← catalogue

The Naturalist in La Plata

by W. H. Hudson · English · Gutenberg #7446 · 607,730 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Naturalist in La Plata
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Naturalist in La Plata

Author: W. H. Hudson


        
Release date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #7446]
                Most recently updated: April 12, 2014

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7446

Credits: Produced by Eric Eldred


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA ***




Produced by Eric Eldred









THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA

BY

W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.


JOINT AUTHOR OF "ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY"


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. SMIT

THIRD EDITION.

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1895




PREFACE.


The plan I have followed in this work has been to sift and arrange the
facts I have gathered concerning the habits of the animals best known to
me, preserving those only, which, in my judgment, appeared worth
recording. In some instances a variety of subjects have linked
themselves together in my mind, and have been grouped under one heading;
consequently the scope of the book is not indicated by the list of
contents: this want is, however, made good by an index at the end.

It is seldom an easy matter to give a suitable name to a book of this
description. I am conscious that the one I have made choice of displays
a lack of originality; also, that this kind of title has been used
hitherto for works constructed more or less on the plan of the famous
_Naturalist on the Amazons._ After I have made this apology the reader,
on his part, will readily admit that, in treating of the Natural History
of a district so well known, and often described as the southern portion
of La Plata, which has a temperate climate, and where nature is neither
exuberant nor grand, a personal narrative would have seemed superfluous.

The greater portion of the matter contained in this volume has already
seen the light in the form of papers contributed to the _Field,_ with
other journals that treat of Natural History; and to the monthly
magazines:--_Longmans', The Nineteenth Century, The Gentleman's
Magazine,_ and others: I am indebted to the Editors and Proprietors of
these periodicals for kindly allowing me to make use of this material.

Of all animals, birds have perhaps afforded me most pleasure; but most
of the fresh knowledge I have collected in this department is contained
in a larger work _(Argentine Ornithology),_ of which Dr. P. L. Sclater
is part author. As I have not gone over any of the subjects dealt with
in that work, bird-life has not received more than a fair share of
attention in the present volume.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I. THE DESERT PAMPAS

CHAPTER II. CUB PUMA, OR LION OF AMERICA

CHAPTER III. WAVE OF LIFE

CHAPTER IV. SOME CURIOUS ANIMAL WEAPONS

CHAPTER V. FEAR IN BIRDS

CHAPTER VI. PARENTAL AND EARLY INSTINCTS

CHAPTER VII. THE MEPHITIC SKUNK

CHAPTER VIII. MIMICRY AND WARNING COLOURS IN GRASSHOPPERS

CHAPTER IX. DRAGON-FLY STORMS

CHAPTER X. MOSQUITOES AND PARASITE PROBLEMS

CHAPTER XI. HUMBLE-BEES AND OTHER MATTERS

CHAPTER XII. A NOBLE WASP

CHAPTER XIII. NATURE'S NIGHT-LIGHTS

CHAPTER XIV. FACTS AND THOUGHTS ABOUT SPIDERS

CHAPTER XV. THE DEATH-FEIGNING INSTINCT

CHAPTER XVI. HUMMING-BIRDS

CHAPTER XVII. THE CRESTED SCREAMER

CHAPTER XVIII. THE WOODHEWER FAMILY

CHAPTER XIX. MUSIC AND DANCING IN NATURE

CHAPTER XX. BIOGRAPHY OF THE VIZCACHA

CHAPTER XXI. THE DYING HUANACO

CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGE INSTINCTS OF CATTLE

CHAPTER XXIII. HORSE AND MAN

CHAPTER XXIV. SEEN AND LOST

APPENDIX

INDEX




THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA,


CHAPTER I.

THE DESERT PAMPAS.


During recent years we have heard much about the great and rapid changes
now going on in the plants and animals of all the temperate regions of
the globe colonized by Europeans. These changes, if taken merely as
evidence of material progress, must be a matter of rejoicing to those
who are satisfied, and more than satisfied, with our system of
civilization, or method of outwitting Nature by the removal of all
checks on the undue increase of our own species. To one who finds a
charm in things as they exist in the unconquered provinces of Nature's
dominions, and who, not being over-anxious to reach the end of his
journey, is content to perform it on horseback, or in a waggon drawn by
bullocks, it is permissible to lament the altered aspect of the earth's
surface, together with the disappearance of numberless noble and
beautiful forms, both of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. For he
cannot find it in his heart to love the forms by which they are
replaced; these are cultivated and domesticated, and have only become
useful to man at the cost of that grace and spirit which freedom and
wildness give. In numbers they are many--twenty-five millions of sheep
in this district, fifty millions in that, a hundred millions in a
third--but how few are the species in place of those destroyed? and when
the owner of many sheep and much wheat desires variety--for he possesses
this instinctive desire, albeit in conflict with and overborne by the
perverted instinct of destruction--what is there left to him, beyond his
very own, except the weeds that spring up in his fields under all skies,
ringing him round with old-world monotonous forms, as tenacious of their
undesired union with him as the rats and cockroaches that inhabit his
house?

We hear most frequently of North America, New Zealand, and Australia in
this connection; but nowhere on the globe has civilization "written
strange defeatures" more markedly than on that great area of level
country called by English writers _the pampas_, but by the Spanish more
appropriately _La Pampa_--from the Quichua word signifying open space or
country--since it forms in most part one continuous plain, extending on
its eastern border from the river Parana, in latitude 32 degrees, to the
Patagonian formation on the river Colorado, and comprising about two
hundred thousand square miles of humid, grassy country.

This district has been colonized by Europeans since the middle of the
sixteenth century; but down to within a very few years ago immigration
was on too limited a scale to make any very great change; and, speaking
only of the pampean country, the conquered territory was a long,
thinly-settled strip, purely pastoral, and the Indians, with their
primitive mode of warfare, were able to keep back the invaders from the
greater portion of their ancestral hunting-grounds. Not twenty years
ago a ride of two hundred miles, starting from the capital city,
Buenos Ayres, was enough to place one well beyond the furthest
south-western frontier outpost. In 1879 the Argentine Government
determined to rid the country of the aborigines, or, at all events, to
break their hostile and predatory spirit once for all; with the result
that the entire area of the grassy pampas, with a great portion of
the sterile pampas and Patagonia, has been made available to the
emigrant. There is no longer anything to deter the starvelings
of the Old World from possessing themselves of this new land of
promise, flowing, like Australia, with milk and tallow, if not with
honey; any emasculated migrant from a Genoese or Neapolitan
slum is now competent to "fight the wilderness" out there, with his
eight-shilling fowling-piece and the implements of his trade. The
barbarians no longer exist to frighten his soul with dreadful war cries;
they have moved away to another more remote and shadowy region, called
in their own language _Alhuemapu_, and not known to geographers. For
the results so long and ardently wished for have swiftly followed on
General Roca's military expedition; and the changes witnessed during the
last decade on the pampas exceed in magnitude those which had been
previously effected by three centuries of occupation.

In view of this wave of change now rapidly sweeping away the old
order, with whatever beauty and grace it possessed, it might not seem
inopportune at the present moment to give a rapid sketch, from the field
naturalist's point of view, of the great plain, as it existed before the
agencies introduced by European colonists had done their work, and as it
still exists in its remoter parts.

The humid, grassy, pampean country extends, roughly speaking, half-way
from the Atlantic Ocean and the Plata and Paraná rivers to the Andes,
and passes gradually into the "Monte Formation," or _sterile pampa_--a
sandy, more or less barren district, producing a dry, harsh, ligneous
vegetation, principally thorny bushes and low trees, of which the chañar
(Gurliaca decorticans) is the most common; hence the name of
"Chañar-steppe" used by some writers: and this formation extends
southwards down into Patagonia. Scientists have not yet been able to
explain why the pampas, with a humid climate, and a soil exceedingly
rich, have produced nothing but grass, while the dry, sterile
territories on their north, west, and south borders have an arborescent
vegetation. Darwin's conjecture that the extreme violence of the
_pampero,_ or south-west wind, prevented trees from growing, is now
proved to have been ill-founded since the introduction of the Eucalyptus
globulus; for this noble tree attains to an extraordinary height on the
pampas, and exhibits there a luxuriance of foliage never seen in
Australia.

To this level area--my "parish of Selborne," or, at all events, a goodly
portion of it--with the sea on one hand, and on the other the
practically infinite expanse of grassy desert--another sea, not "in vast
fluctuations fixed," but in comparative calm--I should like to conduct
the reader in imagination: a country all the easier to be imagined on
account of the absence of mountains, woods, lakes, and rivers. There is,
indeed, little to be imagined--not even a sense of vastness; and Darwin,
touching on this point, in the _Journal of a Naturalist,_ aptly
says:--"At sea, a person's eye being six feet above the surface of the
water, his horizon is two miles and four-fifths distant. In like manner,
the more level the plain, the more nearly does the horizon approach
within these narrow limits; and this, in my opinion, entirely destroys
the grandeur which one would have imagined that a vast plain would have
possessed."

I remember my first experience of a hill, after having been always shut
within "these narrow limits." It was one of the range of sierras near
Cape Corrientes, and not above eight hundred feet high; yet, when I had
gained the summit, I was amazed at the vastness of the earth, as it
appeared to me from that modest elevation. Persons born and bred on the
pampas, when they first visit a mountainous district, frequently
experience a sensation as of "a ball in the throat" which seems to
prevent free respiration.

In most places the rich, dry soil is occupied by a coarse grass, three
or four feet high, growing in large tussocks, and all the year round of
a deep green; a few slender herbs and trefoils, with long, twining
stems, maintain a frail existence among the tussocks; but the strong
grass crowds out most plants, and scarcely a flower relieves its uniform
everlasting verdure. There are patches, sometimes large areas, where it
does not grow, and these are carpeted by small creeping herbs of a
livelier green, and are gay in spring with flowers, chiefly of the
composite and papilionaceous kinds; and verbenas, scarlet, purple, rose,
and white. On moist or marshy grounds there are also several lilies,
yellow, white, and red, two or three flags, and various other small
flowers; but altogether the flora of the pampas is the poorest in
species of any fertile district on the globe. On moist clayey ground
flourishes the stately pampa grass, Gynerium argenteum, the spears of
which often attain a height of eight or nine feet. I have ridden through
many leagues of this grass with the feathery spikes high as my head, and
often higher. It would be impossible for me to give anything like an
adequate idea of the exquisite loveliness, at certain times and seasons,
of this queen of grasses, the chief glory of the solitary pampa.
Everyone is familiar with it in cultivation; but the garden-plant has a
sadly decaying, draggled look at all times, and to my mind, is often
positively ugly with its dense withering mass of coarse leaves, drooping
on the ground, and bundle of spikes, always of the same dead white or
dirty cream-colour. Now colour--the various ethereal tints that give a
blush to its cloud-like purity--is one of the chief beauties of this
grass on its native soil; and travellers who have galloped across the
pampas at a season of the year when the spikes are dead, and white as
paper or parchment, have certainly missed its greatest charm. The plant
is social, and in some places where scarcely any other kind exists it
covers large areas with a sea of fleecy-white plumes; in late summer,
and in autumn, the tints are seen, varying from the most delicate rose,
tender and illusive as the blush on the white under-plumage of some
gulls, to purple and violaceous. At no time does it look so perfect as
in the evening, before and after sunset, when the softened light imparts
a mistiness to the crowding plumes, and the traveller cannot help
fancying that the tints, which then seem richest, are caught from the
level rays of the sun, or reflected from the coloured vapours of the
afterglow.

The last occasion on which I saw the pampa grass in its full beauty was
at the close of a bright day in March, ending in one of those perfect
sunsets seen only in the wilderness, where no lines of house or hedge
mar the enchanting disorder of nature, and the earth and sky tints are
in harmony. I had been travelling all day with one companion, and for
two hours we had ridden through the matchless grass, which spread away
for miles on every side, the myriads of white spears, touched with
varied colour, blending in the distance and appearing almost like the
surface of a cloud. Hearing a swishing sound behind us, we turned
sharply round, and saw, not forty yards away in our rear, a party of
five mounted Indians, coming swiftly towards us: but at the very moment
we saw them their animals came to a dead halt, and at the same instant
the five riders leaped up, and stood erect on their horses' backs.
Satisfied that they had no intention of attacking us, and were only
looking out for strayed horses, we continued watching them for some
time, as they stood gazing away over the plain in different directions,
motionless and silent, like bronze men on strange horse-shaped pedestals
of dark stone; so dark in their copper skins and long black hair,
against the far-off ethereal sky, flushed with amber light; and at their
feet, and all around, the cloud of white and faintly-blushing plumes.
That farewell scene was printed very vividly on my memory, but cannot be
shown to another, nor could it be even if a Ruskin's pen or a Turner's
pencil were mine; for the flight of the sea-mew is not more impossible
to us than the power to picture forth the image of Nature in our souls,
when she reveals herself in one of those "special moments" which have
"special grace" in situations where her wild beauty has never been
spoiled by man.

At other hours and seasons the general aspect of the plain is
monotonous, and in spite of the unobstructed view, and the unfailing
verdure and sunshine, somewhat melancholy, although never sombre: and
doubtless the depressed and melancholy feeling the pampa inspires in
those who are unfamiliar with it is due in a great measure to the
paucity of life, and to the profound silence. The wind, as may well be
imagined on that extensive level area, is seldom at rest; there, as in
the forest, it is a "bard of many breathings," and the strings it
breathes upon give out an endless variety of sorrowful sounds, from the
sharp fitful sibilations of the dry wiry grasses on the barren places,
to the long mysterious moans that swell and die in the tall polished
rushes of the marsh. It is also curious to note that with a few
exceptions the resident birds are comparatively very silent, even those
belonging to groups which elsewhere are highly loquacious. The reason of
this is not far to seek. In woods and thickets, where birds abound
most, they are continually losing sight of each other, and are only
prevented from scattering by calling often; while the muffling effect on
sound of the close foliage, to' which may be added a spirit of emulation
where many voices are heard, incites most species, especially those that
are social, to exert their voices to the utmost pitch in singing,
calling, and screaming. On the open pampas, birds, which are not
compelled to live concealed on the surface, can see each other at long
distances, and perpetual calling is not needful: moreover, in that still
atmosphere sound travels far. As a rule their voices are strangely
subdued; nature's silence has infected them, and they have become silent
by habit. This is not the case with aquatic species, which are nearly
all migrants from noisier regions, and mass themselves in lagoons and
marshes, where they are all loquacious together. It is also noteworthy
that the subdued bird-voices, some of which are exceedingly sweet and
expressive, and the notes of many of the insects and batrachians have a
great resemblance, and seem to be in accord with the aeolian tones of
the wind in reeds and grasses: a stranger to the pampas, even a
naturalist accustomed to a different fauna, will often find it hard to
distinguish between bird, frog, and insect voices.

The mammalia is poor in species, and with the single exception of the
well-known vizcacha (Lagostomus trichodactylus), there is not one of
which it can truly be said that it is in any special way the product of
the pampas, or, in other words, that its instincts are better suited to
the conditions of the pampas than to those of other districts. As a
fact, this large rodent inhabits a vast extent of country, north, west,
and south of the true pampas, but nowhere is he so thoroughly on his
native heath as on the great grassy plain. There, to some extent, he
even makes his own conditions, like the beaver. He lives in a small
community of twenty or thirty members, in a village of deep-chambered
burrows, all with their pit-like entrances closely grouped together; and
as the village endures for ever, or for an indefinite time, the earth
constantly being brought up forms a mound thirty or forty feet in
diameter; and this protects the habitation from floods on low or level
ground. Again, he is not swift of foot, and all rapacious beasts are his
enemies; he also loves to feed on tender succulent herbs and grasses, to
seek for which he would have to go far afield among the giant grass,
where his watchful foes are lying in wait to seize him; he saves himself
from this danger by making a clearing all round his abode, on which a
smooth turf is formed; and here the animals feed and have their evening
pastimes in comparative security: for when an enemy approaches, he is
easily seen; the note of alarm is sounded, and the whole company
scuttles away to their refuge. In districts having a different soil and
vegetation, as in Patagonia, the vizcachas' curious, unique instincts
are of no special advantage, which makes it seem probable that they have
been formed on the pampas.

How marvellous a thing it seems that the two species of mammalians--the
beaver and the vizcacha--that most nearly simulate men's intelligent
actions in their social organizing instincts, and their habitations,
which are made to endure, should belong to an order so low down as the
Rodents! And in the case of the latter species, it adds to the marvel
when we find that the vizcacha, according to Water-house, is the lowest
of the order in its marsupial affinities.

The vizcacha is the most common rodent on the pampas, and the Rodent
order is represented by the largest number of species. The finest is the
so-called Patagonian hare--Dolichotis patagonica--a beautiful animal
twice as large as a hare, with ears shorter and more rounded, and legs
relatively much longer. The fur is grey and chestnut brown. It is
diurnal in its habits, lives in kennels, and is usually met with in
pairs, or small flocks. It is better suited to a sterile country like
Patagonia than to the grassy humid plain; nevertheless it was found
throughout the whole of the pampas; but in a country where the wisdom of
a Sir William Harcourt was never needed to slip the leash, this king of
the Rodentia is now nearly extinct.

A common rodent is the coypú--Myiopotamus coypú--yellowish in colour
with bright red incisors; a rat in shape, and as large as an otter. It
is aquatic, lives in holes in the banks, and where there are no banks it
makes a platform nest among the rushes. Of an evening they are all out
swimming and playing in the water, conversing together in their strange
tones, which sound like the moans and cries of wounded and suffering
men; and among them the mother-coypú is seen with her progeny, numbering
eight or nine, with as many on her back as she can accommodate, while
the others swim after her, crying for a ride.

With reference to this animal, which, as we have seen, is prolific, a
strange thing once happened in Buenos Ayres. The coypú was much more
abundant fifty years ago than now, and its skin, which has a fine fur
under the long coarse hair, was largely exported to Europe. About that
time the Dictator Rosas issued a decree prohibiting the hunting of the
coypú. The result was that the animals increased and multiplied
exceedingly, and, abandoning their aquatic habits, they became
terrestrial and migratory, and swarmed everywhere in search of food.
Suddenly a mysterious malady fell on them, from which they quickly
perished, and became almost extinct.

What a blessed thing it would be for poor rabbit-worried Australia if a
similar plague should visit that country, and fall on the right animal!
On the other hand, what a calamity if the infection, wide-spread,
incurable, and swift as the wind in its course, should attack the
too-numerous sheep! And who knows what mysterious, unheard-of
retributions that revengeful deity Nature may not be meditating in her
secret heart for the loss of her wild four-footed children slain by
settlers, and the spoiling of her ancient beautiful order!

A small pampa rodent worthy of notice is the Cavia australis, called
_cui_ in the vernacular from its voice: a timid, social, mouse-coloured
little creature, with a low gurgling language, like running babbling
waters; in habits resembling its domestic pied relation the guinea pig.
It loves to run on clean ground, and on the pampas makes little
rat-roads all about its hiding-place, which little roads tell a story to
the fox, and such like; therefore the little cavy's habits, and the
habits of all cavies, I fancy, are not so well suited to the humid
grassy region as to other districts, with sterile ground to run and play
upon, and thickets in which to hide.

A more interesting animal is the Ctenomys magellanica, a little less
than the rat in size, with a shorter tail, pale grey fur, and red
incisors. It is called _tuco-tuco_ from its voice, and _oculto_ from its
habits; for it is a dweller underground, and requires a loose, sandy
soil in which, like the mole, it may _swim_ beneath the surface.
Consequently the pampa, with its heavy, moist mould, is not the tuco's
proper place; nevertheless, wherever there is a stretch of sandy soil,
or a range of dunes, there it is found living; not seen, but heard; for
all day long and all night sounds its voice, resonant and loud, like a
succession of blows from a hammer; as if a company of gnomes were
toiling far down underfoot, beating on their anvils, first with strong
measured strokes, then with lighter and faster, and with a swing and
rhythm as if the little men were beating in time to some rude chant
unheard above the surface. How came these isolated colonies of a species
so subterranean in habits, and requiring a sandy soil to move in, so far
from their proper district--that sterile country from which they are
separated by wide, unsuitable areas? They cannot perform long overland
journeys like the rat. Perhaps the dunes have travelled, carrying their
little cattle with them.

