The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Minds and Manners of Wild Animals
by William T. Hornaday
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Title: The Minds and Manners of Wild Animals
Author: William T. Hornaday
Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6052]
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[Illustration with caption: OVERPOWERING CURIOSITY OF A MOUNTAIN SHEEP
This "lava ram" stood thus on a lava crest in the Pinacate Mountains
for about twenty minutes, gazing spellbound at two men and a pack mule.
(See page 149)]
THE MINDS AND MANNERS OF WILD ANIMALS
A BOOK OF PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS
BY WILLIAM T. HORNADAY, Sc.D., A.M. DIRECTOR OF THE NEW YORK
ZOOLOGICAL PARK. AUTHOR OF "THE AMERICAN NATURAL HISTORY," "TWO
YEARS IN THE JUNGLE," "CAMP FIRES IN THE CANADIAN ROCKIES," "OUR
VANISHING WILD LIFE," ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
_The wild animal must think, or die._* * * * *
_"Prove all things; hold fast that which is good."_
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY WILLIAM T. HORNADAY
Printed in the United States of America
_The right of translation is reserved_
Published May, 1922
TO THE OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE NEW YORK ZOOLOGICAL PARK, WHOSE SAFETY
DEPENDS UPON THEIR KNOWLEDGE OF THE MINDS OF WILD ANIMALS, THIS VOLUME
IS DEDICATED AS A TOKEN OF APPRECIATION AND REGARD
CONTENTS
I. A SURVEY OF THE FIELD
I. THE LAY OF THE LAND
II. WILD ANIMAL TEMPERAMENT & INDIVIDUALITY
III. THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS
IV. THE MOST INTELLIGENT ANIMALS
V. THE RIGHTS OF WILD ANIMALS
II. MENTAL TRAITS OF WILD ANIMALS
VI. THE BRIGHTEST MINDS AMONG ANIMALS
VII. KEEN BIRDS AND DULL MEN
VIII. THE MENTAL STATUS OF THE ORANG-UTAN
IX. THE MAN-LIKENESS OF THE CHIMPANZEE
X. THE TRUE MENTAL STATUS OF THE GORILLA
XI. THE MIND OF THE ELEPHANT
XII. THE MENTAL AND MORAL TRAITS OF BEARS
XIII. MENTAL TRAITS OF A FEW RUMINANTS
XIV. MENTAL TRAITS OF A FEW RODENTS
XV. THE MENTAL TRAITS OF BIRDS
XVI. THE WISDOM OF THE SERPENT
XVII. THE TRAINING OF WILD ANIMALS
III. THE HIGHER PASSIONS
XVIII. THE MORALS OF WILD ANIMALS
XIX. THE LAWS OF THE FLOCKS AND HERDS
XX. PLAYS AND PASTIMES OF WILD ANIMALS
XXI. COURAGE IN WILD ANIMALS
IV. THE BASER PASSIONS
XXII. FEAR AS A RULING PASSION
XXIII. FIGHTING AMONG WILD ANIMALS
XXIV. WILD ANIMAL CRIMINALS AND CRIME
XXV. FIGHTING WITH WILD ANIMALS
THE CURTAIN.
PREFACE
During these days of ceaseless conflict, anxiety and unrest among
men, when at times it begins to look as if "the Caucasian" really is
"played out," perhaps the English-reading world will turn with a sigh
of relief to the contemplation of wild animals. At all events, the
author has found this diversion in his favorite field mentally
agreeable and refreshing.
In comparison with some of the alleged men who now are cursing this
earth by their baneful presence, the so-called "lower animals" do not
seem so very "low" after all! As a friend of the animals, this is a
very proper time in which to compare them with men. Furthermore, if
thinking men and women desire to know the leading facts concerning the
intelligence of wild animals, it will be well to consider them now,
before the bravest and the best of the wild creatures of the earth go
down and out under the merciless and inexorable steam roller that we
call Civilization.
The intelligence and the ways of wild animals are large subjects.
