
to incontrollable natural instincts, but also to foreign influence. I
claim for my client the plea of extenuating circumstances.'
The counsel's pleading was received with cries of applause, and
Mysouff, found guilty of complicity in the murder of the quails,
turtle-doves, and other birds of different species, but with
extenuating circumstances, was sentenced only to five years of
monkeys.
VI
The next winter, certain circumstances, with which I need not trouble
my readers, led to my making a journey to Algiers. I seldom make any
long journey without bringing home some animal to add to my
collection, and accordingly I returned from Africa accompanied by a
vulture, which I bought from a little boy who called himself a
Beni-Mouffetard. I paid ten francs for the vulture, and made the
Beni-Mouffetard a present of two more, in return for which he warned
me that my vulture was excessively savage, and had already bitten off
the thumb of an Arab and the tail of a dog. I promised to be very
careful, and the next day I became the possessor of a magnificent
vulture, whose only fault consisted in a strong desire to tear in
pieces everybody who came near him. I bestowed on him the name of his
compatriot, Jugurtha. He had a chain fastened to his leg, and had for
further security been placed in a large cage made of spars. In this
cage he travelled quite safely as far as Philippeville, without any
other accident than that he nearly bit off the finger of a passenger
who had tried to make friends with him. At Philippeville a difficulty
arose. It was three miles from Stora, the port where we were to
embark, and the diligence did not go on so far. I and several other
gentlemen thought that we would like to walk to Stora, the scenery
being beautiful and the distance not very great; but what was I to do
about Jugurtha? I could not ask a porter to carry the cage; Jugurtha
would certainly have eaten him through the spars. I thought of a plan:
it was to lengthen his chain eight or ten feet by means of a cord; and
then to drive him in front of me with a long pole. But the first
difficulty was to induce Jugurtha to come out of his cage; none of us
dared put our hands within reach of his beak. However, I managed to
fasten the cord to his chain, then I made two men armed with pickaxes
break away the spars. Jugurtha finding himself free, spread out his
wings to fly away, but he could of course only fly as far as his cord
would permit.
Now Jugurtha was a very intelligent creature; he saw that there was an
obstacle in the way of his liberty, and that I was that obstacle; he
therefore turned upon me with fury, in the hope of putting me to
flight, or devouring me in case of resistance. I, however, was no less
sagacious than Jugurtha; I had foreseen the attack, and provided
myself with a good switch made of dogwood, as thick as one's
forefinger, and eight feet long. With this switch I parried Jugurtha's
attack, which astonished but did not stop him; however, a second blow,
given with all my force, made him stop short, and a third caused him
to fly in the opposite direction, that is, towards Stora. Once
launched upon this road, I had only to use my switch adroitly to make
Jugurtha proceed at about the same pace as we did ourselves, to the
great admiration of my fellow-travellers, and of all the people whom
we met on the road. On our arrival at Stora Jugurtha made no
difficulty about getting on board the steamer, and when tied to the
mast, waited calmly while a new cage was made for him. He went into it
of his own accord, received with gratitude the pieces of meat which
the ship's cook gave him, and three days after his embarkation he
became so tame that he used to present me with his head to scratch, as
a parrot does. I brought Jugurtha home without further adventure, and
committed him to the charge of Michel.
It was not until my return from Algiers on this occasion that I went
to live at Monte Cristo, the building of which had been finished
during my absence. Up to this time I had lived in a smaller house
called the Villa Medicis, and while the other was building, Michel
made arrangements for the proper lodging of all my animals, for he
was much more occupied about their comfort than he was about mine or
even his own. They had all plenty of room, particularly the dogs, who
were not confined by any sort of enclosure, and Pritchard, who was
naturally generous, kept open house with a truly Scottish hospitality.
It was his custom to sit in the middle of the road and salute every
dog that passed with a little not unfriendly growl; smelling him, and
permitting himself to be smelt in a ceremonious manner. When a mutual
sympathy had been produced by this means, a conversation something
like this would begin:
'Have you a good master?' asked the strange dog.