Greatest among the carnivores are the two cat-monarchs of South America,
the jaguar and puma. Whatever may be their relative positions elsewhere,
on the pampas the puma is mightiest, being much more abundant and better
able to thrive than its spotted rival. Versatile in its preying habits,
its presence on the pampa is not surprising; but probably only an
extreme abundance of large mammalian prey, which has not existed in
recent times, could have, tempted an animal of the river and
forest-loving habits of the jaguar to colonize this cold, treeless, and
comparatively waterless desert. There are two other important cats. The
grass-cat, not unlike Felis catus in its robust form and dark colour,
but a larger, more powerful animal, inexpressibly savage in disposition.
The second, Felis geoffroyi, is a larger and more beautiful animal,
coloured like a leopard; it is called wood-cat, and, as the name would
seem to indicate, is an intruder from wooded districts north of the
pampas.

There are two canines: one is Azara's beautiful grey fox-like dog,
purely a fox in habits, and common everywhere. The other is far more
interesting and extremely rare; it is called _aguará,_ its nearest ally
being the _aguará-guazú,_ the Canis jubatus or maned wolf of
naturalists, found north of the pampean district. The aguará is smaller
and has no mane; it is like the dingo in size, but slimmer and with a
sharper nose, and lias a much brighter red colour. At night when camping
out I have heard its dismal screams, but the screamer was sought in
vain; while from the gauchos of the frontier I could only learn that it
is a harmless, shy, solitary animal, that ever flies to remoter wilds
from its destroyer, man. They offered me a skin--what more could I want?
Simple souls! it was no more to me than the skin of a dead dog, with
long, bright red hair. Those who love dead animals may have them in any
number by digging with a. spade in that vast sepulchre of the pampas,
where perished the hosts of antiquity. I love the living that are above
the earth; and how small a remnant they are in South America we know,
and now yearly becoming more precious as it dwindles away.

The pestiferous skunk is universal; and there are two quaint-looking
weasels, intensely black in colour, and grey on the back and flat crown.
One, the Galictis barbara, is a large bold animal that hunts in
companies; and when these long-bodied creatures sit up erect, glaring
with beady eyes, grinning and chattering at the passer-by, they look
like little friars in black robes and grey cowls; but the expression on
their round faces is malignant and bloodthirsty beyond anything in
nature, and it would perhaps be more decent to liken them to devils
rather than to humans.

On the pampas there is, strictly speaking, only one ruminant, the Cervus
campestris, which is common. The most curious thing about this animal is
that the male emits a rank, musky odour, so powerful that when the wind
blows from it the effluvium comes in nauseating gusts to the nostrils
from a distance exceeding two miles. It is really astonishing that only
one small ruminant should be found on this immense grassy area, so
admirably suited to herbivorous quadrupeds, a portion of which at the
present moment affords sufficient pasture to eighty millions of sheep,
cattle, and horses. In La Plata the author of _The Mammoth and the
Flood_ will find few to quarrel with his doctrine.

Of Edentates there are four. The giant armadillo does not range so far,
and the delicate little pink fairy armadillo, the truncated
Chlamydophorus, is a dweller in the sand-dunes of Mendoza, and has never
colonized the grassy pampas. The Tatusia hybrida, called "little mule"
from the length of its ears, and the Dasypus tricinctus, which, when
disturbed, rolls itself into a ball, the wedge-shaped head and
wedge-shaped tail admirably fitting into the deep-cut shell side by
side; and the _quirquincho_ (Dasypus minutus), all inhabit the pampa,
are diurnal, and feed exclusively on insects, chiefly ants. Wherever the
country becomes settled, these three disappear, owing to the dulness of
their senses, especially that of sight, and to the diurnal habit, which
was an advantage to them, and enabled them to survive when rapacious
animals, which are mostly nocturnal, were their only enemies. The
fourth, and most important, is the hairy armadillo, with habits which
are in strange contrast to those of its perishing congeners, and which
seem to mock many hard-and-fast rules concerning animal life. It is
omnivorous, and will thrive on anything from grass to flesh, found dead
and in all stages of decay, or captured by means of its own strategy.
Furthermore, its habits change to suit its conditions: thus, where
nocturnal carnivores are its enemies, it is diurnal; but where man
appears as a chief persecutor, it becomes nocturnal. It is much hunted
for its flesh, dogs being trained for the purpose; yet it actually
becomes more abundant as population increases in any district; and, if
versatility in habits or adaptiveness can be taken as a measure of
intelligence, this poor armadillo, a survival of the past, so old on the
earth as to have existed contemporaneously with the giant glyptodon, is
the superior of the large-brained cats and canines.

To finish with the mammalia, there are two interesting opossums, both of
the genus Didelphys, but in habits as wide apart as cat from otter. One
of these marsupials appears so much at home on the plains that I almost
regret having said that the vizcacha alone gives us the idea of being in
its habits the _product_ of the pampas. This animal--Didelphys
crassicaudata--has a long slender, wedge-, shaped head and body,
admirably adapted for pushing through the thick grass and rushes; for it
is both terrestrial and aquatic, therefore well suited to inhabit low,
level plains liable to be flooded. On dry land its habits are similar to
those of a weasel; in lagoons, where it dives and swims with great ease,
it constructs a globular nest suspended from the rushes. The fur is
soft, of a rich yellow, reddish above, and on the sides and under
surfaces varying in some parts to orange, in others exhibiting beautiful
copper and terra-cotta tints. These lovely tints and the metallic lustre
soon fade from the fur, otherwise this animal would be much sought after
in the interests of those who love to decorate themselves with the
spoils of beautiful dead animals--beast and bird. The other opossum is
the black and white Didelphys azarae; and it is indeed strange to find
this animal on the pampas, although its presence there is not so
mysterious as that of the tuco-tuco. It shuffles along slowly and
awkwardly on the ground, but is a great traveller nevertheless. Tschudi
met it mountaineering on the Andes at an enormous altitude, and, true to
its lawless nature, it confronted me in Patagonia, where the books say
no marsupial dwells. In every way it is adapted to an arboreal life, yet
it is everywhere found on the level country, far removed from the
conditions which one would imagine to be necessary to its existence. For
how many thousands of years has this marsupial been a dweller on the
plain, all its best faculties unexercised, its beautiful grasping hands
pressed to the ground, and its prehensile tail dragged like an idle rope
behind it! Yet, if one is brought to a tree, it will take to it as
readily as a duck to water, or an armadillo to earth, climbing up the
trunk and about the branches with a monkey-like agility. How reluctant
Nature seems in some cases to undo her own work! How long she will
allow a specialized organ, with the correlated instinct, to rest without
use, yet ready to flash forth on the instant, bright and keen-edged, as
in the ancient days of strife, ages past, before peace came to dwell on
earth!

The avi-fauna is relatively much richer than the mammalia, owing to the
large number of aquatic species, most of which are migratory with their
"breeding" or "subsistence-areas" on the pampas. In more senses than one
they constitute a "floating population," and their habits have in no way
been modified by the conditions of the country. The order, including
storks, ibises, herons, spoonbills, and flamingoes, counts about
eighteen species; and the most noteworthy birds in it are two great
ibises nearly as large as turkeys, with mighty resonant voices. The duck
order is very rich, numbering at least twenty species, including two
beautiful upland geese, winter visitors from Magellanic lands, and two
swans, the lovely black-necked, and the pure white with rosy bill. Of
rails, or ralline birds, there are ten or twelve, ranging from a small
spotted creature no bigger than a thrush to some large majestic birds.
One is the courlan, called "crazy widow" from its mourning plumage and
long melancholy screams, which on still evenings may be heard a league
away. Another is the graceful variegated _ypicaha,_ fond of social
gatherings, where the birds perform a dance and make the desolate
marshes resound with their insane humanlike voices. A smaller kind,
Porphyriops melanops, has a night-cry like a burst of shrill hysterical
laughter, which has won for it the name of "witch;" while another,
Rallus rythyrhynchus, is called "little donkey" from its braying cries.
Strange eerie voices have all these birds. Of the remaining aquatic
species, the most important is the spur-winged crested screamer; a noble
bird as large as a swan, yet its favourite pastime is to soar upwards
until it loses itself to sight in the blue ether, whenca it pours forth
its resounding choral notes, which reach the distant earth clarified,
and with a rhythmic swell and fall as of chiming bells. It also sings by
night, "counting the hours," the gauchos say, and where they have
congregated together in tens of thousands the mighty roar of their
combined voices produces an astonishingly grand effect.

The largest aquatic order is that of the Limicolse--snipes, plover, and
their allies--which has about twenty-five species. The vociferous
spur-winged lapwing; the beautiful black and white stilt; a true snipe,
and a painted snipe, are, strictly speaking, the only residents; and it
is astonishing to find, that, of the five-and-twenty species, at least
thirteen are visitors from North America, several of them having their
breeding-places quite away in the Arctic regions. This is one of those
facts concerning the annual migration of birds which almost stagger
belief; for among them are species with widely different habits, upland,
marsh and sea-shore birds, and in their great biannual journey they pass
through a variety of climates, visiting many countries where the
conditions seem suited to their requirements. Nevertheless, in
September, and even as early as August, they begin to arrive on the
pampas, the golden plover often still wearing his black nuptial dress;
singly and in pairs, in small flocks, and in clouds they come--curlew,
godwit, plover, tatler, tringa--piping the wild notes to which the
Greenlander listened in June, now to the gaucho herdsman on the green
plains of La Plata, then to the wild Indian in his remote village; and
soon, further south, to the houseless huanaco-hunter in the grey
wilderness of Patagonia.

Here is a puzzle for ornithologists. In summer on the pampas we have a
godwit--Limosa hudsonica; in March it goes north to breed; later in the
season flocks of the same species arrive from the south to winter on the
pampas. And besides this godwit, there are several other North American
species, which have colonies in the southern hemi-spere, with a reversed
migration and breeding season. Why do these southern birds winter so far
south? Do they really breed in Patagonia? If so, their migration is an
extremely limited one compared with that of the northern birds--seven or
eight hundred miles, on the outside, in one case, against almost as many
thousands of miles in the other. Considering that some species which
migrate as far south as Patagonia breed in the Arctic regions as far
north as latitude 82 degrees, and probably higher still, it would be
strange indeed if none of the birds which winter in Patagonia and on the
pampas were summer visitors to that great austral continent, which has
an estimated area twice as large as that of Europe, and a climate milder
than the arctic one. The migrants would have about six hundred miles of
sea to cross from Tierra del Fuego; but we know that the golden plover
and other species, which sometimes touch at the Bermudas when
travelling, fly much further than that without resting. The fact that a
common Argentine titlark, a non-migrant and a weak flyer, has been met
with at the South Shetland Islands, close to the antarctic continent,
shows that the journey may be easily accomplished by birds with strong
flight; and that even the winter climate of that unknown land is not too
severe to allow an accidental colonist, like this small delicate bird,
to survive. The godwit, already mentioned, has been observed in flocks
at the Falkland Islands in May, that is, three months after the same
species had taken its autumal departure from the neighbouring mainland.
Can it be believed that these late visitors to the Falklands were
breeders in Patagonia, and had migrated east to winter in so bleak a
region? It is far more probable that they came from the south. Officers
of sailing ships beating round Cape Horn might be able to settle this
question definitely by looking out, and listening at night, for flights
of birds, travelling north from about the first week in January to the
end of February; and in September and October travelling south. Probably
not fewer than a dozen species of the plover order are breeders on the
great austral continent; also other aquatic birds--ducks and geese; and
many Passerine birds, chiefly of the Tyrant family.

Should the long projected Australasian expedition to the South Polar
regions ever be carried to a successful issue, there will probably be
important results for ornithology, in spite of the astounding theory
which has found a recent advocate in Canon Tristram, that all life
originated at the North Pole, whence it spread over the globe, but never
succeeded in crossing the deep sea surrounding the antarctic continent,
which has consequently remained till now desolate, "a giant ash (and
ice) of death." Nor is it unlikely that animals of a higher class than
birds exist there; and the discovery of new mammalians, differing in
type from those we know, would certainly be glad tidings to most
students of nature.

Land birds on the pampas are few in species and in numbers. This may be
accounted for by the absence of trees and other elevations on which
birds prefer to roost and nest; and by the scarcity of food. Insects are
few in dry situations; and the large perennial grasses, which occupy
most of the ground, yield a miserable yearly harvest of a few minute
seeds; so that this district is a poor one both for soft and hard billed
birds. Hawks of several genera, in moderate numbers, are there, but
generally keep to the marshes. Eagles and vultures are somewhat
unworthily represented by carrion-hawks (Polyborinae); the lordly
carancho, almost eagle-like in size, black and crested, with a very
large, pale blue, hooked beak--his battle axe: and his humble follower
and jackal, the brown and harrier-like chimango. These nest on the
ground, are versatile in their habits, carrion-eaters, also killers on
their own account, and, like wild dogs, sometimes hunt in bands, which
gives them an advantage. They are the unfailing attendants of all
flesh-hunters, human or feline; and also furiously pursue and persecute
all eagles and true vultures that venture on that great sea of grass, to
wander thereafter, for ever lost and harried, "the Hagars and Ishmaels
of their kind."

The owls are few and all of wide-ranging species. The most common is the
burrowing-owl, found in both Americas. Not a retiring owl this, but all
day long, in cold and in heat, it stands exposed at the mouth of its
kennel, or on the vizcacha's mound, staring at the passer-by with an
expression of grave surprise and reprehension in its round yellow eyes;
male and female invariably together, standing stiff and erect, almost
touching--of all birds that pair for life the most Darby and Joan like.

Of the remaining land birds, numbering about forty species, a few that
are most attractive on account of their beauty, engaging habits, or
large size, may be mentioned here. On the southern portion of the pampas
the military starling (Sturnella) is found, and looks like the European
starling, with the added beauty of a scarlet breast: among resident
pampas birds the only one with a touch of brilliant colouring. It has a
pleasing, careless song, uttered on the wing, and in winter congregates
in great flocks, to travel slowly northwards over the plains. When thus
travelling the birds observe a kind of order, and the flock feeding
along the ground shows a very extended front--a representation in
bird-life of the "thin red line"--and advances by the hindmost birds
constantly flying over the others and alighting in the front ranks.

Among the tyrant-birds are several species of the beautiful wing-banded
genus, snow-white in colour, with black on the wings and tail: these are
extremely graceful birds, and strong flyers, and in desert places, where
man seldom intrudes, they gather to follow the traveller, calling to
each other with low whistling notes, and in the distance look like white
flowers as they perch on the topmost stems of the tall bending grasses.

The most characteristic pampean birds are the tinamous--called
partridges in the vernacular--the rufous tinamou, large as a fowl, and
the spotted tinamou, which is about the size of the English partridge.
Their habits are identical: both lay eggs of a beautiful wine-purple
colour, and in both species the young acquire the adult plumage and
power of flight when very small, and fly better than the adults. They
have small heads, slender curved beaks, unfeathered legs and feet, and
are tailless; the plumage is deep yellowish, marked with black and brown
above. They live concealed, skulking like rails through the tall grass,
fly reluctantly, and when driven up, their flight is exceedingly noisy
and violent, the bird soon exhausting itself. They are solitary, but
many live in proximity, frequently calling to each other with soft
plaintive voices. The evening call-notes of the larger bird are
flute-like in character, and singularly sweet and expressive.

The last figure to be introduced into this sketch--which is not a
catalogue--is that of the Rhea. Glyptodon, Toxodon, Mylodon,
Megatherium, have passed away, leaving no descendants, and only pigmy
representatives if any; but among the feathered inhabitants of the pampa
the grand archaic ostrich of America survives from a time when there
were also giants among the avians. Vain as such efforts usually are, one
cannot help trying to imagine something of the past history of this
majestic bird, before man came to lead the long chase now about to end
so mournfully. Its fleetness, great staying powers, and beautiful
strategy when hunted, make it seem probable that it was not without
pursuers, other than the felines, among its ancient enemies, long-winded
and tenacious of their quarry; and these were perhaps of a type still
represented by the wolf or hound-like aguará and aguara-guazú. It might
be supposed that when almost all the larger forms, both mammal and bird,
were overtaken by destruction, and when the existing rhea was on the
verge of extinction, these long-legged swift canines changed their
habits and lost their bold spirit, degenerating at last into hunters of
small birds and mammals, on which they are said to live.

The rhea possesses a unique habit, which is a puzzle to us, although it
probably once had some significance--namely, that of running, when
hunted, with one wing raised vertically, like a great sail--a veritable
"ship of the wilderness." In every way it is adapted to the conditions
of the pampas in a far greater degree than other pampean birds, only
excepting the rufous and spotted tinamous. Its commanding stature gives
it a wide horizon; and its dim, pale, bluish-grey colour assimilates to
that of the haze, and renders it invisible at even a moderate distance.
Its large form fades out of sight mysteriously, and the hunter strains
his eyes in vain to distinguish it on the blue expanse. Its figure and
carriage have a quaint majestic grace, somewhat unavian in character,
and peculiar to itself. There are few more strangely fascinating sights
in nature than that of the old black-necked cock bird, standing with
raised agitated wings among the tall plumed grasses, and calling
together his scattered hens with hollow boomings and long mysterious
suspira-tions, as if a wind blowing high up in the void sky had found a
voice. Rhea-hunting with the bolas, on a horse possessing both speed and
endurance, and trained to follow the bird in all his quick doublings, is
unquestionably one of the most fascinating forms of sport ever invented,
by man. The quarry has even more than that fair chance of escape,
without which all sport degenerates into mere butchery, unworthy of
rational beings; moreover, in this unique method of hunting the ostrich
the capture depends on a preparedness for all the shifts and sudden
changes of course practised by the bird when closely followed, which is
like instinct or intuition; and, finally, in a dexterity in casting the
bolas at the right moment, with a certain aim, which no amount of
practice can give to those who are not to the manner born.

This 'wild mirth of the desert,' which the gaucho has known for the last
three centuries, is now passing away, for the rhea's fleetness can no
longer avail him. He may scorn the horse and his rider, what time he
lifts himself up, but the cowardly murderous methods of science, and a
systematic war of extermination, have left him no chance. And with the
rhea go the flamingo, antique and splendid; and the swans in their
bridal plumage; and the rufous tinamou--sweet and mournful melodist of
the eventide; and the noble crested screamer, that clarion-voiced
watch-bird of the night in the wilderness. Those, and the other large
avians, together with the finest of the mammalians, will shortly be lost
to the pampas utterly as the great bustard is to England, and as the
wild turkey and bison and many other species will shortly be lost to
North America. What a wail there would be in the world if a sudden
destruction were to fall on the accumulated art-treasures of the
National Gallery, and the marbles in the British Museum, and the
contents of the King's Library--the old prints and' mediaeval
illuminations! And these are only the work of human hands and
brains--impressions of individual genius on perishable material,
immortal only in the sense that the silken cocoon of the dead moth is
so, because they continue to exist and shine when the artist's hands and
brain are dust:--and man has the long day of life before him in which to
do again things like these, and better than these, if there is any truth
in evolution. But the forms of life in the two higher vertebrate classes
are Nature's most perfect work; and the life of even a single species is
of incalculably greater value to mankind, for what it teaches and would
continue to teach, than all the chiselled marbles and painted canvases
the world contains; though doubtless there are many persons who are
devoted to art, but blind to some things greater than art, who will set
me down as a Philistine for saying so. And, above all others, we should
protect and hold sacred those types, Nature's masterpieces, which are
first singled out for destruction on account of their size, or
splendour, or rarity, and that false detestable glory which is accorded
to their most successful slayers. In ancient times the spirit of life
shone brightest in these; and when others that shared the earth with
them were taken by death they were left, being more worthy of
perpetuation. Like immortal flowers they have drifted down to us on the
ocean of time, and their strangeness and beauty bring to our
imaginations a dream and a picture of that unknown world, immeasurably
far removed, where man was not: and when they perish, something of
gladness goes out from nature, and the sunshine loses something of its
brightness. Nor does their loss affect us and our times only. The
species now being exterminated, not only in South America but everywhere
on the globe, are, so far as we know, untouched by decadence. They are
links in a chain, and branches on the tree of life, with their roots in
a past inconceivably remote; and but for our action they would continue
to flourish, reaching outward to an equally distant future, blossoming
into higher and more beautiful forms, and gladdening innumerable
generations of our descendants. But we think nothing of all this: we
must give full scope to our passion for taking life, though by so doing
we "ruin the great work of time;" not in the sense in which the poet
used those words, but in one truer, and wider, and infinitely sadder.
Only when this sporting rage has spent itself, when there are no longer
any animals of the larger kinds remaining, the loss we are now
inflicting on this our heritage, in which we have a life-interest only,
will be rightly appreciated. It is hardly to be supposed or hoped that
posterity will feel satisfied with our monographs of extinct species,
and the few crumbling bones and faded feathers, which may possibly
survive half a dozen centuries in some happily-placed museum. On the
contrary, such dreary mementoes will only serve to remind them of their
loss; and if they remember us at all, it will only be to hate our
memory, and our age--this enlightened, scientific, humanitarian age,
which should have for a motto "Let us slay all noble and beautiful
things, for tomorrow we die."