Concerning them I do not offer this volume as an all-in-all production.
Out of the great mass of interesting things that might
have been included, I have endeavored to select and set forth only
enough to make a good series of sample exhibits, without involving the
general reader in a hopelessly large collection of details. The most
serious question has been: What shall be left out?
Mr. A. R. Spofford, first Librarian of Congress, used to declare that
"Books are made from books"; but I call the reader to bear witness that
this volume is not a mass of quotations. A quoted authority often can
be disputed, and for this reason the author has found considerable
satisfaction in relying chiefly upon his own testimony.
Because I always desire to know the _opinions_ of men who are
writing upon their own observations, I have felt free to express my own
conclusions regarding the many phases of animal intelligence as their
manifestation has impressed me in close-up observations.
I have purposely avoided all temptations to discuss the minds and
manners of domestic animals, partly because that is by itself a large
subject, and partly because their minds have been so greatly influenced
by long and close association with man. The domestic mammals and birds
deserve independent treatment.
A great many stories of occurrences have been written into this
volume, for the purpose of giving the reader all the facts in
order that he may form his own opinions of the animal mentality
displayed.
Most sincerely do I wish that the boys and girls of America, and of the
whole world, may be induced to believe that _the most interesting
thing about a wild animal is its mind and its reasoning,_ and that a
dead animal is only a poor decaying thing. If the feet of the young men
would run more to seeing and studying the wild creatures and less to
the killing of them, some of the world's valuable species might escape
being swept away tomorrow, or the day after.
The author gratefully acknowledges his indebtedness to Munsey's
Magazine, McClure's Magazine and the Sunday Magazine Syndicate for
permission to copy herein various portions of his chapters from those
publications.
W. T. H.
The Anchorage, Stamford, Conn. December 19, 1921.
ILLUSTRATIONS
Overpowering Curiosity of a Mountain Sheep
Christmas at the Primates' House
The Trap-Door Spider's Door and Burrow
Hanging Nest of the Baltimore Oriole Great
Hanging Nests of the Crested Cacique
"Rajah," the Actor Orang-Utan
Thumb-Print of an Orang-Utan
The Lever That Our Orang-Utan Invented
Portrait of a High-Caste Chimpanzee
The Gorilla With the Wonderful Mind
Tame Elephants Assisting in Tying a Wild Captive
Wild Bears Quickly Recognize
Protection Alaskan Brown Bear,
"Ivan," Begging for Food
The Mystery of Death
The Steady-Nerved and Courageous Mountain Goat
Fortress of an Arizona Pack-Rat
Wild Chipmunks Respond to Man's Protection
An Opossum Feigning Death
Migration of the Golden Plover. (Map)
Remarkable Village Nests of the Sociable Weaver Bird
Spotted Bower-Bird, at Work on Its Unfinished Bower Hawk-Proof
Nest of a Cactus Wren
A Peace Conference With an Arizona Rattlesnake
Work Elephant Dragging a Hewn Timber The Wrestling Bear,
"Christian," and His Partner
Adult Bears at Play
Primitive Penguins on the Antarctic Continent, Unafraid of Man
Richard W. Rock and His Buffalo Murderer
"Black Beauty" Murdering "Apache"
THE MINDS AND MANNERS OF WILD ANIMALS
MAN AND THE WILD ANIMALS
If every man devoted to his affairs, and to the affairs of his
city and state, the same measure of intelligence and honest industry
that every warm-blooded wild animal devotes to its affairs, the people
of this world would abound in good health, prosperity, peace and
happiness.
To assume that every wild beast and bird is a sacred creature,
peacefully dwelling in an earthly paradise, is a mistake. They
have their wisdom and their folly, their joys and their sorrows,
their trials and tribulations.
As the alleged lord of creation, it is man's duty to know the wild
animals truly as they are, in order to enjoy them to the utmost, to
utilize them sensibly and fairly, and to give them a square deal.