'Not bad,' Pritchard would reply.
'Does your master feed you well?'
'Well, one has porridge twice a day, bones at breakfast and dinner,
and anything one can pick up in the kitchen besides.'
The stranger licked his lips.
'You are not badly off,' said he.
'I do not complain,' replied Pritchard. Then, seeing the strange dog
look pensive, he added, 'Would you like to dine with us?'
The invitation was accepted at once, for dogs do not wait to be
pressed, like some foolish human beings.
At dinner-time Pritchard came in, followed by an unknown dog, who,
like Pritchard, placed himself beside my chair, and scratched my knee
with his paw in such a confiding way that I felt sure that Pritchard
must have been commending my benevolence. The dog, after spending a
pleasant evening, found that it was rather too late to return home, so
slept comfortably on the grass after his good supper. Next morning he
took two or three steps as if to go away, then changing his mind, he
inquired of Pritchard, 'Should I be much in the way if I stayed on
here?'
[Illustration: DUMAS ARRIVES AT STORA WITH HIS VULTURE]
Pritchard replied, 'You could quite well, with management, make
them believe you are the neighbour's dog, and after two or three days,
nobody would know you did not belong to the house. You might live here
just as well as those idle useless monkeys, who do nothing but amuse
themselves, or that greedy vulture, who eats tripe all day long, or
that idiot of a macaw, who is always screaming about nothing.'
The dog stayed, keeping in the background at first, but in a day or
two he jumped up upon me and followed me everywhere, and there was
another guest to feed, that was all. Michel asked me one day if I knew
how many dogs there were about the place. I answered that I did not.
'Sir,' said Michel, 'there are thirteen.'
'That is an unlucky number, Michel; you must see that they do not all
dine together, else one of them is sure to die first.'
'It is not that, though,' said Michel, 'it is the expense I am
thinking of. Why, they would eat an ox a day, all those dogs; and if
you will allow me, sir, I will just take a whip and put the whole pack
to the door, to-morrow morning.'
'But, Michel, let us do it handsomely. These dogs, after all, do
honour to the house by staying here. So give them a grand dinner
to-morrow; tell them that it is the farewell banquet, and then, at
dessert, put them all to the door.'
'But after all, sir, I cannot put them to the door, because there
isn't a door.'
'Michel,' said I, 'there are certain things in this world that one
must just put up with, to keep up one's character and position. Since
all these dogs have come to me, let them stay with me. I don't think
they will ruin me, Michel. Only, on their own account, you should be
careful that there are not thirteen.'
'I will drive away one,' suggested Michel, 'and then there will only
be twelve.'
'On the contrary, let another come, and then there will be fourteen.'
Michel sighed.
'It's a regular kennel,' he murmured.
It was, in fact, a pack of hounds, though rather a mixed one. There
was a Russian wolfhound, there was a poodle, a water spaniel, a spitz,
a dachshund with crooked legs, a mongrel terrier, a mongrel King
Charles, and a Turkish dog which had no hair on its body, only a tuft
upon its head and a tassel at the end of its tail. Our next recruit
was a little Maltese terrier, named Lisette, which raised the number
to fourteen. After all, the expense of these fourteen amounted to
rather over two pounds a month. A single dinner given to five or six
of my own species would have cost me three times as much, and they
would have gone away dissatisfied; for, even if they had liked my
wine, they would certainly have found fault with my books. Out of this
pack of hounds, one became Pritchard's particular friend and Michel's
favourite. This was a dachshund with short crooked legs, a long body,
and, as Michel said, the finest voice in the department of
Seine-et-Oise. Portugo--that was his name--had in truth a most
magnificent bass voice. I used to hear it sometimes in the night when
I was writing, and think how that deep-toned majestic bark would
please St. Hubert if he heard it in his grave. But what was Portugo
doing at that hour, and why was he awake while the other dogs
slumbered? This mystery was revealed one day, when a stewed rabbit was
brought me for dinner. I inquired where the rabbit came from.