CHAPTER II.

THE PUMA, OB LION OF AMERICA.


The Puma has been singularly unfortunate in its biographers. Formerly it
often happened that writers were led away by isolated and highly
exaggerated incidents to attribute very shining qualities to their
favourite animals; the lion of the Old World thus came to be regarded as
brave and I magnanimous above all beasts of the field--the Bayard of the
four-footed kind, a reputation which these prosaic and sceptical times
have not suffered it to keep. Precisely the contrary has happened with
the puma of literature; for, although to those personally acquainted
with the habits of this lesser lion of the New World it is known to
possess a marvellous courage and daring, it is nevertheless
always spoken of in books of natural history as the most pusillanimous
of the larger carnivores. It does not attack man, and Azara is perfectly
correct when he affirms that it never hurts, or threatens to hurt, man
or child, even when it finds them sleeping. This, however, is not a full
statement of the facts; the puma will not even defend itself against
man. How natural, then, to conclude that it is too timid to attack a
human being, or to defend itself, but scarcely philosophical; for even
the most cowardly carnivores we know--dogs and hyaenas, for
instance--will readily attack a disabled or sleeping man when pressed by
hunger; and when driven to desperation no animal is too small or too
feeble to make a show of resistance. In such a case "even the armadillo
defends itself," as the gaucho proverb says. Besides, the conclusion is
in contradiction to many other well-known facts. Putting-aside the
puma's passivity in the presence of man, it is a bold hunter that
invariably prefers large to small game; in desert places killing
peccary, tapir, ostrich, deer, huanaco, &c., all powerful, well-armed,
or swift animals. Huanaco skeletons seen in Patagonia almost invariably
have the neck dislocated, showing that the puma was the executioner.
Those only who have hunted the huanaco on the sterile plains and
mountains it inhabits know how wary, keen-scented, and fleet of foot it
is. I once spent several weeks with a surveying party in a district
where pumas were very abundant, and saw not less than half a dozen deer
every day, freshly killed in most cases, and all with dislocated necks.
Where prey is scarce and difficult to capture, the puma, after
satisfying its hunger, invariably conceals the animal it has killed,
covering it over carefully with grass and brushwood; these deer,
however, had all been left exposed to the caracaras and foxes after a
portion of the breast had been eaten, and in many cases the flesh had
not been touched, the captor having satisfied itself with sucking the
blood. It struck me very forcibly that the puma of the desert pampas is,
among mammals, like the peregrine falcon of the same district among
birds; for there this wide-ranging raptor only attacks comparatively
large birds, and, after fastidiously picking a meal from the flesh of
the head and neck, abandons the untouched body to the polybori and other
hawks of the more ignoble sort.

In pastoral districts the puma is very destructive to the larger
domestic animals, and has an extraordinary fondness for horseflesh. This
was first noticed by Molina, whose _Natural History of Chili_ was
written a century and a half ago. In Patagonia I heard on all sides that
it was extremely difficult to breed horses, as the colts were mostly
killed by the pumas. A native told me that on one occasion, while
driving his horses home through the thicket, a puma sprang out of the
bushes on to a colt following behind the troop, killing it before his
eyes and not more than six yards from his horse's head. In this
instance, my informant said, the puma alighted directly on the colt's
back, with one fore foot grasping its bosom, while with the other it
seized the head, and, giving it a violent wrench, dislocated the neck.
The colt fell to the earth as if shot, and he affirmed that it was dead
before it touched the ground.

Naturalists have thought it strange that the horse, once common
throughout America, should have become extinct over a continent
apparently so well suited to it and where it now multiplies so greatly.
As a fact wherever pumas abound the wild horse of the present time,
introduced from Europe, can hardly maintain its existence. Formerly in
many places horses ran wild and multiplied to an amazing extent, but
this happened, I believe, only in districts where the puma was scarce or
had already been driven out by man. My own experience is that on the
desert pampas wild horses are exceedingly scarce, and from all accounts
it is the same throughout Patagonia.

Next to horseflesh, sheep is preferred, and where the puma can come at a
flock, he will not trouble himself to attack horned cattle. In Patagonia
especially I found this to be the case. I resided for some time at an
estancia close to the town of El Carmen, on the Rio Negro, which during
my stay was infested by a very bold and cunning puma. To protect the
sheep from his attacks an enclosure was made of upright willow-poles
fifteen feet long, while the gate, by which he would have to enter, was
close to the house and nearly six feet high. In spite of the
difficulties thus put in the way, and of the presence of several large
dogs, also of the watch we kept in the hope of shooting him, every
cloudy night he came, and after killing one or more sheep got safely
away. One dark night he killed four sheep; I detected him in the act,
and going up to the gate, was trying to make out his invisible form in
the gloom as he flitted about knocking the sheep over, when suddenly he
leaped clear over my head and made his escape, the bullets I sent after
him in the dark failing to hit him. Yet at this place twelve or fourteen
calves, belonging to the milch cows, were every night shut into a small
brushwood pen, at a distance from the house where the enemy could easily
have destroyed every one of them. When I expressed surprise at this
arrangement, the owner said that the puma was not fond of calves' flesh,
and came only for the sheep. Frequently after his nocturnal visits we
found, by tracing his footprints in the loose sand, that he had actually
used the calves' pen as a place of concealment while waiting to make his
attack on the sheep.

The puma often kills full-grown cows and horses, but exhibits a still
greater daring when attacking the jaguar, the largest of American
carnivores, although, compared with its swift, agile enemy, as heavy as
a rhinoceros. Azara states that it is generally believed in La Plata and
Paraguay that the puma attacks and conquers the jaguar; but he did not
credit what he heard, which was not strange, since he had already set
the puma down as a cowardly animal, because it does not attempt to harm
man or child. Nevertheless, it is well known that where the two species
inhabit the same district they are at enmity, the puma being the
persistent persecutor of the jaguar, following and harassing it as a
tyrant-bird harasses an eagle or hawk, moving about it with such
rapidity as to confuse it, and, when an opportunity occurs, springing
upon its back and inflicting terrible wounds with teeth and claws.
Jaguars with scarred backs are frequently killed, and others, not long
escaped from their tormentors, have been found so greatly lacerated that
they were easily overcome by the hunters.

In Kingsley's American _Standard Natural History_, it is stated that the
puma in North California has a feud with the grizzly bear similar to
that of the southern animal with the jaguar. In its encounter with the
grizzly it is said to be always the victor; and this is borne out by the
finding of the bodies of bears, which have evidently perished in the
struggle.

How strange that this most cunning, bold, and bloodthirsty of the
Felidae, the persecutor of the jaguar and the scourge of the ruminants
in the regions it inhabits, able to kill its prey with the celerity of a
rifle bullet, never attacks a human being! Even the cowardly,
carrion-feeding dog will attack a man when it can do so with impunity;
but in places where the puma is the only large beast of prey, it is
notorious that it is there perfectly safe for even a small child to go
out and sleep on the plain. At the same time it will not fly from man
(though the contrary is always stated in books of Natural History)
except in places where it is continually persecuted. Nor is this all: it
will not, as a rule, even defend itself against man, although in some
rare instances it has been known to do so.

The mysterious, gentle instinct of this ungentle species, which causes
the gauchos of the pampas to name it man's friend--"amigo del
cristiano"--has been persistently ignored by all travellers and
naturalists who have mentioned the puma. They have thus made it a very
incongruous creature, strong enough to kill a horse, yet so cowardly
withal that it invariably flies from a human being--even from a sleeping
child! Possibly its real reputation was known to some of those who havo
spoken about it; if so, they attributed what they heard to the love of
the marvellous and the romantic, natural to the non-scientific mind; or
else preferred not to import into their writings matter which has so
great a likeness to fable, and might have the effect of imperilling
their reputation for sober-mindedness.

It is, however, possible that the singular instinct of tho southern
puma, which is unique among animals in a state of nature, is not
possessed by the entire species, ranging as it does over a hundred
degrees of latitude, from British North America to Tierra del Fuego. The
widely different conditions of life in the various regions it inhabits
must necessarily have caused some divergence. Concerning its habits in
the dense forests of the Amazonian region, where it must have developed
special instincts suited to its semi-arboreal life, scarcely anything
has been recorded. Everyone is, however, familiar with the dreaded
cougar, catamount, or panther--sometimes called "painter"--of North
American literature, thrilling descriptions of encounters with this
imaginary man-eating monster being freely scattered through the
backwoods or border romances, many of them written by authors who have
the reputation of being true to nature. It may be true that this cougar
of a cold climate did occasionally attack man, or, as it is often
stated, follow him in the forest with the intention of springing on him
unawares; but on this point nothing definite will ever be known, as the
pioneers hunters of the past were only anxious to shoot cougar and not
to study its instinct and disposition. It is now many years since
Audubon and Bachman wrote, "This animal, which has excited so much
terror in the minds of the ignorant and timid, has been nearly
exterminated in all the Atlantic States, and we do not recollect a
single well-authenticated instance where any hunter's life fell a
sacrifice in a cougar hunt." It might be added, I believe, that no
authentic instance has been recorded of the puma making an unprovoked
attack on any human being. In South America also the traveller in the
wilderness is sometimes followed by a puma; but he would certainly be
very much surprised if told that it follows with the intention of
springing on him unawares and devouring his flesh.

I have spoken of the comparative ease with which the puma overcomes even
large animals, comparing it in this respect with the peregrine falcon;
but all predacious species are liable to frequent failures, sometimes to
fatal mishaps, and even the cunning, swift-killing puma is no exception.
Its attacks are successfully resisted by the ass, which does not, like
the horse, lose his presence of mind, but when assaulted thrusts his
head well down between its fore-legs and kicks violently until the enemy
is thrown or driven off. Pigs, when in large herds, also safely defy the
puma, massing themselves together for defence in their well-known
manner, and presenting a serried line of tusks to the aggressor. During
my stay in Patagonia a puma met its fate in a manner so singular that
the incident caused considerable sensation among the settlers on the Rio
Negro at the time. A man named Linares, the chief of the tame Indians
settled in the neighbourhood of El Carmen, while riding near the river
had his curiosity aroused by the appearance and behaviour of a young cow
standing alone in the grass, her head, armed with long and exceedingly
sharp horns, much raised, and watching his approach in a manner which
betokened a state of dangerous excitement. She had recently dropped her
calf, and he at once conjectured that it had been attacked, and perhaps
killed, by some animal of prey. To satisfy himself on this point he
began to search for it, and while thus engaged the cow repeatedly
charged him with the greatest fury. Presently he discovered the calf
lying dead among the long grass; and by its side lay a full-grown puma,
also dead, and with a large wound in its side, just behind the shoulder.
The calf had been killed by the puma, for its throat showed the wounds
of large teeth, and the puma had been killed by the cow. When he saw it
he could, he affirmed, scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses,
for was an unheard-of thing that a puma should be injured by any other
animal. His opinion was that it had come down from the hills in a
starving condition, and having sprung upon the calf, the taste of blood
had made it for a moment careless of its own safety, and during that
moment the infuriated cow had charged, and driving one of her long sharp
horns into some vital part, killed it instantly.

The puma is, with the exception of some monkeys, the most playful animal
in existence. The young of all the Felidae spend a large portion of
their time in characteristic gambols; the adults, however, acquire a
grave and dignified demeanour, only the female playing on occasions with
her offspring; but this she always does with a certain formality of
manner, as if the relaxation were indulged in not spontaneously, but for
the sake of the young and as being a necessary part of their education.
Some writer has described the lion's assumption of gaiety as more grim
than its most serious moods. The puma at heart is always a kitten,
taking unmeasured delight in its frolics, and when, as often happens,
one lives alone in the desert, it will amuse itself by the hour fighting
mock battles or playing at hide-and-seek with imaginary companions, and
lying in wait and putting all its wonderful strategy in practice to
capture a passing butterfly. Azara kept a young male for four months,
which spent its whole time playing with the slaves. This animal, he
says, would not refuse any food offered to it; but when not hungry it
would bury the meat in the sand, and when inclined to eat dig it up,
and, taking it to the water-trough, wash it clean. I have only known one
puma kept as a pet, and this animal, in seven or eight years had never
shown a trace of ill-temper. When approached, he would lie down, purring
loudly, and twist himself about a person's legs, begging to be caressed.
A string or handkerchief drawn about was sufficient to keep him in a
happy state of excitement for an hour; and when one person was tired of
playing with him he was ready for a game with the next comer.

I was told by a person who had spent most of his life on the pampas that
on one occasion, when travelling in the neighbourhood of Cape
Corrientes, his horse died under him, and he was compelled to continue
his journey on foot, burdened with his heavy native horse-gear. At night
he made his bed under the shelter of a rock, on the slope of a stony
sierra; a bright moon was shining, and about nine o'clock in the evening
four pumas appeared, two adults with their two half-grown young. Not
feeling the least alarm at their presence, he did not stir; and after a
while they began to gambol together close to him, concealing themselves
from each other among the rocks, just as kittens do, and frequently
while pursuing one another leaping over him. He continued watching them
until past midnight, then fell asleep, and did not wake until morning,
when they had left him.

This man was an Englishman by birth, but having gone very young to South
America he had taken kindly to the semi-barbarous life of the gauchos,
and had imbibed all their peculiar notions, one of which is that human
life is not worth very much. "What does it matter?" they often say, and
shrug their shoulders, when told of a comrade's death; "so many
beautiful horses die!" I asked him if he had ever killed a puma, and he
replied that he had killed only one and had sworn never to kill another.
He said that while out one day with another gaucho looking for cattle a
puma was found. It sat up with its back against a stone, and did not
move even when his companion threw the noose of his lasso over its neck.
My informant then dismounted, and, drawing his knife, advanced to kill
it: still the puma made no attempt to free itself from the lasso, but it
seemed to know, he said, what was coming, for it began to tremble, the
tears ran from its eyes, and it whined in the most pitiful manner. He
killed it as it sat there unresisting before him, but after
accomplishing the deed felt that he had committed a murder. It was the
only thing ho had ever done in his life, he added, which filled him with
remorse when he remembered it. This I thought a rather startling
declaration, as I knew that he had killed several individuals of his own
species in duels, fought with knives, in the fashion of the gauchos.

All who have killed or witnessed the killing of the puma--and I have
questioned scores of hunters on this point--agree that it resigns itself
in this unresisting, pathetic manner to death at the hands of man.
Claudio Gay, in his _Natural History of Chili,_ says, "When attacked by
man its energy and daring at once forsake it, and it becomes a weak,
inoffensive animal, and trembling, and uttering piteous moans, and
shedding abundant tears, it seems to implore compassion from a generous
enemy." The enemy is not often generous; but many gauchos have assured
me, when speaking on this subject, that although they kill the puma
readily to protect their domestic animals, they consider it an evil
thing to take its life in desert places, where it is man's only friend
among the wild animals.

When the hunter is accompanied by dogs, then the puma, instead of
drooping and shedding tears, is roused to a sublime rage: its hair
stands erect; its eyes shine like balls of green flame; it spits and
snarls like a furious torn cat. The hunter's presence seems at such
times to be ignored altogether, its whole attention being given to the
dogs and its rage directed against them. In Patagonia a sheep-farming
Scotchman, with whom I spent some days, showed me the skulls of five
pumas which he had shot in the vicinity of his ranche. One was of an
exceptionally large individual, and I here relate what he told me of his
encounter with this animal, as it shows just how the puma almost
invariably behaves when attacked by man and dogs. He was out on foot
with his flock, when the dogs discovered the animal concealed among the
bushes. He had left his gun at home, and having no weapon, and finding
that the dogs dared not attack it where it sat in a defiant attitude
with its back against a thorny bush, he looked about and found a large
dry stick, and going boldly up to it tried to stun it with a violent
blow on the head. But though it never looked at him, its fiery eyes
gazing steadily at the dogs all the time, he could not hit it, for with
a quick side movement it avoided every blow. The small heed the puma
paid him, and the apparent ease with which it avoided his best-aimed
blows, only served to rouse his spirit, and at length striking with
increased force his stick came to the ground and was broken to pieces.
For some moments he now stood within two yards of the animal perfectly
defenceless and not knowing what to do. Suddenly it sprang past him,
actually brushing against his arm with its side, and began pursuing the
dogs round and round among the bushes. In the end my informant's partner
appeared on the scene with his rifle, and the puma was shot.

In encounters of this kind the most curious thing is that the puma
steadfastly refuses to recognize an enemy in man, although it finds him
acting in concert with its hated canine foe, about whose hostile
intentions it has no such delusion.

Several years ago a paragraph, which reached me in South America,
appeared in the English papers relating an incident characteristic of
the puma in a wild beast show in this country. The animal was taken out
of its cage and led about the grounds by its keeper, followed by a large
number of spectators. Suddenly it was struck motionless by some object
in the crowd, at which it gazed steadily with a look of intense
excitement; then springing violently away it dragged the chain from the
keeper's hand and dashed in among the people, who immediately fled
screaming in all directions. Their fears were, however, idle, the object
of the puma's rage being a dog which it had spied among the crowd.

It is said that when taken adult pumas invariably pine away and die;
when brought up in captivity they invariably make playful, affectionate
pets, and are gentle towards all human beings, but very seldom overcome
their instinctive animosity towards the dog.