I. A SURVEY OF THE FIELD
I
THE LAY OF THE LAND
There is a vast field of fascinating human interest, lying only just
outside our doors, which as yet has been but little explored. It is the
Field of Animal Intelligence.
Of all the kinds of interest attaching to the study of the world's
wild animals, there are none that surpass the study of their minds,
their morals, and the acts that they perform as the results of their
mental processes.
In these pages, the term "animal" is not used in its most common
and most restricted sense. It is intended to apply not only to
quadrupeds, but also to all the vertebrate forms,--mammals,
birds, reptiles, amphibians and fishes.
For observation and study, the whole vast world of living
creatures is ours, throughout all zones and all lands. It is not
ours to flout, to abuse, or to exterminate as we please. While for
practical reasons we do not here address ourselves to the
invertebrates, nor even to the sea-rovers, we can not keep them
out of the background of our thoughts. The living world is so vast
and so varied, so beautiful and so ugly, so delightful and so
terrible, so interesting and so commonplace, that each step we
make through it reveals things different and previously unknown.
The Frame of Mind. To the inquirer who enters the field of animal
thought with an open mind, and free from the trammels of egotism
and fear regarding man's place in nature, this study will prove an
endless succession of surprises and delights. In behalf of the
utmost tale of results, the inquirer should summon to his aid his
rules of evidence, his common sense, his love of fair play, and
the inexorable logic of his youthful geometry.
And now let us clear away a few weeds from the entrance to our
field, and reveal its cornerstones and boundary lines. To a
correct understanding of any subject a correct point of view is
absolutely essential.
In a commonplace and desultory way man has been mildly interested
in the intelligence of animals for at least 30,000 years. The Cro-
Magnons of that far time possessed real artistic talent, and on
the smooth stone walls and ceilings of the caves of France they
drew many wonderful pictures of mammoths, European bison, wild
cattle, rhinoceroses and other animals of their period. Ever since
man took unto himself certain tractable wild animals, and made
perpetual thralls of the horse, the dog, the cat, the cattle,
sheep, goats and swine, he has noted their intelligent ways. Ever
since the first caveman began to hunt wild beasts and slay them
with clubs and stones, the two warring forces have been interested
in each other, but for about 25,000 years I think that the wild
beasts knew about as much of man's intelligence as men knew of
theirs.
I leave to those who are interested in history the task of
revealing the date, or the period, when scholarly men first began
to pay serious attention to the animal mind.
In 1895 when Mr. George J. Romanes, of London, published his
excellent work on "Animal Intelligence," on one of its first pages
he blithely brushed aside as of little account all the
observations, articles and papers on his subject that had been
published previous to that time. Now mark how swiftly history can
repeat itself, and also bring retribution.
In 1910 there arose in the United States of America a group of
professional college-and-university animal psychologists who set
up the study of "animal behavior." They did this so seriously, and
so determinedly, that one of the first acts of two of them
consisted in joyously brushing aside as of no account whatever,
and quite beneath serious consideration, everything that had been
seen, done and said previous to the rise of their group, and the
laboratory Problem Box. In view of what this group has
accomplished since 1910, with their "problem boxes," their "mazes"
and their millions of "trials by error," expressed in solid pages
of figures, the world of animal lovers is entitled to smile
tolerantly upon the cheerful assumptions of ten years ago.
But let it not at any time be assumed that we are destitute of
problem boxes; for the author has two of his own! One is called
the Great Outdoors, and the other is named the New York Zoological
Park. The first has been in use sixty years, the latter twenty-two
years. Both are today in good working order, but the former is not
quite as good as new.
A Preachment to the Student. In studying the wild-animal mind,
the boundary line between Reality and Dreamland is mighty easy to
cross. He who easily yields to seductive reasoning, and the call
of the wild imagination, soon will become a dreamer of dreams and
a seer of visions of things that never occurred. The temptation to
place upon the simple acts of animals the most complex and far-
fetched interpretations is a trap ever ready for the feet of the
unwary. It is better to see nothing than to see a lot of things
that are not true.