'You thought it good, sir?' Michel asked me with a pleased face.
'Excellent.'
'Well, then, you can have one just the same every day, sir, if you
like.'
[Illustration: 'IT'S A REGULAR KENNEL']
'Every day, Michel? Surely that is almost too much to promise.
Besides, I should like, before consuming so many rabbits, to know
where they come from.'
'You shall know that this very night, if you don't mind coming out
with me.'
'Ah! Michel, I have told you before that you are a poacher!'
'Oh, sir, as to that, I am as innocent as a baby--and, as I was
saying, if you will only come out with me to-night--'
'Must I go far, Michel?'
'Not a hundred yards, sir.'
'At what o'clock?'
'Just at the moment when you hear Portugo's first bark.'
'Very well, Michel, I will be with you.'
I had nearly forgotten this promise, and was writing as usual, when
Michel came into my study. It was about eleven o'clock, and a fine
moonlight night.
'Hallo!' said I, 'Portugo hasn't barked yet, has he?'
'No, but I was just thinking that if you waited for that, you would
miss seeing something curious.'
'What should I miss, Michel?'
'The council of war which is held between Pritchard and Portugo.'
I followed Michel, and sure enough, among the fourteen dogs, which
were mostly sleeping in different attitudes, Portugo and Pritchard
were sitting up, and seemed to be gravely debating some important
question. When the debate was ended, they separated; Portugo went out
at the gate to the high road, turned the corner, and disappeared,
while Pritchard began deliberately, as if he had plenty of time before
him, to follow the little path which led up to a stone quarry. We
followed Pritchard, who took no notice of us, though he evidently knew
we were there. He went up to the top of the quarry, examined and smelt
about over the ground with great care, and when he had found a scent
and assured himself that it was fresh, he lay down flat and waited.
Almost at the same moment, Portugo's first bark was heard some two
hundred yards off. Now the plan the two dogs had laid was clear to us.
The rabbits came out of their holes in the quarry every evening to go
to their feeding ground; Pritchard found the scent of one; Portugo
then made a wide circuit, found and chased the rabbit, and, as a
rabbit or a hare always comes back upon its former track, Pritchard,
lying in ambush, awaited its return. Accordingly, as the sound of
Portugo's barking came closer, we saw Pritchard's yellow eyes light up
and flame like a topaz; then all of a sudden he made a spring, and we
heard a cry of fright and distress.
'They've done it!' said Michel, and he went to Pritchard, took out of
his mouth a nice plump rabbit, gave it a blow behind the ears to
finish it, and, opening it on the spot, gave the inside to the two
dogs, who shared their portion contentedly, although they probably
regretted Michel's interference. As Michel told me, I could have eaten
a stewed rabbit every day for dinner, if such had been my desire.
But after this, events of a different kind were taking place, which
obliged me to leave my country pursuits, and I spent about two months
in Paris. The day before I returned to St.-Germains I wrote and told
Michel to expect me, and found him waiting for me on the road half way
from the station.
'I must tell you, sir,' he said, as soon as I was within hearing,
'that two important events have happened at Monte Cristo since you
went away.'
'Well, Michel, let me hear.'
'In the first place, Pritchard got his hind foot into a snare and
instead of staying where he was as any other dog would have done, he
bit off his foot with his teeth, and so he came home upon three legs.'
'But,' said I, much shocked, 'is the poor beast dead after such an
accident?'
'Dead, sir? Was not I there to doctor him?'
'And what did you do to him then?'
'I cut off the foot properly at the joint with a pruning knife. I then
sewed the skin neatly over it, and now you would never know it was
off! Look there, the rascal has smelt you and is coming to meet you.'
[Illustration: JUGURTHA BECOMES DIOGENES]
And at that moment Pritchard appeared, coming at full gallop, so that,
as Michel had said, one would hardly have noticed that he had only
three feet. My meeting with Pritchard was, as may be supposed, full of
deep emotion on both sides. I was sorry for the poor animal. When I
had recovered a little, I asked Michel what his other piece of news
was.