One of the very few authentic instances I have met with of this animal
defending itself against a human being was related to me at a place on
the pampas called Saladillo. At the time of my visit there jaguars and
pumas were very abundant and extremely destructive to the cattle and
horses. Sheep it had not yet been considered worth while to introduce,
but immense herds of pigs were kept at every estancia, these animals
being able to protect themselves. One gaucho had so repeatedly
distinguished himself by his boldness and dexterity in killing jaguars
that he was by general consent made the leader of every tiger-hunt. One
day the comandante of the district got twelve or fourteen men together,
the tiger-slayer among them, and started in search of a jaguar which had
been seen that morning in the neighbourhood of his estancia. The animal
was eventually found and surrounded, and as it was crouching among some
clumps of tall pampas grass, where throwing a lasso over its neck would
be a somewhat difficult and dangerous operation, all gave way to the
famous hunter, who at once uncoiled his lasso and proceeded in a
leisurely manner to form the loop. While thus engaged he made the
mistake of allowing his horse, which had grown restive, to turn aside
from the hunted animal. The jaguar, instantly taking advantage of the
oversight, burst from its cover and sprang first on to the haunches of
the horse, then seizing the hunter by his poncho dragged him to the
earth, and would no doubt have quickly despatched him if a lasso, thrown
by one of the other men, had not closed round its neck at this critical
moment. It was quickly dragged off, and eventually killed. But the
discomfited hunter did not stay to assist at the finish. He arose from
the ground unharmed, but in a violent passion and blaspheming horribly,
for he knew that his reputation, which he priced above everything, had
suffered a great blow, and that he would be mercilessly ridiculed by his
associates. Getting on his horse he rode away by himself from the scene
of his misadventure. Of what happened to him on his homeward ride there
were no witnesses; but his own account was as follows, and inasmuch as
it told against his own prowess it was readily believed: Before riding a
league, and while his bosom was still burning with rage, a puma started
up from the long grass in his path, but made no attempt to run away; it
merely sat up, he said, and looked at him in a provokingly fearless
manner. To slay this animal with his knife, and so revenge himself on it
for the defeat he had just suffered, was his first thought. He alighted
and secured his horse by tying its fore feet together, then, drawing his
long, heavy knife, rushed at the puma. Still it did not stir. Raising
his weapon he struck with a force which would have split the animal's
skull open if the blow had fallen where it was intended to fall, but
with a quick movement the puma avoided it, and at the same time lifted a
foot and with lightning rapidity dealt the aggressor a blow on the face,
its unsheathed claws literally dragging down the flesh from his cheek,
laying the bone bare. After inflicting this terrible punishment and
eyeing its fallen foe for a few seconds it trotted quietly away. The
wounded man succeeded in getting on to his horse and reaching his home.
The hanging flesh was restored to its place and the ghastly rents sewn
up, and in the end he recovered: but he was disfigured for life; his
temper also completely changed; he became morose and morbidly sensitive
to the ridicule of his neighbours, and he never again ventured to join
them in their hunting expeditions. I inquired of the comandante, and of
others, whether any case had come to their knowledge in that district in
which the puma had shown anything beyond a mere passive friendliness
towards man; in reply they related the following incident, which had
occurred at the Saladillo a few years before my visit: The men all went
out one day beyond the frontier to form a _cerco,_ as it is called, to
hunt ostriches and other game. The hunters, numbering about thirty,
spread themselves round in a vast ring and, advancing towards the
centre, drove the animals before them. During the excitement of the
chase which followed, while they were all engaged in preventing the
ostriches, deer, &c., from doubling back and escaping, it was not
noticed that one of the hunters had disappeared; his horse, however,
returned to its home during the evening, and on the next morning a fresh
hunt for the lost man was organized. He was eventually found lying on
the ground with a broken leg, where he had been thrown at the beginning
of the hunt. He related that about an hour after it had become dark a
puma appeared and sat near him, but did not seem to notice him. After a
while it became restless, frequently going away and returning, and
finally it kept away so long, that he thought it had left him for good.
About midnight he heard the deep roar of a jaguar, and gave himself up
for lost. By raising himself on his elbow he was able to see the outline
of the beast crouching near him, but its face was turned from him, and
it appeared to be intently watching some object on which it was about to
spring. Presently it crept out of sight, then he heard snarlings and
growlings and the sharp yell of a puma, and he knew that the two beasts
were fighting. Before morning he saw the jaguar several times, but the
puma renewed the contest with it again and again until morning appeared,
after which he saw and heard no more of them.

Extraordinary as this story sounds, it did not seem so to me when I
heard it, for I had already met with many anecdotes of a similar nature
in various parts of the country, some of them vastly more interesting
than the one I have just narrated; only I did not get them at first
hand, and am consequently not able to vouch for their accuracy; but in
this case it seemed to me that there was really no room for doubt. All
that I had previously heard had compelled me to believe that the puma
really does possess a unique instinct of friendliness for man, the
origin of which, like that of many other well-known instincts of
animals, must remain a mystery. The fact that the puma never makes an
unprovoked attack on a human being, or eats human flesh, and that it
refuses, except in some very rare cases, even to defend itself, does not
seem really less wonderful in an animal of its bold and sanguinary
temper thau that it should follow the traveller in the wilderness, or
come near him when he lies sleeping or disabled, and even occasionally
defend him from its enemy the jaguar. We know that certain sounds,
colours, or smells, which are not particularly noticed by most animals,
produce an extraordinary effect on some species; and it is possible to
believe, I think, that the human form or countenance, or the odour of
the human body, may also have the effect on the puma of suspending its
predatory instincts and inspiring it with a gentleness towards man,
which we are only accustomed to see in our domesticated carnivores or in
feral animals towards those of their own species. Wolves, when pressed
with hunger, will sometimes devour a fellow wolf; as a rule, however,
rapacious animals will starve to death rather than prey on one of their
own kind, nor is it a common thing for them to attack other species
possessing instincts similar to their own. The puma, we have seen,
violently attacks other large carnivores, not to feed on them, but
merely to satisfy its animosity; and, while respecting man, it is,
within the tropics, a great hunter and eater of monkeys, which of all
animals most resemble men. We can only conclude with Humboldt that there
is something mysterious in the hatreds and affections of animals.

The view here taken of the puma's character imparts, I think, a fresh
interest to some things concerning the species, which have appeared in
historical and other works, and which I propose to discuss briefly in
this place.

There is a remarkable passage in Byron's _Narrative of the loss of the
Wager,_ which was quoted by Admiral Fitzroy in his _Voyage of the
Beagle,_ to prove that tho puma inhabits Tierra del Fuego and the
adjacent islands; no other large beast of prey being known in that part
of America. "I heard," he says, "a growling close by me, which made me
think it advisable to retire as soon as possible: the woods were, so
gloomy I could see nothing; but, as I retired, this noise followed me
close till I got out of them. Some of our men did assure me that they
had seen a very large beast in the woods. . . I proposed to four of the
people to go to the end of the bay, about two miles distant from the
bell tent, to occupy the skeleton of an old Indian wigwam, which I had
discovered in a walk that way on our first landing. This we covered to
windward with seaweed; and, lighting a fire, laid ourselves down in
hopes of finding a remedy for our hunger in sleep; but we had not long
composed ourselves before one of our company was disturbed by the
blowing of some animal at his face; and, upon opening his eyes, was not
a little astonished to see by the glimmering of the fire, a large beast
standing over him. He had presence of mind enough to snatch a brand from
the fire, which was now very low, and thrust it at the nose of tho
animal, which thereupon made off. . . . In the morning we were not a
little anxious to know how our companions had fared; and this anxiety
was increased upon our tracing the footsteps of the beast in the sand,
in a direction towards the bell tent. The impression was deep and plain,
of a large round foot well furnished with claws. Upon acquainting the
people in the tent with the circumstances of our story, we found that
they had been visited by the same unwelcome guest."

Mr. Andrew Murray, in his work on the Geographical Distribution of
Mammals, gives the Straits of Magellan as the extreme southern limit of
the puma's range, and in discussing the above passage from Byron he
writes: "This reference, however, gives no support to the notion of the
animal alluded to having been a puma. . . . The description of the
footprints clearly shows that the animal could not have been a puma.
None of the cat tribe leave any trace of a claw in their footprints. . .
The dogs, on the other hand, leave a very well-defined claw-mark. . . .
Commodore Byron and his party had therefore suffered a false alarm. The
creature which had disturbed them was, doubtless, one of the harmless
domestic dogs of the natives."

The assurance that the bold hardy adventurer and his men suffered a
false alarm, and were thrown into a great state of excitement at the
appearance of one of the wretched domestic dogs of the Fuegians, with
which they were familiar, comes charmingly, it must be said, from a
closet naturalist, who surveys the world of savage beasts from his
London study. He apparently forgets that Commodore Byron lived in a time
when the painful accuracy and excessive minuteness we are accustomed to
was not expected from a writer, whenever he happened to touch on any
matters connected with zoology.

This kind of criticism, which seizes on a slight inaccuracy in one
passage, and totally ignores an important statement in another--as, for
instance, that of the "great beast" seen in the woods--might be extended
to other portions of the book, and Byron's entire narrative made to
appear as purely a work of the imagination as Peter Wilkin's adventures
in those same antarctic seas.

Mr. J. W. Boddam Whetham, in his work _Across Central America_ (1877),
gives an anecdote of the puma, which he heard at Sacluk, in Guatemala,
and which strangely resembles some of the stories I have heard on the
pampas. He writes: "The following event, most extraordinary if true, is
said to have occurred in this forest to a mahogany-cutter, who had been
out marking trees. As he was returning to his hut, he suddenly felt a
soft body pressing against him, and on looking down saw a cougar, which,
with tail erect, and purring like a cat, twisted itself in and out of
his legs, and glided round him, turning up its fierce eyes as if with
laughter. Horror-stricken and with faltering steps he kept on, and the
terrible animal still circled about, now rolling over, and now touching
him with a paw like a cat playing with a mouse. At last the suspense
became too great, and with a loud shout he struck desperately at the
creature with his axe. It bounded on one side and crouched snarling and
showing its teeth. Just as it was about to spring, the man's companion,
who had heard his call, appeared in the distance, and with a growl the
beast vanished into the thick bushes."

Now, after allowing for exaggeration, if there is no foundation for
stories of this character, it is really a very wonderful coincidence
that they should be met with in countries so widely separated as
Patagonia and Central America. Pumas, doubtless, are scarce in
Guatemala; and, as in other places where they have met with nothing but
persecution from man, they are shy of him; but had this adventure
occurred on the pampas, where they are better known, the person
concerned in it would not have said that the puma played with him as a
cat with a mouse, but rather as a tame cat plays with a child; nor,
probably, would he have been terrified into imagining that the animal,
even after its caresses had met with so rough a return, was about to
spring on him.

In Clavigero's _History of Lower California,_ it is related that a very
extraordinary state of things was discovered to exist in that country by
the first missionaries who settled there at the end of the seventeenth
century, and which was actually owing to the pumas. The author says that
there were no bears or tigers (jaguars); these had most probably been
driven out by their old enemies; but the pumas had increased to a
prodigious extent, so that the whole peninsula was overrun by them; and
this was owing to the superstitious regard in which they were held by
the natives, who not only did not kill them, but never ventured to
disturb them in any way. The Indians were actually to some extent
dependent on the puma's success in hunting for their subsistence; they
watched the movements of the vultures in order to discover the spot in
which the remains of any animal it had captured had been left by the
puma, and whenever the birds were seen circling about persistently over
one place, they hastened to take possession of the carcass, discovered
in this way. The domestic animals, imported by the missionaries, were
quickly destroyed by the virtual masters of the country, and against
these enemies the Jesuits preached a crusade in vain: for although the
Indians readily embraced Christianity and were baptized, they were not
to be shaken in their notions concerning the sacred _Chimbicá,_ as the
puma was called. The missions languished in consequence; the priests
existed in a state of semi-starvation, depending on provisions sent to
them at long intervals from the distant Mexican settlements; and for
many years all their efforts to raise the savages from their miserable
condition were thrown away. At length, in 1701, the mission of Loreto
was taken charge of by one Padre Ugarte, described by Clavigero as a
person of indomitable energy, and great physical strength and courage, a
true muscular Christian, who occasionally varied his method of
instruction by administering corporal chastisements to his hearers when
they laughed at his doctrines, or at the mistakes he made in their
language, while preaching to them. Ugarte, like his predecessors, could
not move the Indians to hunt the puma, but he was a man of action, with
a wholesome belief in the efficacy of example, and his opportunity came
at last.

One day, while riding in the wood, he saw at a distance a puma walking
deliberately towards him. Alighting from his mule, he took up a large
stone and advanced to meet the animal, and when sufficiently near hurled
the missile with such precision and force that he knocked ifc down
senseless. After killing it, he found that the heaviest part of his task
remained, as it was necessary for the success of his project to carry
the beast, still warm and bleeding, to the Indian village; but mow his
mule steadfastly refused to approach it. Father Ugarte was not,
however, to be defeated, and partly by stratagem, partly by force, he
finally succeeded in getting the puma on to the mule's back, after which
he rode in triumph to the settlement. The Indians at first thought it
all a trick of their priest, who was so anxious to involve them in a
conflict with the pumas, and standing at a distance they began jeering
at him, and exclaiming that he had found the animal dead! But when they
were induced to approach, and saw that it was still warm and bleeding,
they were astonished beyond measure, and began to watch the priest
narrowly, thinking that he would presently drop down and die in sight of
them all. It was their belief that death would quickly overtake the
slayer of a puma. As this did not happen, the priest gained a great
influence over them, and in the end they were persuaded to turn their
weapons against the Chimbicá.

Clavigero has nothing to say concerning the origin of this Californian
superstition; but with some knowledge of the puma's character, it is not
difficult to imagine what it may have been. No doubt these savages had
been very well acquainted from ancient times with the animal's instinct
of friendliness toward man, and its extreme hatred of other carnivores,
which prey on the human species; and finding it ranged on their side, as
it were, in the hard struggle of life in the desert, they were induced
to spare it, and even to regard it as a friend; and such a feeling,
among primitive men, might in the course of time degenerate into such a
superstition as that of the Californians.

I shall, in conclusion, relate here the story of Maldonada, which is not
generally known, although familiar to Buenos Ayreans as the story of
Lady Godiva's ride through Coventry is to the people of that town. The
case of Maldonada is circumstantially narrated by Rui Diaz de Guzman, in
his history of the colonization of the Plata: he was a person high in
authority in the young colonies, and is regarded by students of South
American history as an accurate and sober-minded chronicler of the
events of his own times. He relates that in the year 1536 the settlers
at Buenos Ayres, having exhausted their provisions, and being compelled
by hostile Indians to keep within their pallisades, were reduced to the
verge of starvation. The Governor Mendoza went off to seek help from the
other colonies up the river, deputing his authority to one Captain Ruiz,
who, according to all accounts, displayed an excessively tyrannous and
truculent disposition while in power. The people were finally reduced to
a ration of sis ounces of flour per day for each person; but as the
flour was putrid and only made them ill, they were forced to live on any
small animals they could capture, including snakes, frogs and toads.
Some horrible details are given by Rui Diaz, and other writers; one, Del
Barco Centenera, affirms that of two thousand persons in the town
eighteen hundred perished of hunger. During this unhappy time, beasts of
prey in large numbers were attracted to the settlement by the effluvium
of the corpses, buried just outside the pallisades; and this made the
condition of the survivors more miserable still, since they could
venture into the neighbouring woods only at the risk of a violent death.
Nevertheless, many did so venture, and among these was the young woman
Maldonada, who, losing herself in the forest, strayed to a distance, and
was eventually found by a party of Indians, and carried by them to their
village.

Some months later, Captain Ruiz discovered her whereabouts, and
persuaded the savages to bring her to the settlement; then, accusing her
of having gone to the Indian village in order to betray the colony, he
condemned her to be devoured by wild beasts. She was taken to a wood at
a distance of a league from the town, and left there, tied to a tree,
for the space of two nights and a day. A party of soldiers then went to
the spot, expecting to find her bones picked clean by the beasts, but
were greatly astonished to find Maldonada still alive, without hurt or
scratch. She told them that a puma had come to her aid, and had kept at
her side, defending her life against all the other beasts that
approached her. She was instantly released, and taken back to the town,
her deliverance through the action of the puma probably being looked on
as direct interposition of Providence to save her.

Rui Diaz concludes with the following paragraph, in which he affirms
that he knew the woman Maldonada, which may be taken as proof that she
was among the few that survived the first disastrous settlement and
lived on to more fortunate times: his pious pun on her name would be
lost in a translation:--"De esta manera quedo libre la que ofrecieron a
las fieras: la cual mujer yo la conoci, y la llamaban la Maldonada, que
mas bien se le podia llamar la BIENDONADA; pues por este suceso se ha de
ver no haber merecido el castigo á que la ofrecieron."

If such a thing were to happen now, in any portion of southern South
America, where the puma's disposition is best known, it would not be
looked on as a miracle, as it was, and that unavoidably, in the case of
Maldonada.




CHAPTER III.

A WAVE OF LIFE,


For many years, while living in my own home on the pampas, I kept a
journal, in which all my daily observations on the habits of animals and
kindred matters were carefully noted. Turning back to 1872-3, I find my
jottings for that season contain a history of one of those waves of
life--for I can think of no better name for the phenomenon in
question--that are of such frequent occurrence in thinly-settled
regions, though in countries like England, seen very rarely, and on a
very limited scale. An exceptionally bounteous season, the accidental
mitigation of a check, or other favourable circumstance, often causes an
increase so sudden and inordinate of small prolific species, that when
we actually witness it we are no longer surprised at the notion
prevalent amongst the common people that mice, frogs, crickets, &c., are
occasionally rained down from the clouds.

In the summer of 1872-3 we had plenty of sunshine, with frequent
showers; so that the hot months brought no dearth of wild flowers, as in
most years. The abundance of flowers resulted in a wonderful increase of
humble bees. I have never known them so plentiful before; in and about
the plantation adjoining my house I found, during the season, no fewer
than seventeen nests.

The season was also favourable for mice; that is, of course, favourable
for the time being, unfavourable in the long run, since the short-lived,
undue preponderance of a species is invariably followed by a long period
of undue depression. These prolific little creatures were soon so
abundant that the dogs subsisted almost exclusively on them; the fowls
also, from incessantly pursuing and killing them, became quite rapacious
in their manner; whilst the sulphur tyrant-birds (Pitangus) and the
Guira cuckoos preyed on nothing but mice.

The domestic cats, as they invariably do in such plentiful seasons,
absented themselves from the house, assuming all the habits of their
wild congeners, and slinking from the sight of man--even of a former
fireside companion--with a shy secrecy in their motions, an apparent
affectation of fear, almost ludicrous to see. Foxes, weasels, and
opossums fared sumptuously. Even for the common armadillo (Dasypus
villosus) it was a season of affluence, for this creature is very adroit
in capturing mice. This fact might seem surprising to anyone who marks
the uncouth figure, toothless gums, and the motions--anything but light
and graceful--of the armadillo and perhaps fancying that, to be a
dexterous mouser, an animal should bear some resemblance in habits and
structure to the felidas. But animals, like men, are compelled to adapt
themselves to their surroundings; new habits are acquired, and the exact
co-relation between habit and structure is seldom maintained.

I kept an armadillo at this time, and good cheer and the sedentary life
he led in captivity made him excessively fat; but the mousing exploits
of even this individual were most interesting. Occasionally I took him
into the fields to give him a taste of liberty, though at such times I
always took the precaution to keep hold of a cord fastened to one of his
hind legs; for as often as he came to a kennel of one of his wild
fellows, he would attempt to escape into it. He invariably travelled
with an ungainly trotting gait, carrying his nose, beagle-like, close to
the ground. His sense of smell was exceedingly acute, and when near his
prey he became agitated, and quickened his motions, pausing frequently
to sniff the earth, till, discovering the exact spot where the mouse
lurked, he would stop and creep cautiously to it; then, after slowly
raising himself to a sitting posture, spring suddenly forwards, throwing
his body like a trap over the mouse, or nest of mice, concealed beneath
the grass.

A curious instance of intelligence in a cat was brought to my notice at
this time by one of my neighbours, a native. His children had made the
discovery that some excitement and fun was to be had by placing a long
hollow stalk of the giant thistle with a mouse in it--and every hollow
stalk at this time had one for a tenant--before a cat, and then watching
her movements. Smelling her prey, she would spring at one end of the
stalk--the end towards which the mouse would be moving at the same time,
but would catch nothing, for the mouse, instead of running out, would
turn back to run to the other end; whereupon the cat, all excitement,
would jump there to seize it; and so the contest would continue for a
long time, an exhibition of the cleverness and the stupidity of
instinct, both of the pursuer and the pursued. There were several cats
at the house, and all acted in the same way except one. When a stalk was
placed before this cat, instead of becoming excited like the others, it
went quickly to one end and smelt' at the opening, then, satisfied that
its prey was inside, it deliberately bit a long piece out of the stalk
with its teeth, then another strip, and so on progressively, until the
entire stick had been opened up to within six or eight inches of the
further end, when the mouse came out and was caught. Every stalk placed
before this cat was demolished in the same businesslike way; but the
other cats, though they were made to look on while the stick was being
broken up by their fellow, could never learn the trick.

In the autumn of the year countless numbers of storks (Ciconia maguari)
and of short-eared owls (Otus brachyotus) made their appearance. They
had also come to assist at the general feast.