In the study of animals, we have long insisted that _to the open
eye and the thinking brain, truth is stranger than fiction._
But Truth does not always wear her heart upon her sleeve for
zanies to peck at. Unfortunately there are millions of men who go
through the world looking at animals, but not seeing them.
Beware of setting up for wild animals impossible mental and moral
standards. The student must not deceive himself by overestimating
mental values. If an estimate must be made, make it under the mark
of truth rather than above it. While avoiding the folly of
idealism, we also must shun the ways of the narrow mind, and the
eyes that refuse to see the truth. Wild animals are not superhuman
demigods of wisdom; but neither are they idiots, unable to reason
from cause to effect along the simple lines that vitally affect
their existence.
Brain-owning wild animals are not mere machines of flesh and
blood, set agoing by the accident of birth, and running for life
on the narrow-gauge railway of Heredity. They are not "Machines in
Fur and Feathers," as one naturalist once tried to make the world
believe them to be. Some animals have more intelligence than some
men; and some have far better morals.
What Constitutes Evidence. The best evidence regarding the ways of
wild animals is one's own eye-witness testimony. Not all second-
hand observations are entirely accurate. Many persons do not know
how to observe; and at times some are deceived by their own eyes
or ears. It is a sad fact that both those organs are easily
deceived. The student who is in doubt regarding the composition of
evidence will do well to spend a few days in court listening to
the trial of an important and hotly contested case. In collecting
real evidence, all is not gold that glitters.
Many a mind misinterprets the thing seen, sometimes innocently,
and again wantonly. The nature fakir is always on the alert to see
wonderful phenomena in wild life, about which to write; and by
preference he places the most strained and marvellous
interpretation upon the animal act. Beware of the man who always
sees marvellous things in animals, for he is a dangerous guide.
There is one man who claims to have seen in his few days in the
woods more wonders than all the older American naturalists and
sportsmen have seen added together.
Now, Nature does not assemble all her wonderful phenomena and hold
them in leash to be turned loose precisely when the great Observer
of Wonders spends his day in the woods. Wise men always suspect
the man who sees too many marvelous things.
The Relative Value of Witnesses. It is due that a word should be
said regarding "expert testimony" in the case of the wild animal.
Some dust has been raised in this field by men posing as
authorities on wild animal psychology, whose observations of the
world's wild animals have been confined to the chipmunks,
squirrels, weasels, foxes, rabbits, and birds dwelling within a
small circle surrounding some particular woodland house. In
another class other men have devoted heavy scientific labors to
laboratory observations on white rats, domestic rabbits, cats,
dogs, sparrows, turtles and newts as the handpicked exponents of
the intelligence of the animals of the world!
Alas! for the human sense of Proportion!
Fancy an ethnologist studying the Eskimo, the Dog-Rib Indian, the
Bushman, the Aino and the Papuan, and then proceeding to write
conclusively "On the Intelligence of the Human Race."
The proper place in which to study the minds, manners and morals
of wild animals is in the most thickly populated haunts of the
most intelligent species. The free and untrammeled animal, busily
working out its own destiny unhindered by man, is the beau-ideal
animal to observe and to study. Go to the plain, the wilderness,
the desert and the mountain, not merely to shoot everything on
foot, but to SEE _animals at home,_ and there use your eyes
and your field-glass. See what _normal wild animals_ do as
"behavior," and then try to find out why they do it.
The next best place for study purposes is a spacious, sanitary and
well-stocked zoological park, wherein are assembled great
collections of the most interesting land vertebrates that can be
procured, from all over the earth. There the student can observe
many new traits of wild animal character, as they are brought to
the surface by captivity. There will some individuals reveal the
worst traits of their species. Others will reveal marvels in
mentality, and teach lessons such as no man can learn from them in
the open. To study temperament, there is no place like a zoo.
Even there, however, the wisest course,--as it seems to me,--is
not to introduce too many appliances as aids to mental activity,
but rather to see what the animal subject thinks and does _by
its own initiative._ In the testing of memory and the
perceptive faculties, training for performances is the best method
to pursue.