'The latest news, sir, is that Jugurtha's name is no longer Jugurtha.'
'What is it then?'
'It is Diogenes.'
'And why?'
'Look, sir!'
We had now reached the little avenue of ash-trees which formed the
entrance to the villa. To the left of the avenue the vulture was seen
walking proudly to and fro in an immense tub, which Michel had made
into a house for him.
'Ah! now I understand,' said I. 'Of course, directly he lives in a
tub----'
'That's it!' said Michel. 'Directly he lives in a tub, he cannot be
Jugurtha any more; he _must_ be Diogenes.'
I admired Michel's historical learning no less than I did his surgical
skill, just as the year before, I had bowed before his superior
knowledge of natural history.
VII
In order to lead to more incidents in the life of Pritchard I must now
tell my readers that I had a friend called Charpillon, who had a
passion for poultry, and kept the finest hens in the whole department
of Yonne. These hens were chiefly Cochins and Brahmapootras; they laid
the most beautiful brown eggs, and Charpillon surrounded them with
every luxury and never would allow them to be killed. He had the
inside of his hen-house painted green, in order that the hens, even
when shut up, might fancy themselves in a meadow. In fact, the
illusion was so complete, that when the hen-house was first painted,
the hens refused to go in at night, fearing to catch cold; but after a
short time even the least intelligent among them understood that she
had the good fortune to belong to a master who knew how to combine the
useful with the beautiful. Whenever these hens ventured out upon the
road, strangers would exclaim with delight, 'Oh! what beautiful hens!'
to which some one better acquainted with the wonders of this fortunate
village would reply, 'I should think so! These are M. Charpillon's
hens.' Or, if the speaker were of an envious disposition, he might
add, 'Yes indeed! hens that _nothing_ is thought too good for!'
When my friend Charpillon heard that I had returned from Paris, he
invited me to come and stay with him to shoot, adding as a further
inducement that he would give me the best and freshest eggs I had ever
eaten in my life. Though I did not share Charpillon's great love of
poultry, I am very fond of fresh eggs, and the nankeen-coloured eggs
laid by his Brahma hens had an especially delicate flavour. But all
earthly pleasures are uncertain. The next morning Charpillon's hens
were found to have only laid three eggs instead of eight. Such a thing
had never happened before, and Charpillon did not know whom to
suspect; however he suspected every one rather than his hens, and a
sort of cloud began to obscure the confidence he had hitherto placed
in the security of his enclosures. While these gloomy doubts were
occupying us, I observed Michel hovering about as if he had something
on his mind, and asked him if he wanted to speak to me.
'I should be glad to have a few words with you, sir.'
'In private?'
'It would be better so, for the honour of Pritchard.'
'Ah, indeed? What has the rascal been doing now?'
'You remember, sir, what your solicitor said to you one day when I was
in the room?'
'What did he say, Michel? My solicitor is a clever man, and says many
sensible things; still it is difficult for me to remember them all.'
'Well, sir,' he said, 'find out whom the crime benefits, and you will
find the criminal.'
'I remember that axiom perfectly, Michel. Well?'
'Well, sir, whom can this crime of stolen eggs benefit more than
Pritchard?'
'Pritchard? You think it is he who steals the eggs? Pritchard, who
brings home eggs without breaking them!'
'You mean who _used_ to bring them. Pritchard is an animal who has
vicious instincts, sir, and if he does not come to a bad end some day,
I shall be surprised, that's all.'
'Does Pritchard eat eggs, then?'
'He does; and it is only right to say, sir, that that is _your_
fault.'
'What! my fault? My fault that Pritchard eats eggs?'
Michel shook his head sadly, but nothing could shake his opinion.
'Now really, Michel, this is too much! Is it not enough that critics
tell me that I pervert everybody's mind with my corrupt literature,
but you must join my detractors and say that my bad example corrupts
Pritchard?'
'I beg pardon, sir, but do you remember how one day, at the Villa
Medicis, w
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