Remembering the opinion of Mr. E. Newman, quoted by Darwin, that
two-thirds of the humble bees in England are annually destroyed by mice,
I determined to continue observing these insects, in order to ascertain
whether the same thing occurred on the pampas. I carefully revisited all
the nests I had found, and was amazed at the rapid disappearance of all
the bees. I was quite convinced that the mice had devoured or driven
them out, for the weather was still warm, and flowers and fruit on which
humble bees feed were very abundant.

After cold weather set in the storks went away, probably on account of
the scarcity of water, for the owls remained. So numerous were they
during the winter, that any evening after sunset I could count forty or
fifty individuals hovering over the trees about my house. Unfortunately
they did not confine their attentions to the mice, but became
destructive to the birds as well. I frequently watched them at dusk,
beating about the trees and bushes in a systematic manner, often a dozen
or more of them wheeling together about one tree, like so many moths
about a candle, and one occasionally dashing through the branches until
a pigeon--usually the Zenaida maculata--or other bird was scared from
its perch. The instant the bird left the tree they would all give chase,
disappearing in the darkness. I could not endure to see the havoc they
were making amongst the ovenbirds (Furnarius rufus--a species for which
I have a regard and affection almost superstitious), so I began to shoot
the marauders. Very soon, however, I found it was impossible to protect
my little favourites. Night after night the owls mustered in their usual
numbers, so rapidly were the gaps I made in their ranks refilled. I grew
sick of the cruel war in which I had so hopelessly joined, and resolved,
not without pain, to let things take their course. A singular
circumstance was that the owls began to breed in the middle of winter.
The field-labourers and boys found many nests with eggs and young birds
in the neighbourhood. I saw one nest in July, our coldest month, with
three half-grown young birds in it. They were excessively fat, and,
though it was noon-day, had their crops full. There were three mice and
two young cavies (Cavia australis) lying untouched in the nest.

The short-eared owl is of a wandering disposition, ard performs long
journeys at all seasons of the year in search of districts where food is
abundant; and perhaps these winter-breeders came from a region where
scarcity of prey, or some such cause, had prevented them from nesting at
their usual time in summer.

The gradual increase or decrease continually going on in many species
about us is little remarked; but the sudden infrequent appearance in
vast numbers of large and comparatively rare species is regarded by most
people as a very wonderful phenomenon, not easily explained. On the
pampas, whenever grasshoppers, mice, frogs or crickets become
excessively abundant we confidently look for the appearance of
multitudes of the birds that prey on them. However obvious may be the
cause of the first phenomenon--the sudden inordinate increase during a
favourable year of a species always prolific--the attendant one always
creates astonishment: For how, it is asked, do these largo birds, seldom
seen at other times, receive information in the distant regions they
inhabit of an abundance of food in any particular locality? Years have
perhaps passed during which, scarcely an individual of these kinds has
been seen: all at once armies of the majestic white storks are seen
conspicuously marching about the plain in all directions; while the
night air resounds with the solemn hootings of innumerable owls. It is
plain that these birds have been drawn from over an immense area to one
spot; and the question is how have they been drawn?

Many large birds possessing great powers of flight are, when not
occupied with the business of propagation, incessantly wandering from
place to place in search of food. They are not, as a rule, regular
migrants, for their wanderings begin and end irrespective of seasons,
and where they find abundance they remain the whole year. They fly at a
very great height, and traverse immense distances. When the favourite
food of any one of these species is plentiful in any particular region
all the individuals that discover it remain, and attract to them all of
their kind passing overhead. This happens on the pampas with the stork,
the short-eared owl, the hooded gull and the dominican or black-backed
gull--the leading species among the feathered nomads: a few first appear
like harbingers; these are presently joined by new comers in
considerable numbers, and before long they are in myriads. Inconceivable
numbers of birds are, doubtless, in these regions, continually passing
over us unseen. It was once a subject of very great wonder to me that
flocks of black-necked swans should almost always appear flying by
immediately after a shower of rain, even when none had been visible for
a long time before, and when they must have come from a very great
distance. When the reason at length occurred to me, I felt very much
disgusted with myself for being puzzled over so very simple a matter.
After rain a flying swan may be visible to the eye at a vastly greater
distance than during fair weather; the sun shining on its intense white
plumage against the dark background of a rain-cloud making it
exceedingly conspicuous. The fact that swans are almost always seen
after rain shows only that they are almost always passing.

Whenever we are visited by a dust-storm on the pampas myriads of hooded
gulls--Larus macnlipen-nis--appear flying before the dark dust-cloud,
even when not a gull has been seen for months. Dust-storms are of rare
occurrence, and come only after a long drought, and, the water-courses
being all dry, the gulls cannot have been living in the region over
which the storm passes. Yet in seasons of drought gulls must be
continually passing by at a great height, seeing but not seen, except
when driven together and forced towards the earth by the fury of the
storm.

By August (1873) the owls had vanished, and they had, indeed, good cause
for leaving. The winter had been one of continued drought; the dry grass
and herbage of the preceding year had been consumed by the cattle and
wild animals, or had turned to dust, and with the disappearance of their
food and cover the mice had ceased to be. The famine-stricken cats
sneaked back to the house. It was pitiful to see the little burrowing
owls; for these birds, not having the powerful wings and prescient
instincts of the vagrant Otus brachyotus, are compelled to face the
poverty from which the others escape. Just as abundance had before made
the domestic cats wild, scarcity now made the burrowing owls tame and
fearless of man. They were so reduced as scarcely to be able to fly, and
hung about the houses all day long on the look-out for some stray morsel
of food. I have frequently seen one alight and advance within two or
three yards of the door-step, probably attracted by the smell of roasted
meat. The weather continued dry until late in spring, so reducing the
sheep and cattle that incredible numbers perished during a month of cold
and rainy weather that followed the drought.

How clearly we can see in all this that the tendency to multiply
rapidly, so advantageous in normal seasons, becomes almost fatal to a
species in seasons of exceptional abundance. Cover and food without
limit enabled the mice to increase at such an amazing rate that the
lesser checks interposed by predatory species were for a while
inappreciable. But as the mice increased, so did their enemies.
Insectivorous and other species acquired the habits of owls and weasels,
preying exclusively on them; while to this innumerable army of residents
was shortly added multitudes of wandering birds coming from distant
regions. No sooner had the herbage perished, depriving the little
victims of cover and food, than the effects of the war became apparent.
In autumn the earth so teemed with them that one could scarcely walk
anywhere without treading on mice; while out of every hollow weed-stalk
lying on the ground dozens could be shaken; but so rapidly had they
devoured, by the trained army of persecutors, that in spring it was hard
to find a survivor, even in the barns and houses. The fact that species
tend to increase in a geometrical ratio makes these great and sudden
changes frequent in many regions of the earth; but it is not often they
present themselves so vividly as in the foregoing instance, for here,
scene after scene in one of Nature's silent passionless tragedies opens
before us, countless myriads of highly organized beings rising into
existence only to perish almost immediately, scarcely a hard-pressed
remnant remaining after the great reaction to continue the species.




CHAPTER IV.

SOME CURIOUS ANIMAL WEAPONS.


Strictly speaking, the only weapons of vertebrates are teeth, claws,
horns, and spurs. Horns belong only to the ruminants, and the spur is a
rare weapon. There are also many animals in which teeth and claws are
not suited to inflict injury, or in which the proper instincts and
courage to use and develop them are wanted; and these would seem, to be
in a very defenceless condition. Defenceless they are in one sense, but
as a fact they are no worse off than the well-armed species, having
either a protective colouring or a greater swiftness or cunning to
assist them in escaping from their enemies. And there are also many of
these practically toothless and clawless species which have yet been
provided with other organs and means of offence and defence out of
Nature's curious armoury, and concerning a few of these species I
propose to speak in this place.

Probably such distinctive weapons as horns, spurs, tusks and spines
would be much more common in nature if the conditions of life always
remained the same. But these things are long in fashioning; meanwhile,
conditions are changing; climate, soil, vegetation vary; foes and rivals
diminish or increase; the old go, and others with different weapons and
a new strategy take their place; and just as a skilful man "fighting the
wilderness" fashions a plough from a hunting-knife, turns his implements
into weapons of war, and for everything he possesses discovers a use
never contemplated by its maker, so does Nature--only with an ingenuity
exceeding that of man--use the means she has to meet all contingencies,
and enable her creatures, seemingly so ill-provided, to maintain their
fight for life. Natural selection, like an angry man, can make a weapon
of anything; and, using the word in this wide sense, the mucous
secretions the huanaco discharges into the face of an adversary, and the
pestilential drops "distilled" by the skunk, are weapons, and may be as
effectual in defensive warfare as spines, fangs and tushes.

I do not know of a more striking instance in the animal kingdom of
adaptation of structure to habit than is afforded by the hairy
armadillo--Dasypus villosus. He appears to us, roughly speaking, to
resemble an ant-eater saddled with a dish cover; yet this creature, with
the cunning Avhich Nature has given it to supplement all deficiencies,
has discovered in its bony encumbrance a highly efficient weapon of
offence. Most other edentates are diurnal and almost exclusively
insectivorous, some feeding only on ants; they have unchangeable habits,
very limited intelligence, and vanish before civilization. The hairy
armadillo alone has struck out a line for itself. Like its fast
disappearing congeners, it is an insect-eater still, but does not like
them seek its food on the surface and in the ant-hill only; all kinds of
insects are preyed on, and by means of its keen scent it discovers worms
and larvae several inches beneath the surface. Its method of taking
worms and grubs resembles that of probing birds, for it throws up no
earth, but forces its sharp snout and wedge-shaped head down to the
required depth; and probably while working it moves round in a circle,
for the hole is conical, though the head of the animal is flat. Where it
has found a rich hunting-ground, the earth is seen pitted with hundreds
of these neat symmetrical bores. It is also an enemy to ground-nesting
birds, being fond of eggs and fledglings; and when unable to capture
prey it will feed on carrion as readily as a wild dog or vulture,
returning night after night to the carcase of a horse or cow as long as
the flesh lasts. Failing animal food, it subsists on vegetable diet; and
I have frequently found their stomachs stuffed with clover, and,
stranger still, with the large, hard grains of the maize, swallowed
entire.

It is not, therefore, strange that at all seasons, and even when other
animals are starving, the hairy armadillo is always fat and vigorous. In
the desert it is diurnal; but where man appears it becomes more and more
nocturnal, and in populous districts does not go abroad until long after
dark. Yet when a district becomes thickly settled it increases in
numbers; so readily does it adapt itself to new conditions. It is not to
be wondered at that the gauchos, keen observers of nature as they are,
should make this species the hero of many of their fables of the "Uncle
Remus" type, representing it as a versatile creature, exceedingly
fertile in expedients, and duping its sworn friend the fox in various
ways, just as "Brer Rabbit" serves the fox in the North American fables.

The hairy armadillo will, doubtless, long survive all the other
armadillos, and on this account alone it will have an ever-increasing
interest for the naturalist. I have elsewhere described how it captures
mice; when preying on snakes it proceeds in another manner. A friend of
mine, a careful observer, who was engaged in cattle-breeding amongst the
stony sierras near Cape Corrientes, described to me an encounter he
witnessed between an armadillo and a poisonous snake. While seated on
the hillside one day he observed a snake, about twenty inches in length,
lying coiled up on a stoue five or six yards beneath him. By-and-by, a
hairy armadillo appeared trotting directly towards it. Apparently the
snake perceived and feared its approach, for it quickly uncoiled itself
and began gliding away. Instantly the armadillo rushed on to it, and,
squatting close down, began swaying its body backward and forward with a
regular sawing motion, thus lacerating its victim with the sharp,
deep-cut edges of its bony covering. The snake struggled to free itself,
biting savagely at its aggressor, for its head and neck were disengaged.
Its bites made no impression, and very soon it dropped its head, and
when its enemy drew off, it was dead and very much mangled. The
armadillo at once began its meal, taking the tail in its mouth and
slowly progressing towards the head; but when about a third of the snake
still remained it seemed satisfied, and, leaving that portion, trotted
away.

Altogether, in its rapacious and varied habits this armadillo appears to
have some points of resemblance with the hedgehog; and possibly, like
the little European mammal it resembles, it is not harmed by the bite of
venomous snakes.

I once had a cat that killed every snake it found, purely for sport,
since it never ate them. It would jump nimbly round and across its
victim, occasionally dealing it a blow with its cruel claws. The enemies
of the snake are legion. Burrowing owls feed largely on them; so do
herons and storks, killing them with a blow of their javelin beaks, and
swallowing them entire. The sulphur tyrant-bird picks up the young snake
by the tail, and, flying to a branch or stone, uses it like a flail till
its life is battered out. The bird is highly commended in consequence,
reminding one of very ancient words: "Happy shall he be that taketh thy
little ones and dasheth them against the stones." In arraying such a
variety of enemies against the snake, nature has made ample amends for
having endowed it with deadly weapons. Besides, the power possessed by
venomous snakes only seems to us disproportionate; it is not really so,
except in occasional individual encounters. Venomous snakes are always
greatly outnumbered by non-venomous ones in the same district; at any
rate this is the case on the pampas. The greater activity of the latter
counts for more in the result than the deadly weapons of the former.

The large teguexin lizard of the pampas, called iguana by the country
people, is a notable snake-killer. Snakes have in fact, no more
formidable enemy, for he is quick to see, and swift to overtake them. He
is practically invulnerable, and deals them sudden death with his
powerful tail. The gauchos say that dogs attacking the iguana are
sometimes known to have their legs broken, and I do not doubt it. A
friend of mine was out riding one day after his cattle, and having
attached one end of his lasso to the saddle, He let it trail on the
ground. He noticed a large iguana lying apparently asleep in the sun,
and though he rode by it very closely, it did not stir; but no sooner
had he passed it, than it raised its head, and fixed its attention on
the forty feet of lasso slowly trailing by. Suddenly it rushed after the
rope, and dealt it a succession of violent blows with its tail. When the
whole of the lasso, several yards of which had been pounded in vain, had
been dragged by, the lizard, with uplifted head, continued gazing after
it with the greatest astonishment. Never had such a wonderful snake
crossed its path before!

Molina, in his _Natural History of Chill,_ says the vizcacha uses its
tail as a weapon; but then Molina is not always reliable. I have
observed vizcachas all my life, and never detected them making use of
any weapon except their chisel teeth. The tail is certainly very
curious, being straight at the base, then curving up outwardly, and
slightly down again at the tip, resembling the spout of a china teapot.
The under surface of the straight portion of the base is padded with a
thick, naked, corneous skin; and, when the animal performs the curious
sportive antics in which it occasionally indulges, it gives rapid
loud-sounding blows on the ground with this part of the tail. The
peculiar form of the tail also makes it a capital support, enabling the
vizcacha to sit erect, with ease and security.

The frog is a most timid, inoffensive creature, saving itself, when
pursued, by a series of saltatory feats unparalleled amongst
vertebrates. Consequently, when I find a frog, I have no hesitation in
placing my hands upon it, and the cold sensation it gives one is the
worse result I fear. It came to pass, however, that I once encountered a
frog that was not like other frogs, for it possessed an instinct and
weapons of offence which greatly astonished me. I was out snipe shooting
one day when, peering into an old disused burrow, two or three feet
deep, I perceived a burly-looking frog sitting it. It was larger and
stouter-looking than our common Rana, though like it in colour, and I at
once dropped on to my knees and set about its capture. Though it watched
me attentively, the frog remained perfectly motionless, and this greatly
surprised me. Before I was sufficiently near to make a grab, it sprang
straight at my hand, and, catching two of my fingers round with its fore
legs, administered a hug so sudden and violent as to cause an acute
sensation of pain; then, at the very instant I experienced this feeling,
which made me start back quickly, it released its hold and bounded out
and away. I flew after it, and barely managed to overtake it before it
could gain the water. Holding it firmly pressed behind the shoulders, it
was powerless to attack me, and I then noticed the enormous development
of the muscles of the fore legs, usually small in frogs, bulging out in
this individual, like a second pair of thighs, and giving-it a strangely
bold and formidable appearance. On holding my gun within its reach, it
clasped the barrel with such energy as to bruise the skin of its breast
and legs. After allowing it to partially exhaust itself in these
fruitless huggings, I experimented by letting it seize my hand again,
and I noticed that invariably after each squeeze it made a quick,
violent attempt to free itself. Believing that I had discovered a frog
differing in structure from all known species, and possessing a strange
unique instinct of self-preservation, I carried my captive home,
intending to show it to Dr. Burmeister, the director of the National
Museum at Buenos Ayres-Unfortunately, after I had kept it some days, it
effected its escape by pushing up the glass cover of its box, and I have
never since met with another individual like it. That this singular
frog has it in its power to seriously injure an opponent is, of course,
out of the question; but its unexpected attack must be of great
advantage. The effect of the sudden opening of an umbrella in the face
of an angry bull gives, I think, only a faint idea of the astonishment
and confusion it must cause an adversary by its leap, quick as
lightning, and the violent hug it administers; and in the confusion it
finds time to escape. I cannot for a moment believe that an instinct so
admirable, correlated as it is with the structure of the fore legs, can
be merely an individual variation; and I confidently expect that all I
have said about my lost frog will some day be confirmed by others. Rana
luctator would be a good name for this species.

The toad is a slow-moving creature that puts itself in the way of
persecution; yet, strange to say, the acrid juice it exudes when
irritated is a surer protection to it than venomous fangs are to the
deadliest snake. Toads are, in fact, with a very few exceptions, only
attacked and devoured by snakes, by lizards, and by their own venomous
relative, Ceratophrys ornata. Possibly the cold sluggish natures of all
these creatures protects them against the toad's secretion, which would
be poison to most warm-blooded animals, but I am not so sure that all
fish enjoy a like immunity. I one day noticed a good-sized fish (bagras)
floating, belly upmost, on the water. It had apparently just died, and
had such a glossy, well-nourished look about it, and appeared so full, I
was curious to know the cause of its death. On opening it I found its
stomach quite filled with a very large toad it had swallowed. The toad
looked perfectly fresh, not even a faint discoloration of the skin
showing that the gastric juices had begun to take effect; the fish, in
fact, must have died immediately after swallowing the toad. The country
people in South America believe that the milky secretion exuded by the
toad possesses wonderful curative properties; it is their invariable
specific for shingles--a painful, dangerous malady common amongst them,
and to cure it living toads are applied to the inflamed parb. I dare say
learned physicians would laugh at this cure, but then, if I mistake not,
the learned have in past times laughed at other specifics used by the
vulgar, but which now have honourable places in the
pharmacopoeia--pepsine, for example. More than two centuries ago (very
ancient times for South America) the gauchos were accustomed to take
the lining of the rhea's stomach, dried and powdered, for ailments
caused by impaired digestion; and the remedy is popular still. Science
has gone over to them, and the ostrich-hunter now makes a double profit,
one from the feathers, and the other from the dried stomachs which he
supplies to the chemists of Buenos Ayres. Yet he was formerly told that
to take the stomach of the ostrich to improve his digestion was as wild
an idea as it would be to swallow birds' feathers in order to fly.

I just now called Ceratophrys ornata venomous, though its teeth are not
formed to inject poison into the veins, like serpents' teeth. It is a
singular creature, known as _escuerzo_ in the vernacular, and though
beautiful in colour, is in form hideous beyond description. The skin is
of a rich brilliant green, with chocolate-coloured patches, oval in
form, and symmetrically disposed. The lips are bright yellow, the
cavernous mouth pale flesh colour, the throat and under-surface dull
white. The body is lumpy, and about the size of a large man's fist. The
eyes, placed on the summit of a disproportionately large head, are
embedded in horn-like protuberances, capable of being elevated or
depressed at pleasure. When the creature is undisturbed, the eyes, which
are of a pale gold colour, look out as from a couple of watch towers,
but when touched on the head or menaced, the prominences sink down to a
level with the head, closing the eyes completely, and giving the
creature the appearance of being eyeless. The upper jaw is armed with
minute teeth, and there are two teeth in the centre of the lower jaw,
the remaining portions of the jaw being armed with two exceedingly
sharp-edged bony plates. In place of a tongue, it has a round muscular
process with a rough flat disc the size of a halfpenny.