The reader has a right to know that the author of this volume has
enjoyed unparalleled opportunities for the observation and study
of highly intelligent wild animals, both in their wild haunts and
in a great vivarium; and these combined opportunities have covered
a long series of years.
Before proceeding farther, it is desirable to define certain terms
that frequently will be used in these pages.
THE ANIMAL BRAIN is the generator of the mind, and the clearing-
house of the senses. As a mechanism, the brain of man is the most
perfect, and in the descent through the mammals, birds, reptiles,
amphibians and fishes, the brain progressively is simplified in
form and function.
THOUGHT is the result of the various processes of the brain and
nervous system, stimulated by the contributions of the senses.
SANITY is the state of normal, orderly and balanced thought, as
formulated by a healthy brain.
INSANITY is a state of mental disease, resulting in disordered,
unbalanced and chaotic thought, destitute of reason.
REASON is the manifestation of correct observation and healthful
thought which recognizes both cause and effect, and leads from
premise to conclusion. INTELLIGENCE is created by the possession
of knowledge either inherited or acquired. It may be either latent
or active; and it is the forerunner of reason.
INSTINCT is the knowledge or impulse which animals or men derive
from their ancestors by inheritance, and which they obey, either
consciously or subconsciously in working out their own
preservation, increase and betterment. Instinct often functions as
a sixth sense.
EDUCATION is the acquirement of knowledge by precept or by
observation; but animals as well as men may be self-taught, and
become self-educated, by the diligent exercise of the observing
and reasoning faculties. The adjustment of a wild animal mind to
conditions unknown to its ancestors is through the process of
self-education, and by logical reasoning from premise to
conclusion.
The wild animal must think, or die.
Animal intelligence varies in quantity and quality as much as
animals vary in size. Idiots, maniacs and sleeping persons are the
only classes of human beings who are devoid of intelligence and
reasoning power. Idiots and maniacs also are often devoid of the
common animal _instinct_ that ordinarily promotes self-
preservation from fire, water and high places. A heavily sleeping
person is often so sodden in slumber that his senses of smell and
hearing are temporarily dead; and many a sleeping man has been
asphyxiated by gas or smoke, or burned to death, because his
deadened senses failed to arouse him at the critical moment. (This
dangerous condition of mind can be cured by efforts of the will,
exercised prior to sleep, through a determination resolutely to
arouse and investigate every unusual sensation that registers
"danger" on any one of the senses.) The normal individual sleeps
with a subconscious and sensitive mind, from which thought and
reason have not been entirely eliminated.
Every act of a man or animal, vertebrate or invertebrate, is based
upon either _reason_ or _hereditary instinct._ It is a
mistake to assume that because an organism is small it
necessarily has no "mind," and none of the propelling impulse that
we call thought. The largest whale may have less intelligence and
constructive reasoning than a trap-door spider, a bee or an ant.
To deny this is to deny the evidence of one's senses.
A MEASURE FOR ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE. The intelligence of an animal
may be estimated by taking into account, separately, its mental
qualities, about as follows:
1. General knowledge of surrounding conditions.
2. Powers of independent observation and reasoning.
3. Memory.
4. Comprehension under tuition.
5. Accuracy in the execution of man's orders.
Closely allied to these are the _moral qualities_ which go to
make up an animal's temperament and disposition, about as follows:
1. Amiability, which guarantees security to its associates.
2. Patience, or submission to discipline and training.
3. Courage, which gives self-confidence and steadiness.
4. A disposition to obedience, with cheerfulness.
All normal vertebrate animals exercise their intelligence in
accordance with their own rules of logic. Had they not been able
to do so, it is reasonable to suppose that they could never have
developed into vertebrates, reaching even up to man himself.
According to the laws of logic, this proposition is no more open
to doubt or dispute than is the existence of the Grand Canyon of
the Colorado. But few persons have seen the Canyon, and far fewer
ever have proven its existence by descending to its bottom; but
none the less Reason admonishes all of us that the great chasm
exists, and is not a debatable question.