It is common all over the pampas, ranging as far south as the Rio
Colorado in Patagonia. In the breeding season it congregates in pools,
and one is then struck by their extraordinary vocal powers, which they
exercise by night. The performance in no way resembles the series of
percussive sounds uttered by most batrachians. The notes it utters are
long, as of a wind instrument, not unmelodious, and so powerful as to
make themselves heard distinctly a mile off on still evenings. After the
amorous period these toads retire to moist places and sit inactive,
buried just deep enough to leave the broad green back on a level with
the surface, and it is then very difficult to detect them. In this
position they wait for their prey--frogs, toads, birds, and small
mammals. Often they capture and attempt to swallow things too large for
them, a mistake often made by snakes. In very wet springs they sometimes
come about houses and lie in wait for chickens and ducklings. In
disposition they are most truculent, savagely biting at anything that
comes near them; and when they bite they hang on with the tenacity of a
bulldog, poisoning the blood with their glandular secretions. When
teased, the creature swells itself out to such an extent one almost
expects to see him burst; he follows his tormentors about with slow
awkward leaps, his vast mouth wide open, and uttering an incessant harsh
croaking sound. A gaucho I knew was once bitten by one. He sat down on
the grass, and, dropping his hand at his side, had it seized, and only
freed himself by using his hunting knife to force the creature's mouth
open. He washed and bandaged the wound, and no bad result followed; but
when the toad cannot be shaken off, then the result is different. One
summer two horses were found dead on the plain near my home. One, while
lying down, had been seized by a fold in the skin near the belly; the
other had been grasped by the nose while cropping grass. In both
instances the vicious toad was found dead, with jaws tightly closed,
still hanging to the dead horse. Perhaps they are sometimes incapable of
letting go at will, and like honey bees, destroy themselves in these
savage attacks.




CHAPTER V.

FEAR IN BIRDS.


The statement that birds instinctively fear man is frequently met with
in zoological works written since the _Origin of Species_ appeared; but
almost the only reason--absolutely the only plausible reason, all the
rest being mere supposition--given in support of such a notion is that
birds in desert islands show at first no fear of man, but afterwards,
finding him a dangerous neighbour, they become wild; and their young
also grow up wild. It is thus assumed that the habit acquired by the
former has become hereditary in the latter--or, at all events, that in
time it becomes hereditary. Instincts, which are few in number in any
species, and practically endure for ever, are not, presumably, acquired
with such extraordinary facility.

Birds become shy where persecuted, and the young, even when not
disturbed, learn a shy habit from the parents, and from other adults
they associate with. I have found small birds shyer in desert places,
where the human form was altogether strange to them, than in
thickly-settled districts. Large birds are actually shyer than the small
ones, although, to the civilized or shooting man they seem astonishingly
tame where they have never been fired at. I have frequently walked quite
openly to within twenty-five or thirty yards of a flock of flamingoes
without alarming them. This, however, was when they were in the water,
or on the opposite side of a stream. Having no experience of guns, they
fancied themselves secure as long as a strip of water separated them
from the approaching object. When standing on dry land they would not
allow so near an approach. Sparrows in England aro very much tamer than
the sparrows I have observed in desert places, where they seldom see a
human being. Nevertheless young sparrows in England are very much tamer
than old birds, as anyone may see for himself. During the past summer,
while living near Kew Gardens, I watched the sparrows a great deal, and
fed forty or fifty of them every day from a back window. The bread and
seed was thrown on to a low roof just outside the window, and I noticed
that the young birds when first able to fly were always brought by the
parents to this feeding place, and that after two or three visits they
would begin to come of their own accord. At such times they would
venture quite close to me, showing as little suspicion as young
chickens. The adults, however, although so much less shy than birds of
other species, were extremely suspicious, snatching up the bread and
flying away; or, if they remained, hopping about in a startled manner,
craning their necks to view me, and making so many gestures and motions,
and little chirps of alarm, that presently the young would become
infected with fear. The lesson was taught them in a surprisingly short
time; their suspicion was seen to increase day by day, and about a week
later they were scarcely to be distinguished, in behaviour from the
adults. It is plain that, with these little birds, fear of man is an
associate feeling, and that, unless it had been taught them, his
presence would trouble them as little as does that of horse, sheep, or
cow. But how about the larger species, used as food, and which have had
a longer and sadder experience of man's destructive power?

The rhea, or South American ostrich, philosophers tell us, is a very
ancient bird on the earth; and from its great size and inability to
escape by flight, and its excellence as food, especially to savages, who
prefer fat rank-flavoured flesh, it must have been systematically
persecuted by man as long as, or longer than, any bird now existing on
the globe. If fear of man ever becomes hereditary in birds, we ought
certainly to find some trace of such an instinct in this species. I have
been unable to detect any, though I have observed scores of young rheas
in captivity, taken before the parent bird had taught them what to fear.
I also once kept a brood myself, captured just after they had hatched
out. With regard to food they were almost, or perhaps quite,
independent, spending most of the time catching flies, grasshoppers, and
other insects with surprising dexterity; but of the dangers encompassing
the young rhea they knew absolutely frothing. They would follow me about
as if they took me for their parent; and, whenever I imitated the loud
snorting or rasping warning-call emitted the old bird in moments of
danger, they would to me in the greatest terror, though no animal was in
sight, and, squatting at my feet, endeavour to conceal themselves by
thrusting their heads and long necks up my trousers. If I had caused a
person to dress in white or yellow clothes for several consecutive days,
and had then uttered the warning cry each time he showed himself to the
birds, I have no doubt that they would soon have acquired a habit of
running in terror from him, even without the warning cry, and that the
fear of a person in white or yellow would have continued all their
lives. Up to within about twenty years ago, rheas were seldom or never
shot in La Plata and Patagonia, but were always hunted on horseback and
caught with the bolas. The sight of a mounted man would set them off at
once, while a person on foot could walk quite openly to within easy
shooting distance of them; yet their fear of a horseman dates only two
hundred years back--a very short time, when we consider that, before the
Indian borrowed the horse from the invader, he must have systematically
pursued the rhea on foot for centuries. The rhea changed its habits when
the hunter changed his, and now, if an _estanciero_ puts down ostrich
hunting on his estate, in a very few years the birds, although wild
birds still, become as fearless and familiar as domestic animals. I have
known old and ill-tempered males to become a perfect nuisance on some
estancias, running after and attacking every person, whether on foot or
on horseback, that ventured near them. An old instinct of a whole race
could not be thus readily lost here and there on isolated estates
wherever a proprietor chose to protect his birds for half a dozen years.

I suppose the Talegallus--the best-known brush-turkey--must be looked on
as an exception to all other birds with regard to the point I am
considering; for this abnormal form buries its eggs in the huge mound
made by the male, and troubles herself no more about them. When the
young is fully developed it simply kicks the coffin to pieces in which
its mother interred it, and, burrowing its way up to the sunshine,
enters on the pleasures and pains of an independent existence from
earliest infancy--that is, if a species born into the world in full
possession of all the wisdom of the ancients, can be said ever to know
infancy. At all events, from Mr. Bartlett's observations on the young
hatched in the Zoological Gardens, it appears that they took no notice
of the old birds, but lived quite independently from the moment they
came out of the ground, even flying up into a tree and roosting
separately at night. I am not sure, however, that these observations are
quite conclusive; for it is certain that captivity plays strange pranks
with the instincts of some species, and it is just possible that in a
state of nature the old birds exercise at first some slight parental
supervision, and, like all other species, have a peculiar cry to warn
the young of the dangers to be avoided. If this is not so, then the
young Talegallus must fly or hide with instinctive tear from every
living thing that approaches it. I, at any rate, find it hard to believe
that it has a knowledge, independent of experience, of the different
habits of man and kangaroo, and dis-criminates at first sight between
animals that are dangerous to it and those that are not. This
interesting point will probably never be determined, as, most unhappily,
the Australians are just now zealously engaged in exterminating their
most wonderful bird for the sake of its miserable flesh; and with less
excuse than the Maories could plead with regard to the moa, since they
cannot deny that they have mutton and rabbit enough to satisfy hunger.

Whether birds fear or have instinctive knowledge of any of their enemies
is a much larger question. Species that run freely on the ground from
the time of quitting the shell know their proper food, and avoid
whatever is injurious. Have all young birds a similarly discriminating
instinct with regard to their enemies? Darwin says, "Fear of any
particular enemy is certainly an instinctive quality, as may be seen in
nestling birds." Here, even man seems to be included among the enemies
feared instinctively; and in another passage he says, "Young chickens
have lost, wholly from habit, that fear of the dog and cat which, no
doubt, was originally instinctive in them." My own observations point to
a contrary conclusion; and I may say that I have had unrivalled
opportunities for studying the habits of young birds.

Animals of all classes, old and young, shrink with instinctive fear from
any strange object approaching them. A piece of newspaper carried
accidentally by the wind is as great an object of terror to an
inexperienced young bird as a buzzard sweeping down with death in its
talons. Among birds not yet able to fly there are, however, some curious
exceptions; thus the young of most owls and pigeons are excited to anger
rather than fear, and, puffing themselves up, snap and strike at an
intruder with their beaks. Other fledglings simply shrink down in the
nest or squat close on the ground, their fear, apparently, being in
proportion to the suddenness with which the strange animal or object
comes on them; but, if the deadliest enemy approaches with slow caution,
as snakes do--and snakes must be very ancient enemies to birds--there is
no fear or suspicion shown, even when the enemy is in full view and
about to strike. This, it will be understood, is when no warning-cry is
uttered by the parent bird. This shrinking, and, in some cases, hiding
from an object corning swiftly towards them, is the "wildness_"_ of
young birds, which, Darwin says again, is greater in wild than in
domestic species. Of the extreme tameness of the young rhea I have
already spoken; I have also observed young tinamous, plovers, coots,
&c., hatched by fowls, and found them as incapable of distinguishing
friend from foe as the young of domestic birds. The only difference
between the young of wild and tame is that the former are, as a rule,
much more sprightly and active. But there are many exceptions; and if
this greater alertness and activity is what is meant by "wildness," then
the young of some wild birds--rhea, crested screamer, &c.--are actually
much tamer than our newly-hatched chickens and ducklings.

To return to what may be seen in nestling birds, n very young, and
before their education has begun, if quietly approached and touched,
they open their bills and take food as readily from a man as from the
parent bird. But if while being thus fed the parent returns and emits
the warning note, they instantly cease their hunger-cries, close their
gaping mouths, and crouch down frightened in the nest. This fear caused
by the parent bird's warning note begins to manifest itself even before
the young are hatched--and my observations on this point refer to
several species in three widely separated orders. When the little
prisoner is hammering at its shell, and uttering its feeble _peep,_ as
if begging to be let out, if the warning note is uttered, even at a
considerable distance, the strokes and complaining instantly cease, and
the chick will then remain quiescent in the shell for a long time, or
until the parent, by a changed note, conveys to it an intimation that
the danger is over. Another proof that the nestling has absolutely no
instinctive knowledge of particular enemies, but is taught to fear them
by the parents, is to be found in the striking contrast between the
habits of parasitical and genuine young in the nest, and after they have
left it, while still unable to find their own food. I have had no
opportunities of observing the habits of the young cuckoo in England
with regard to this point, and do not know whether other observers have
paid any attention to the matter or not, but I am very familiar with the
manners of the parasitical starling or cow-bird of South America. The
warning cries of the foster parent have no effect on the young cow-bird
at any time. Until they are able to fly they will readily devour worms
from the hand of a man, even when the old birds are hovering close by
and screaming their danger notes, and while their own young, if the
parasite has allowed any to survive in the nest, are crouching down in
the greatest fear. After the cow-bird has left the nest it is still
stupidly tame, and more than once I have seen one carried off from its
elevated perch by a milvago hawk, when, if it had understood the warning
cry of the foster parent, it would have dropped down into the bush or
grass and escaped. But as soon as the young cow-birds are able to shift
for themselves, and begin to associate with their own kind, their habits
change, and they become suspicious and wild like other birds.

On this point--the later period at which the parasitical young bird
acquires fear of man--and also bearing on the whole subject under
discussion, I shall add here some observations I once made on a dove
hatched and reared by a pigeon at my home on the pampas. A very large
ombú tree grew not far from the dove-cote, and some of the pigeons used
to make their nests on the lower horizontal branches. One summer a dove
of the most common species, Zenaida maculata, in size a third less than
the domestic pigeon, chanced to drop an egg in one of these nests, and a
young dove was hatched and reared; and, in due time, when able to fly,
it was brought to the dove-cote. I watched it a great deal, and it was
evident that this foster-young, though' with the pigeons, was not nor
ever would be of them, for it could not take kiudly to their flippant
flirty ways. Whenever a male approached it, and with guttural noises and
strange gestures made a pompous declaration of amorous feelings, the
dove would strike vigorously at its undesirable lover, and drive him
off, big as he was; and, as a rule, it would sit apart, afoot or so,
from the others. The dove was also a male; but its male companions, with
instinct tainted by domestication, were ignorant alike of its sex and
different species. Now, it chanced that my pigeons, never being fed and
always finding their own living on the plain like wild birds, were,
although still domestic, not nearly so tame as pigeons usually are in
England. They would not allow a person to approach within two or three
yards of them without flying, and if grain was thrown to them they would
come to it very suspiciously, or not at all. And, of course, the young
pigeons always acquired the exact degree of suspicion shown by the
adults as soon as they were able to fly and consort with the others. But
the foundling Zenaida did not know what their startled gestures and
notes of fear meant when a person approached too near, and as he saw
none of his own kind, he did not acquire their suspicious habit. On the
contrary, he was perfectly tame, although by parentage a wild bird, and
showed no more fear of a man than of a horse. Throughout the winter it
remained with the pigeons, going afield every day with them, and
returning to the dove-cote; but as spring approached the slight tie
which united him to them began to be loosened; their company grew less
and less congenial, and he began to lead a solitary life. But he did not
go to the trees yet. He came to the house, and his favourite perch was
on the low overhanging roof of a vine-covered porch, just over the main
entrance. Here he would pass several hours every day, taking no notice
of the people passing in and out at all times; and when the weather grew
warm he would swell out his breast and coo mournfully by the hour for
our pleasure.

We can, no doubt, learn best by observing the behaviour of nestlings and
young birds; nevertheless, I find much even in the confirmed habits of
adults to strengthen me in the belief that fear of particular enemies is
in nearly all cases--for I will not say all--the result of experience
and tradition.

Hawks are the most open, violent, and persistent enemies birds have; and
it is really wonderful to see how well the persecuted kinds appear to
know the power for mischief possessed by different raptorial species,
and how exactly the amount of alarm exhibited is in proportion to the
extent of the danger to be apprehended. Some raptors never attack birds,
others only occasionally; still others prey only on the young and
feeble; and, speaking of La Plata district, where I have observed hawks,
from the milvago chimango--chiefly a carrion-eater--to the destructive
peregrine falcon, there is a very great variety of predatory habits, and
all degrees of courage to be found; yet all these raptors are treated
differently by species liable to be preyed on, and have just as much
respect paid them as their strength and daring entitles them to, and no
more, So much discrimination must seem almost incredible to those who
are not very familiar with the manners of wild birds; I do not think it
could exist if the fear shown resulted from instinct or inherited habit.
There would be no end to the blunders of such an instinct as that; and
in regions where hawks are extremely abundant most of the birds would be
in a constant state of trepidation. On the pampas the appearance of the
comparatively harmless chimango excites not the least alarm among small
birds, yet at a distance it closely resembles a henharrier, and it also
readily attacks young, sick, and wounded birds; all others know how
little they have to fear from it. When it appears unexpectedly,
sweeping over a hedge or grove with a rapid flight, it is sometimes
mistaken for a more dangerous species; there is then a little flutter of
alarm, some birds springing into the air, but in two or three seconds of
time they discover their mistake, and settle down quietly again, taking
no further notice of the despised carrion-eater. On the other hand, I
have frequently mistaken a harrier (Circus cinereus, in the brown state
of plumage) for a chimango, and have only discovered my mistake by
seeing the commotion among the small birds. The harrier I have
mentioned, also the C. macropterus, feed partly on small birds, which
they flush from the ground and strike down with their claws. When the
harrier appears moving along with a loitering flight near the surface,
it is everywhere attended by a little whirlwind of alarm, small birds
screaming or chirping excitedly and diving into the grass or bushes; but
the alarm does not spread far, and subsides as soon as the hawk has
passed on its way. Buzzards (Buteo and Urubitinga) are much more feared,
and create a more widespread alarm, and they ars certainly more
destructive to birds than harriers. Another curious instance is that of
the sociable hawk (Rostrhanrus sociabilis). This bird spends the summer
and breeds in marshes in La Plata, and birds pay no attention to it, for
it feeds exclusively on water-snails (Ampullaria). But when it visits
woods and plantations to roost, during migration, its appearance creates
as much alarm as that of a true buzzard, which it closely resembles.
Wood-birds, unaccustomed to see it, do not know its peculiar preying
habits, and how little they need fear its presence. I may also mention
that the birds of La Plata seem to fear the kite-like Elanus less than
other hawks, and I believe that its singular resemblance to the common
gull of the district in its size, snowy-white plumage and manner of
flight, has a deceptive effect on most species, and makes them so little
suspicious of it.

The wide-ranging peregrine falcon is a common species in La Plata,
although, oddly enough, not included in any notice of the avifauna of
that region before 1888. The consternation caused among birds by its
appearance is vastly greater than that produced by any of the raptors I
have mentioned: and it is unquestionably very much more destructive to
birds, since it preys exclusively on them, and, as a rule, merely picks
the flesh from the head and neck, and leaves the untouched body to its
jackal, the carrion-hawk. When the peregrine appears speeding through
the air in a straight line at a great height, the feathered world, as
far as one able to see, is thrown into the greatest commo-tion, all
birds, from the smallest up to species large as duck, ibis, and curlew,
rushing about in the air as if distracted. When the falcon has
disappeared in the sky, and the wave of terror attending its progress
subsides behind it, the birds still continue wild and excited for some
time, showing how deeply they have been moved; for, as a rule, fear is
exceedingly transitory in its effects on animals.

I must, before concluding this part of my subject, mention another
raptor, also a true falcon, but differing from the peregrine in being
exclusively a marsh-hawk. In size it is nearly a third less than the
male peregrine, which it resembles in its sharp wings and manner of
flight, but its flight is much more rapid. The whole plumage, is
uniformly of a dark grey colour. Unfortunately, though I have observed
it not fewer than a hundred times, I have never been able to procure a
specimen, nor do I find that it is like any American falcon already
described; so that for the present it must remain nameless. Judging
solely from the effect produced by the appearance of this hawk, it must
be even more daring and destructive than its larger relation, the
peregrine. It flies at a great height, and sometimes descends vertically
and with extraordinary velocity, the wings producing a sound like a
deep-toned horn. The sound is doubtless produced at will, and is
certainly less advantageous to the hawk than to the birds it pursues. No
doubt it can afford to despise the wing-power of its quarry; and I have
sometimes thought that it takes a tyrannous delight in witnessing the
consternation caused by its hollow trumpeting sound. This may be only a
fancy, but some hawks do certainly take pleasure in pursuing and
striking birds when not seeking prey. The peregrine has been observed,
Baird says, capturing birds, only to kill and drop them. Many of the
Felidae, we know, evince a similar habit; only these prolong their
pleasure by practising a more refined and deliberate cruelty.

The sudden appearance overhead of this hawk produces an effect wonderful
to witness. I have frequently seen all the inhabitants of a marsh struck
with panic, acting as if demented, and suddenly grown careless to all
other dangers; and on such occasions I have looked up confident of
seeing the sharp-winged death, suspended above them in the sky. All
birds that happen to be on the wing drop down as if shot into the reeds
or water; ducks away from the margin stretch out their necks
horizontally and drag their bodies, as if wounded, into closer cover;
not one bird is found bold enough to rise up and wheel about the
marauder--a usual proceeding in the case of other hawks; while, at every
sudden stoop the falcon makes, threatening to dash down on his prey, a
low cry of terror rises from the birds beneath; a sound expressive of an
emotion so contagious that it quickly runs like a murmur all over the
marsh, as if a gust of wind had swept moaning through, the rushes. As
long as the falcon hangs overhead, always at a height of about forty
yards, threatening at intervals to dash down, this murmuring sound, made
up of many hundreds of individual cries, is heard swelling and dying
away, and occasionally, when he drops lower than usual, rising to a
sharp scream of terror.

Sometimes when I have been riding over marshy ground, one of these hawks
has placed himself directly over my head, within fifteen or twenty yards
of me; and it has perhaps acquired the habit of following a horseman in
this way in order to strike at any birds driven up. On one occasion my
horse almost trod on a couple of snipe squatting terrified in the short
grass. The instant they rose the hawk struck at one, the end of his wing
violently smiting my cheek as he stooped, and striking at the snipe on a
level with the knees of my horse. The snipe escaped by diving under the
bridle, and immediately dropped down on the other side of me, and the
hawk, rising up, flew away.

To return. I think I am justified in believing that fear of hawks, like
fear of men, is, in very nearly all cases, the result of experience and
tradition. Nevertheless, I think it probable that in some species which
have always lived in the open, continually exposed to attack, and which
are preferred as food by raptors, such as duck, snipe, and plover, the
fear of the falcon may be an inherited habit. Among passerine birds I am
also inclined to think that swallows show inherited fear of hawks.
Swallows and humming-birds have least to fear from raptors; yet, while
humming-birds readily pursue and tease hawks, thinking as little of them
as of pigeons or herons, swallows everywhere manifest the greatest
terror at the approach of a true falcon; and they also fear other birds
of prey, though in a much less degree. It has been said that the
European hobby occasionally catches swal-lows on the wing, but this
seems a rare and exceptional habit, and in South America I have never
seen any bird of prey attempt the pursuit of a swallow. The question
then arises, how did this unnecessary fear, so universal in swallows,
originate? Can it be a survival of a far past--a time when some
wide-ranging small falcon, aerial in habits as the swallow itself,
preyed by preference on hirundines only?

[NOTE.-Herbert Spencer, who accepts Darwin's inference, explains how the
fear of man, acquired by experience, becomes instinctive in birds, in
the following passage: "It is well known that in newly-discovered lands
not inhabited by man, birds are so devoid of fear as to allow themselves
to be knocked over with sticks; but that, in the course of generations,
they acquire such a dread of man as to fly on his approach: and that
this dread is manifested by young as well as by old. Now unless this
change be ascribed to the killing-off of the least fearful, and the
preservation and multiplication of the most fearful which, considering
the comparatively small number killed by man, is an inadequate cause, it
must be ascribed to accumulated experience; and each experience must be
held to have a share in producing it. We must conclude that in each bird
that escapes with injuries inflicted by man, or is alarmed by the
outcries of other members of the flock (gregarious creatures of any
intelligence being necessarily more or less sympathetic), there is
established an association of ideas between the human aspect and the
pains, direct and in-direct, suffered from human agency. And we must
further con-clude, that the state of consciousness which compels the
bird to take flight, is at first nothing more than an ideal reproduction
of those painful impressions which before followed man's approach; that
such ideal reproduction becomes more vivid and more massive as the
painful experiences, direct or sympathetic, increase; and that thus the
emotion, in its incipient state, is nothing else than an aggregation of
the revived pains before experience.

"As, in the course of generations, the young birds of this race begin to
display a fear of man before yet they have been injured by him, it is an
unavoidable inference that the nervous system of the race has been
organically modified by these experiences, we have no choice but to
conclude, that when a young bird is led to fly, it is because the
impression produced in its senses by the approaching man entails,
through an incipiently reflex action, a partial excitement of all those
nerves which in its ancestors had been excited under the like
conditions; that this partial excitement has its accompanying painful
consciousness, and that the vague painful consciousness thus arising
constitutes emotion proper--_emotion undecomposable into specific
experiences, and, therefore, seemingly homogeneous"_ (Essays, vol. i. p.
320.)]

It is comforting to know that the "unavoidable inference" is, after all,
erroneous, and that the nervous system in birds has not yet been
organically altered as a result of man's persecution; for in that case
it would take long to undo the mischief, and we should be indeed far
from that "better friendship" with the children of the air which many of
us would like to see.




CHAPTER VI.

PARENTAL AND EARLY INSTINCTS.


Under this heading I have put together several notes from my journals on
subjects which have no connection with each other, except that they
relate chiefly to the parental instincts of some animals I have
observed, and to the instincts of the young at a very early period of
life.

While taking bats one day in December, I captured a female of our common
Buenos Ayrean species (Molossus bonariensis), with her two young
attached to her, so large that it seemed incredible she should be able
to fly and take insects with such a weight to drag her down. The young
were about a third less in size than the mother, so that she had to
carry a weight greatly exceeding that of her own body. They were
fastened to her breast and belly, one on each side, as when first born;
and, possibly, the young bat does not change its position, or move, like
the young developed opossum, to other parts of the body, until mature
enough to begin an independent life. On forcibly separating them from
their parent, I found that they were not yet able to fly, but when set
free fluttered feebly to the ground. This bat certainly appeared more
burdened with its young than any animal I had ever observed. I have seen
an old female opossum (Didelphys azarae) with eleven young, large as old
rats--the mother being less than a cat in size--all clinging to various
parts of her body; yet able to climb swiftly and with the greatest
agility in the higher branches of a tree. The actual weight was in this
case relatively much greater than in that of the female bat: but then
the opossum never quitted its hold on the tree, and it also supplemented
its hand-like feet, furnished with crooked claws, with its teeth and
long prehensile tail. The poor bat had to seek its living in the empty
air, pursuing its prey with the swiftness of a swallow, and it seemed
wonderful to me that she should have been able to carry about that great
burden with her one pair of wings, and withal to be active enough to
supply herself and her young with food.

In the end I released her, and saw her fly away and disappear among the
trees, after which I put back the two young bats in the place I had
taken them from, among the thick-clustering foliage of a small acacia
tree. When set free they began to work their way upwards through the
leaves and slender twigs in the most adroit manner, catching a twig with
their teeth, then embracing a whole cluster of leaves with their wings,
just as a person would take up a quantity of loose clothes and hold them
tight by pressing them against the chest. The body would then emerge
above the clasped leaves, and a higher twig would be caught by the
teeth; and so on successively, until they had got as high as they
wished, when they proceeded to hook themselves to a twig and assume the
inverted position side by side; after which, one drew in its head and
went to sleep, while the other began licking the end of its wing, where
my finger and thumb had pressed the delicate membrane. Later in the day
I attempted to feed them with small insects, but they rejected my
friendly attentions in the most unmistakable manner, snapping viciously
at me every time I approached them. In the evening, I stationed myself
close to the tree, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing the
mother return, flying straight to the spot where I had taken her, and in
a few moments she was away again and over the trees with her twins.

Assuming that these two young bats had, before I found them, existed
like parasites clinging to the parent, their adroit actions when
liberated, and their angry demonstrations at my approach, were very
astonishing; for in all other mammals born in a perfectly helpless
state, like rodents, weasels, edentates, and even marsupials, the
instincts of self-preservation are gradually developed after the period
of activity begins, when the mother leads them out, and they play with
her and Avith each other. In the bat the instincts must ripen to
perfection without exercise or training, and while the animal exists as
passively as a fruit on its stem.

I have observed that the helpless young of some of the mammals I have
just mentioned seem at first to have no instinctive understanding of the
language of alarm and fear in the parent, as all young-birds have, even
before their eyes are open. Nor is it necessary that they should have
such an instinct, since, in most cases, they are well concealed in
kennels or other safe places; but when, through some accident, they are
exposed, the want of such an instinct makes the task of protecting them
doubly hard for the parent. I once surprised a weasel (Galictis barbara)
in the act of removing her young, or conducting them, rather; and when
she was forced to quit them, although still keeping close by, and
uttering the most piercing cries of anger and solicitude, the young
continued piteously crying out in their shrill voices and moving about
in circles, without making the slightest attempt to escape, or to
conceal themselves, as young birds do.

Some field mice breed on the surface of the ground in ill-constructed
nests, and their young are certainly the most helpless things in nature.
It is possible that where this dangerous habit exists, the parent has
some admirable complex instincts to safeguard her young, in addition to
the ordinary instincts of most animals of this kind. This idea was
suggested to me by the action of a female mouse which I witnessed by
chance. While walking in a field of stubble one day in autumn, near
Buenos Ayres, I suddenly heard, issuing from near my feet, a chorus of
shrill squealing voices--the familiar excessively sharp little needles
of sound emitted by young, blind and naked mice, when they are disturbed
or in pain. Looking down, I saw close to my foot a nest of them--there
were nine in all, wriggling about and squealing; for the parent,
frightened at my step, had just sprung from them, overturning in her
hurry to escape the slight loosely-felted dome of fine grass and
thistledown which had covered them. I saw her running away, but after
going six or seven yards she stopped, and, turning partly round so as to
watch me, waited in fear and trembling. I remained perfectly
motionless--a sure way to allay fear and suspicion in any wild
creature,--and in a few moments she returned, but with the utmost
caution, frequently pausing to start and tremble, and masking her
approach with corn stumps and little inequalities in the surface of the
ground, until, reaching the nest, she took one of the young in her
mouth, and ran rapidly away to a distance of eight or nine yards and
concealed it in a tuft of dry grass.

Leaving it, she returned a second time, in the same cautious manner, and
taking another, ran with it to the same spot, and concealed it along
with the first. It was curious that the first young mouse had continued
squealing after being hidden by the mother, for I could hear it
distinctly, the air being very still, but when the second mouse had been
placed with it, the squealing ceased. A third time the old mouse came,
and then instead of going to the same spot, as I had expected, she ran
off in an opposite direction and disappeared among the dry weeds; a
fourth was carried to the same place as the third; and in this way they
were all removed to a distance of some yards from the nest, and placed
in couples, until the last and odd one remained. In due time she came
for it, and ran away with it in a new direction, and was soon out of
sight; and although I waited fully ten minutes, she did not return; nor
could I afterwards find any of the young mice when I looked for them, or
even hear them squeal.

I have frequently observed newly-born lambs on the pampas, and have
never failed to be surprised at the extreme imbecility they display in
their actions; although this may be due partly to inherited degeneracy
caused by domestication. This imbecile condition continues for two,
sometimes for three days, during which time the lamb apparently acts
purely from instincts, which are far from perfect; but after that,
experience and its dam teach it a better way. When born its first
impulse is to struggle up on to its feet; its second to suck, but here
it does not discriminate like the newly-hatched bird that picks up its
proper food, or it does not know what to suck. It will take into its
mouth whatever comes near, in most cases a tuft of wool on its dam's
neck; and at this it will continue sucking for an indefinite time. It is
highly probable that the strong-smelling secretion of the sheep's udder
attracts the lamb at length to that part; and that without something of
the kind to guide it, in many cases it would actually starve without
finding the teats. I have often seen lambs many hours after birth still
confining their attention to the most accessible locks of wool on the
neck or fore legs of the dams, and believe that in such cases the long
time it took them to find the source of nourishment arose from a
defective sense of smell. Its next important instinct, which comes into
play from the moment it can stand on its feet, impels it to follow after
any object receding from it, and, on the other hand, to run from
anything approaching it. If the dam turns round and approaches it from
even a very short distance, it will start back and run from her in fear,
and will not understand her voice when she bleats to it: at the same
time it will confidently follow after a man, dog, horse, or any other
animal moving from it. A very common experience on the pampas, in the
sheep-country, is to see a lamb start up from sleep and follow the
rider, running along close to the heels of the horse. This is
distressing to a merciful man, tor he cannot shake the little simpleton
off, and if he rides on, no matter how fast, it will keep up him, or
keep him in sight, for half a mile or a mile, and never recover its dam.
The gaucho, who is not merciful, frequently saves himself all trouble
and delay by knocking it senseless with a blow of his whip-handle, and
without checking his horse. I have seen a lamb, about two days old,
start up from sleep, and immediately start off in pursuit of a puff ball
about as big as a man's head, carried past it over the smooth turf by
the wind, and chase it for a distance of five hundred yards, until the
dry ball was brought to a stop by a tuft of coarse grass. This
blundering instiuct is quickly laid aside when the lamb has learned to
distinguish its dam from other objects, and its dam's voice from other
sounds. When four or five days old it will start from sleep, but instead
of rushing blindly away after any receding object, it first looks about
it, and will then recognize and run to its dam.

I have often been struck with the superiority of the pampa or
creolla--the old native breed of sheep--in the greater vigour of the
young when born over the improved European varieties. The pampa descends
to us from the first sheep introduced into La Plata about three
centuries ago, and is a tall, gaunt bony animal, with lean dry flesh,
like venison, and long straight wool, like goats' hair. In their
struggle for existence in a country subject to sudden great changes of
temperature, to drought, and failure of grass, they have in a great
measure lost the qualities which make the sheep valuable to man as a
food and wool-producing animal; but on the other hand they have to some
extent recovered the vigour of a wild animal, being hardy enough to
exist without any shelter, and requiring from their master man only
protection from the larger carnivores. They are keen-scented, swift of
foot and Wonderfully active, and thrive where other breeds would quickly
starve. I have often seen a lamb dropped on the frosty ground in
bitterly cold windy weather in midwinter, and in less than five seconds
struggle to its feet, and seem as vigorous as any day-old lamb of other
breeds. The dam, impatient at the short delay, and not waiting to give
it suck, has then started off at a brisk trot after the flock, scattered
and galloping before the wind like huanacos rather than sheep, with the
lamb, scarcely a minute in the world, running freely at her side.
Notwithstanding its great vigour it has been proved that the pampa sheep
has not so far outgrown the domestic taint as to be able to maintain its
own existence when left entirely to itself. During the first half of
this century, when cattle-breeding began to be profitable, and wool was
not worth the trouble of shearing, and the gaucho workman would not eat
mutton when beef was to be had, some of the estancieros on the southern
pampas determined to get rid of their sheep, which were of no value to
them; and many flocks were driven a distance out and lost in the wilds.
Out of many thousands thus turned loose to shift for themselves, not one
pair survived to propagate a new race of feral sheep; in a short time
pumas, wild dogs, and other beasts of prey, had destroyed them all. The
sterling qualities of the pampa sheep had their value in other times; at
present the improved kinds are alone considered worth having, and the
original sheep of the country is now rapidly disappearing, though still
found in remote and poor districts, especially in the province of
Cordova; and probably before long it will become extinct, together with
the curious pug-nosed cow of the pampas.

I have had frequent opportunities of observing the young, from one to
three days old, of the Cervus campestris--the common deer of the pampas,
and the perfection of its instincts at that tender age seem very
wonderful in a ruminant. When the doe with, fawn is approached by a
horseman, even when accompanied with dogs, she stands perfectly
motionless, gazing fixedly at the enemy, the fawn motionless at her
side; and suddenly, as if at a preconcerted signal, the fawn rushes
directly away from her at its utmost speed; and going to a distance of
six hundred to a thousand yards conceals itself in a hollow in the
ground or among the long grass, lying down very close with neck
stretched out horizontally, and will thus remain until sought by the
dam. When very young if found in its hiding-place it will allow itself
to be taken, making no further effort to escape. After the fawn has run
away the doe still maintains her statuesque attitude, as if resolved to
await the onset, and only when the dogs are close to her she also rushes
away, but invariably in a direction as nearly opposite to that taken by
the fawn as possible. At first she runs slowly, with a limping gait, and
frequently pausing, as if to entice her enemies on, like a partridge,
duck or plover when driven from its young; but as they begin to press
her more closely her speed increases, becoming greater the further she
succeeds in leading them from the starting-point.

The alarm-cry of this deer is a peculiar whistling bark, a low but
far-reaching sound; but when approaching a doe with young I have never
been able to hear it, nor have I seen any movement on the part of the
doe. Yet it is clear that in some mysterious way she inspires the fawn
with sudden violent fear; while the fawn, on its side, instead of being
affected like the young in other mammals, and sticking closer to its
mother, acts in a contrary way, and runs from her.

Of the birds I am acquainted with, the beautiful jacana (Parra jacana)
appears to come into the world with its faculties and powers in the most
advanced state. It is, in fact, ready to begin active life from the very
moment of leaving the shell, as I once accidentally observed. I found a
nest on a small mound of earth in a shallow lagoon, containing four
eggs, with the shells already chipped by the birds in them. Two yards
from the small nest mound there was a second mound covered with coarse
grass. I got off my horse to examine the nest, and the old birds,
excited beyond measure, fluttered round me close by pouring out their
shrill rapidly-reiterated cries in an unbroken stream, sounding very
much like a policeman's rattle. While I was looking closely at one of
the eggs lying on the palm of my hand, all at once the cracked shell
parted, and at the same moment the young bird leaped from my hand and
fell into the water. I am quite sure that the young bird's sudden escape
from the shell and my hand was the result of a violent effort on its
part to free itself; and it was doubtless inspired to make the effort by
the loud persistent screaming of the parent birds, which it heard while
in the shell. Stooping to pick it up to save it from perishing, I soon
saw that my assistance was not required, for immediately on dropping
into the water, it put out its neck, and with the body nearly submerged,
like a wounded duck trying to escape observation, it swam rapidly to the
second small mound I have mentioned, and, escaping from the water,
concealed itself in the grass, lying close and perfectly motionless like
a young plover.

In the case of the pampa or creolla sheep, I have shown that during its
long, rough life in La Plata, this variety has in some measure recovered
the natural vigour and ability to maintain existence in adverse
circumstances of its wild ancestors. As much can be said of the creolla
fowl of the pampas; and some observations of mine on the habits of this
variety will perhaps serve to throw light on a vexed question of Natural
History--namely, the cackling of the hen after laying, an instinct which
has been described as "useless" and "disadvantageous." In fowls that
live unconfined, and which are allowed to lay where they like, the
instinct, as we know it, is certainly detrimental, since egg-eating dogs
and pigs soon learn the cause of the outcry, and acquire a habit of
rushing off to find the egg when they hear it. The question then arises:
Does the wild jungle fowl possess the same pernicious instinct?

The creolla is no doubt the descendant of the fowl originally introduced
about three centuries ago by the first colonists in La Plata, and has
probably not only been uncrossed with any other improved variety, such
as are now fast taking its place, and has lived a much freer life than
is usual with the fowl in Europe. It is a rather small, lean, extremely
active bird, lays about a dozen eggs, and hatches them all, and is of a
yellowish red colour--a hue which is common, I believe, in the old
barn-door fowl of England. The creolla fowl is strong on the wing, and
much more carnivorous and rapacious in habits than other breeds; mice,
frogs, and small snakes are eagerly hunted and devoured by it. At my
home on the pampas a number of these fowls were kept, and were allowed
to range freely about the plantation, which was large, and the adjacent
grounds, where there were thickets of giant cardoon thistle, red-weed,
thorn apple, &c. They always nested at a distance from the house, and it
was almost impossible ever to find their eggs, on account of the extreme
circumspection they observed in going to and from their nests; and when
they succeeded in escaping foxes, skunks, weasels, and opossums, which,
strange to say, they often did, they would rear their chickens away out
of sight and hearing of the house, and only bring them home when winter
deprived them of their leafy covering and made food scarce. During the
summer, in my rambles about the plantation, T would occasionally
surprise one of these half-wild hens with her brood; her distracted
screams and motions would then cause her chicks to scatter and vanish in
all directions, and, until the supposed danger was past, they would lie
as close and well-concealed as young partridges. These fowls in summer
always lived in small parties, each party composed of one cock and as
many hens as he could collect--usually three or four. Each family
occupied its own feeding ground, where it would pass a greater portion
of each day. The hen would nest at a considerable distance from the
feeding ground, sometimes as far as four or five hundred yards away.
After laying an egg she would quit the nest, not walking from it as
other fowls do, but flying, the flight extending to a distance of from
fifteen to about fifty yards; after which, still keeping silence, she
would walk or run, until, arrived at the feeding ground, she would begin
to cackle. At once the cock, if within hearing, would utter a responsive
cackle, whereupon she would run to him and cackle no more. Frequently
the cackling call-note would not be uttered more than two or three
times, sometimes only once, and in a much lower tone than in fowls of
other breeds.

If we may assume that these fowls, in their long, semi-independent
existence in La Plata, have reverted to the original instincts of the
wild Gallus bankiva, we can see here how advantageous the cackling
instinct must be in enabling the hen in dense tropical jungles to rejoin
the flock after laying an egg. If there are egg-eating animals in the
jungle intelligent enough to discover the meaning of such a short,
subdued cackling call, they would still be unable to find the nest by
going back on the bird's scent, since she flies from the nest in the
first place; and the wild bird probably flies further than the creolla
hen of La Plata. The clamorous cackling of our fowls would appear then
to be nothing more than a perversion of a very useful instinct.




CHAPTER VII.

THE MEPHITIC SKUNK.


It might possibly give the reader some faint conception of the odious
character of this creature (for adjectives are weak to describo it) when
I say that, in talking to strangers from abroad, I have never thought it
necessary to speak of sunstroke, jaguars, or the assassin's knife, but
have never omitted to warn them of the skunk, minutely describing its
habits and personal appearance.

I knew an Englishman who, on taking a first gallop across the pampas,
saw one, and, quickly dismounting, hurled himself bodily on to it to
effect its capture. Poor man! he did not know that the little animal is
never unwilling to be caught. Men have been blinded for ever by a
discharge of the fiery liquid full in their faces. On a mucous membrane
it burns like sulphuric acid, say the unfortunates who have had the
experience. How does nature protect the skunk itself from the injurious
effects of its potent fluid? I have not unfrequently found individuals
stone-blind, sometimes moving so briskly about that the blindness must
have been of long standing--very possibly in some cases an accidental
drop discharged by the animal itself has caused the loss of sight. When
coming to close quarters with a skunk, by covering up the face, one's
clothes only are ruined. But this is not all one has to fear from an
encounter; the worst is that effluvium, after which crushed garlic is
lavender, which tortures the olfactory nerves, and appears to pervade
the whole system like a pestilent ether, nauseating one until
sea-sickness seems almost a pleasant sensation in comparison.

To those who know the skunk only from reputation, my words might seem
too strong; many, however, who have come to close quarters with the
little animal will think them ridiculously weak. And consider what must
the feelings be of one who has had the following experience--not an
uncommon experience on the pampas. There is to be a dance at a
neighbouring house a few miles away; he has been looking forward to it,
and, dressing himself with due care, mounts his horse and sets out full
of joyous anticipations. It is a dark windy evening, but there is a
convenient bridle-path through the dense thicket of giant thistles, and
striking it he puts his horse into a swinging gallop. Unhappily the path
is already occupied by a skunk, invisible in the darkness, that, in
obedience to the promptings of its insane instinct, refuses to get out
of it, until the flying hoofs hit it and sand it like a well-kicked
football into the thistles. But the forefoot of the horse, up as high as
his knees perhaps, have been sprinkled, and the rider, after coming out
into the open, dismounts and walks away twenty yards from his animal,
and literally _smells_ himself all over, and with a feeling of profound
relief pronounces himself Not the minutest drop of the diabolical spray
has touched his dancing shoes! Springing into the saddle he proceeds to
his journey's end, is warmly welcomed by his host, and speedily
forgetting his slight misadventure, mingles with a happy crowd of
friends. In a little while people begin exchanging whispers and
significant glances; men are seen smiling at nothing in particular; the
hostess wears a clouded face; the ladies cough and put their scented
handkerchiefs to their noses, and presently they begin to feel faint and
retire from the room. Our hero begins to notice that there is something
wrong, and presently discovers its cause; he, unhappily, has been the
last person in the room to remark that familiar but most abominable
odour, rising like a deadly exhalation from the floor, conquering all
other odours, and every moment becoming more powerful. A drop _has_
touched his shoe after all; and fearing to be found out, and edging
towards the door, he makes his escape, and is speedily riding home
again; knowing full well that his sudden and early departure from the
scene will be quickly discovered and set down to the right cause.

In that not always trustworthy book _The Natural History of Chili,_
Molina tells us how they deal with the animal in the trans-Andine
regions. "When one appears," he says, "some of the company begiu by
caressing it, until an opportunity offers for one of them to seize it by
the tail. In this position the muscles become contracted, the animal is
unable to eject its fluid, and is quickly despatched." One might just as
well talk of caressing a cobra de capello; yet this laughable fiction
finds believers all over South and North America. Professor Baird
gravely introduces it into his great work on the mammalia. I was once
talking about animals in a rancho, when a person present (an Argentine
officer) told that, while visiting an Indian encampment, he had asked
the savages how they contrived to kill skunks without making even a life
in the desert intolerable. A grave old Cacique informed him that the
secret was to go boldly up to the animal, take it by the tail, and
despatch it; for, he said, when you fear it not at all, then it respects
your courage and dies like a lamb--sweetly. The officer, continuing his
story, said that on quitting the Indian camp he started a skunk, and,
glad of an opportunity to test the truth of what he had heard,
dismounted and proceeded to put the Indian plan in practice. Here the
story abruptly ended, and when I eagerly demanded to hear the sequel,
the amateur hunter of furs lit a cigarette and vacantly watched the
ascending smoke. The Indians aro grave jokers, they seldom smile; and
this old traditional skunk-joke, which has run the length of a
continent, finding its way into many wise books, is their revenge on a
superior race.

I have shot a great many eagles, and occasionally a carancho (Polyborus
tharus), with the plumage smelling strongly of skunk, which shows that
these birds, pressed by hunger, often commit the fearful mistake of
attacking the animal. My friend Mr. Ernest Gibson, of Buenos Ayres, in a
communication to the _Ibis,_ describes an encounter he actually
witnessed between a carancho and a skunk. Riding home one afternoon, he
spied a skunk "shuffling along in the erratic manner usual to that
odoriferous quadruped;" following it at a very short distance was an
eagle-vulture, evidently bent on mischief. Every time the bird came near
the bushy tail rose menacingly; then the carancho would fall behind,
and, after a few moments' hesitation, follow on again. At length,
growing bolder, it sprung forward, seizing the threatening tail with its
claw, but immediately after "began staggering about with dishevelled
plumage, tearful eyes, and a profoundly woe-begone expression on its
vulture face. The skunk, after turning and regarding its victim with an
I-told-you-so look for a few moments, trotted unconcernedly off."

I was told in Patagonia by a man named Molinos, who was frequently
employed by the Government as guide to expeditions in the desert, that
everywhere throughout that country the skunk is abundant. Some years ago
he was sent with two other men to find and treat with an Indian chief
whose whereabouts were not known. Far in the interior Molinos was
overtaken by a severe winter, his horses died of thirst and fatigue, and
during the three bitterest months of the year he kept himself and his
followers alive by eating the flesh of skunks, the only wild animal that
never failed them. No doubt, on those vast sterile plains where the
skunk abounds, and goes about by day and by night careless of enemies,
the terrible nature of its defensive weapon is the first lesson
experience teaches to every young eagle, fox, wild cat, and puma.

Dogs kill skunks when made to do so, but it is not a sport they delight
in. One moonlight night, at home, I went out to where the dogs, twelve
in number, were sleeping: while I stood there a skunk appeared and
deliberately came towards me, passing through the dogs where they lay,
and one by one as he passed them they rose up, and, with their tails
between their legs, skulked off. When made to kill skunks often they
become seasoned; but always perform the loathsome task expeditiously,
then rush away with frothing mouths to rub their faces in the wet clay
and rid themselves of the fiery sensation. At one time I possessed only
one dog that could be made to face a skunk, and as the little robbers
were very plentiful, and continually coining about the house in their
usual open, bold way, it was rather hard for the poor brute. This dog
detested them quite as strongly as the others, only he was more
obedient, faithful, and brave. Whenever I bade him attack one of them
he would come close up to me and look up into my face with piteous
pleading eyes, then, finding that he was not to be let off from the
repulsive task, he would charge upon the doomed animal with a blind fury
wonderful to see. Seizing it between his teeth, he would shake it madly,
crushing its bones, then hurl it several feet from him, only to rush
again and again upon it to repeat the operation, doubtless with a
Caligula-like wish in his frantic breast that all the skunks on the
globe had but one backbone.

I was once on a visit to a sheep-farming brother, far away on the
southern frontier of Buenos Ayres, and amongst the dogs I found there
was one most interesting creature, He was a great, lumbering, stupid,
good-tempered brute, so greedy that when you offered him a piece of meat
he would swallow half your arm, and so obedient that at a word he would
dash himself against the horns of a bull, and face death and danger in
any shape. But, my brother told me, he would not face a skunk--he would
die first. One day I took him out and found a skunk, and for upwards of
half an hour I sat on my horse vainly cheering on my cowardly follower,
and urging him to battle. The very sight of the enemy gave him a fit of
the shivers; and when the irascible little enemy began to advance
against us, going through the performance by means of which he generally
puts his foes to flight without resorting to malodorous
measures--stamping his little feet in rage, jumping up, spluttering and
hissing and flourishing his brush like a warlike banner above his
head--then hardly could I restrain my dog from turning tail and flying
home in abject terror. My cruel persistence was rewarded at last.
Continued shouts, cheers, and hand-clappings began to stir the brute to
a kind of frenzy. Torn by conflicting emotions, he began to revolve
about the skunk at a lumbering gallop, barking, howling, and bristling
up his hair; and at last, shutting his eyes, and with a yell of
desperation, he charged. I fully expected to see the enemy torn to
pieces in a few seconds, but when the dog was still four or five feet
from him the fatal discharge came, and he dropped down as if shot dead.
For some time he lay on the earth perfectly motionless, watched and
gently bedewed by the victorious skunk; then he got up and crept whining
away. Gradually he quickened his pace, finally breaking into a frantic
run. In vain I followed him, shouting at the top of my lungs; he stayed
not to listen, and very speedily vanished from sight--a white speck on
the vast level plain. At noon on the following day he made his
appearance, gaunt and befouled with mud, staggering forward like a
galvanized skeleton. Too worn out even to eat, he flung himself down,
and for hours lay like a dead thing, sleeping off the effects of those
few drops of perfume.

Dogs, I concluded, like men, have their idiosyncrasies; but I had gained
my point, and proved once more--if any proof were needed--the truth of
that noble panegyric of Bacon's on our faithful servant and companion.




CHAPTER VIII.

MIMICRY AND WARNING COLOURS IN GRASSHOPPERS.


There is in La Plata a large handsome grasshopper (Zoniopoda tarsata),
the habits of which in its larva and imago stages are in strange
contrast, like those in certain lepidoptera, in which the caterpillars
form societies and act in concert. The adult has a greenish protective
colouring, brown and green banded thighs, bright red hind wings, seen
only during flight. It is solitary and excessively shy in its habits,
living always in concealment among the dense foliage near the surface of
the ground. The yonng are intensely black, like grasshoppers cut out of
jet or ebony, and gregarious in habit, living in bands of forty or fifty
to three or four hundred; and so little shy, that they may sometimes be
taken up by handfuls before they begin to scatter in alarm. Their
gregarious habits and blackness--of all hues in nature the most obvious
to the sight--would alone be enough to make them the most conspicuous of
insects; but they have still other habits which appear as if specially
designed to bring them more prominently into notice. Thus, they all keep
so close together at all times as to have their bodies actually
touching, and when travelling, move so slowly that the laziest snail
might easily overtake and pass one of their bands, and even disappear
beyond their limited horizon in a very short time.

They often select an exposed weed to feed on, clustering together on its
summit above the surrounding verdure, an exceedingly conspicuous object
to every eye in the neighbourhood. They also frequently change their
feeding-ground; at such times they deliberately cross wide roads and
other open spaces, barren of grass, where, moving so slowly that they
scarcely seem to move at all, they look at a distance like a piece of
black velvet lying on the ground. Thus in every imaginable way they
expose themselves and invite attack; yet, in spite of it all, I have
never detected birds preying on them, and I have sometimes kept one of
these black societies under observation near my house for several days,
watching them at intervals, in places where the trees overhead were the
resort of Icterine and tyrant birds, Guira cuckoos, and other species,
all great hunters after grasshoppers. A young grasshopper is, moreover,
a morsel that seldom comes amiss to any bird, whether insect or seed
eater; and, as a rule, it is extremely shy, nimble, and inconspicuous.
It seems clear that, although the young Zoniopoda does not mimic in its
form any black protected insect, it nevertheless owes its safety to its
blackness, together with the habit it possesses of exposing itself in so
open and bold a manner. Blackness is so common in large protected
insects, as, for instance, in the un-palatable leaf-cutting ants,
scorpions, mygale spiders, wasps, and other dangerous kinds, that it is
manifestly a "warning colour," the most universal and best known in
nature; and the grasshopper, I believe, furthermore mimics the fearless
demeanour of the protected or venomous species, which birds and other
insect-eaters know and respect. It might be supposed that the young
Zoniopoda is itself unpalatable; but this is scarcely probable, for when
the deceptive black mask is once dropped, the excessive shyness, love of
concealment, and protective colouring of the insect show that it is much
sought after by birds.

While setting this down as an undoubted case of "mimicry," although it
differs in some respects from all other cases I have seen reported, I
cannot help remarking that this most useful word appears to be in some
danger of losing the meaning originally attached to it in zoology. There
are now very few cases of an accidental resemblance found between two
species in nature which are not set down by someone to "mimicry," some
in which even the wildest imagination might well fail to see any
possible benefit to the supposed mimic. In cases where the outward
resemblance of some feeble animal to a widely different and
well-protected species, or to some object like a leaf or stick, and
where such resemblance is manifestly advantageous and has reacted on and
modified the life habits, it is conceivable that slight spontaneous
variations in the structure and colouring of the unprotected species
have been taken advantage of by the principle of natural selection, and
a case of "mimicry" set up, to become more and more perfect in time, as
successive casual variations in the same direction increased the
resemblance.

The stick-insect is perhaps the most perfect example where resemblance
to an inanimate object has been the result aimed at, so to speak, by
nature; the resemblance of the volucella fly to the humble-bee, on which
it is parasitical, is the most familiar example of one species growing
like another to its own advantage, since only by means of its deceptive
likeness to the humble-bee is it able to penetrate into the nest with
impunity. These two cases, with others of a similar character, were
first called cases of "mimicry" by Kirby and Spence, in their
ever-delightful _Introduction to Entomology--_an old book, but,
curiously enough in these days of popular treatises on all matters of
the kind, still the only general work on insects in the English language
which one who is not an entomologist can read with pleasure.

A second case of mimicry not yet noticed by any naturalist is seen in
another grasshopper, also common in La Plata (Rhomalea speciosa of
Thun-berg). This is an extremely elegant insect; the head and thorax
chocolate, with cream-coloured markings; the abdomen steel-blue or
purple, a colour I have not seen in any other insects of this family.
The fore wings have a protective colouring; the hind wings are bright
red. When at rest, with the red and purple tints concealed, it is only a
very pretty grasshopper, but the instant it takes wing it becomes the
fac-simile of a very common wasp of the genus Pepris. These wasps vary
greatly in size, some being as large as the hornet; they are solitary,
and feed on the honey of flowers and on fruit, and, besides being
furnished with stings like other wasps--though their sting is nok so
venomous as in other genera--they also, when angry, emit a most
abominable odour, and are thus doubly protected against their enemies.
Their excessive tameness, slow flight, and indolent motions serve to
show that they are not accustomed to be interfered with. All these
strong-smelling wasps have steel-blue or purple bodies, and bright red
wings. So exactly does the Rhomalea grasshopper mimic the Pepris when
flying, that I have been deceived scores of times. I have even seen it
on the leaves, and, after it has flown and settled once more, I have
gone to look at it again, to make sure that my eyes had not deceived me.
It is curious to see how this resemblance has reacted on and modified
the habits of the grasshopper. It is a great flyer, and far more aerial
in its habits than any other insect I am acquainted with in this family,
living always in trees, instead of on or near the surface of the ground.
It is abundant in orchards and plantations round Buenos Ayres, where its
long and peculiarly soft, breezy note may be heard all summer. If the
ancient Athenians possessed so charming an insect as this, their great
regard for the grasshopper was not strange: I only wish that the
"Athenians of South America," as my fellow-townsmen sometimes call
themselves in moments of exaltation, had a feeling of the samo kind--the
regard which does _not_ impale its object on a pin--for the pretty
light-hearted songster of their groves and gardens.

When taken in the hand, it has the habit, common to most grasshoppers,
of pouring out an inky fluid from its mouth; only the discharge is
unusually copious in this species. It has another habit in defending
itself which is very curious. When captured it instantly curls its body
round, as a wasp does to sting. The suddenness of this action has more
than once caused me to drop an insect I had taken, actually thinking for
the moment that I had taken hold of a wasp. Whether birds would be
deceived and made to drop it or not is a question it would not be easy
to settle; but the instinct certainly looks like 'one of a series of
small adaptations, all tending to make the resemblance to a wasp more
complete and effective.





CHAPTER IX.

DRAGON-FLY STORMS.


One of the most curious things I have encountered in my observations on
animal life relates to a habit of the larger species of dragon-flies
inhabiting the Pampas and Patagonia. Dragon-flies are abundant
throughout the country wherever there is water. There are several
species, all more or less brilliantly coloured. The kinds that excited
my wonder, from their habits, are twice as large as the common widely
distributed insects, being three inches to four inches in length, and as
a rule they are sober-coloured, although there is one species--the
largest among them--entirely of a brilliant scarlet. This kind is,
however, exceedingly rare. All the different kinds (of the large
dragon-flies) when travelling associate together, and occasionally, in a
flight composed of countless thousands, one of these brilliant-hued
individuals will catch the eye, appearing as conspicuous among the
others as a poppy or scarlet geranium growing alone in an otherwise
flowerless field. The most common species--and in some cases the entire
flight seems to be composed of this kind only--is the Aeschna
bonariensis Raml, the prevailing colour of which is pale blue. But the
really wonderful thing about them all alike is, that they appear only
when flying before the southwest wind, called _pampero_--the wind that
blows from the interior of the pampas. The pampero is a dry, cold wind,
exceedingly violent. It bursts on the plains very suddenly, and usually
lasts only a short time, sometimes not more than ten minutes; it comes
irregularly, and at all seasons of the year, but is most frequent in the
hot season, and after exceptionally sultry weather. It is in summer and
autumn that the large dragon-flies appear; not _with_ the wind, but--and
this is the most curious part of the matter--in advance of it; and
inasmuch as these insects are not seen in the country at other times,
and frequently appear in seasons of prolonged drought, when all the
marshes and watercourses for many hundreds of miles are dry, they must
of course traverse immense distances, flying before the wind at a speed
of seventy or eighty miles an hour. On some occasions they appear almost
simultaneously with the wind, going by like a flash, and instantly
disappearing from sight. You have scarcely time to see them before the
wind strikes you. As a rule, however, they make their appearance from
five to fifteen minutes before the wind strikes; and when they are in
great numbers the air, to a height of ten or twelve feet above the
surface of the ground, is all at once seen to be full of them, rushing
past with extraordinary velocity in a north-easterly direction. In very
oppressive weather, and when the swiftly advancing pampero brings no
moving mountains of mingled cloud and dust, and is consequently not
expected, the sudden apparition of the dragon-fly is a most welcome one,
for then an immediate burst of cold wind is confidently looked for. In
the expressive vernacular of the gauchos the large dragon-fly is called
_hijo del pampero_--son of the south-west wind.

It is clear that these great and frequent dragonfly movements are not
explicable on any current hypothesis regarding the annual migrations of
birds, the occasional migrations of butterflies, or the migrations of
some mammals, like the reindeer and buffalo of Arctic America, which,
according to Rae and other observers, perform long journeys north and
south at regular seasons, "from a sense of polarity." Neither this
hypothetical sense in animals, nor "historical

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/7446