To men and women who really know the vertebrate animals by contact
with some of them upon their own levels, the reasoning power of
the latter is not a debatable question. The only real question is:
how far does their intelligence carry them? It is with puzzled
surprise that we have noted the curious diligence of the
professors of animal psychology in always writing of "animal
_behavior_," and never of old-fashioned, common-sense
_animal intelligence_. Can it be possible that any one of
them really refuses to concede to the wild animal the possession
of a mind, and a working intelligence?
Yes. Animals do reason. If any one truth has come out of all the
critical or uncritical study of the animal mind that has been
going on for two centuries, it is this. Animals do reason; they
always have reasoned, and as long as animals live they never will
cease to reason.
The higher wild animals possess and display the same fundamental
passions and emotions that animate the human race. This fact is
subject to intelligent analysis, discussion and development, but
it is not by any means a "question" subject to debate. In the most
intellectual of the quadrupeds, birds and reptiles, the display of
fear, courage, love, hate, pleasure, displeasure, confidence,
suspicion, jealousy, pity, greed and generosity are so plainly
evident that even children can and do recognize them. To the
serious and open-minded student who devotes prolonged thought to
these things, they bring the wild animal very near to the "lord of
creation."
To the question, "Have wild animals souls?" we reply, "That is a
debatable question. Read; then think it over."
METHODS WITH THE ANIMAL MIND. In the study of animal minds, much
depends upon the method employed. It seems to me that the problem-
box method of the investigators of "animal behavior" leaves much
to be desired. Certainly it is not calculated to develop the
mental status of animals along lines of natural mental
progression. To place a wild creature in a great artificial
contrivance, fitted with doors, cords, levers, passages and what
not, is enough to daze or frighten any timid animal out of its
normal state of mind and nerves. To put a wild sapajou monkey,--
weak, timid and afraid,--in a strange and formidable prison box
filled with strange machinery, and call upon it to learn or to
invent strange mechanical processes, is like bringing a boy of ten
years up to a four-cylinder duplex Hoe printing-and-folding press,
and saying to him: "Now, go ahead and find out how to run this
machine, and print both sides of a signature upon it."
The average boy would shrink from the mechanical monster, and have
no stomach whatever for "trial by error."
I think that the principle of determining the mind of a wild
animal _along the lines of the professor_ is not the best
way. It should be developed _along the natural lines of the
wild-animal mind._ It should be stimulated to do what it feels
most inclined to do, and educated to achieve real mental progress.
I think that the ideal way to study the minds of apes, baboons and
monkeys would be to choose a good location in a tropical or sub-
tropical climate that is neither too wet nor too dry, enclose an
area of five acres with an unclimbable fence, and divide it into
as many corrals as there are species to be experimented upon. Each
corral would need a shelter house and indoor playroom. The stage
properties should be varied and abundant, and designed to
stimulate curiosity as well as activity.
Somewhere in the program I would try to teach orang-utans and
chimpanzees the properties of fire, and how to make and tend
fires. I would try to teach them the seed-planting idea, and the
meaning of seedtime and harvest. I would teach sanitation and
cleanliness of habit,--a thing much more easily done than most
persons suppose. I would teach my apes to wash dishes and to cook,
and I am sure that some of them would do no worse than some human
members of the profession who now receive $50 per month, or more,
for spoiling food.
In one corral I would mix up a chimpanzee, an orang-utan, a golden
baboon and a good-tempered rhesus monkey. My apes would begin at
two years old, because after seven or eight years of age all apes
are difficult, or even impossible, as subjects for peaceful
experimentation.
I would try to teach a chimpanzee the difference between a noise
and music, between heat and cold, between good food and bad food.
Any trainer can teach an animal the difference between the
blessings of peace and the horrors of war, or in other words,
obedience and good temper versus cussedness and punishment.
Dr. Yerkes' laboratory in Montecito, California, and his
experiments there with an orang-utan and other primates, were in a
good place, and made a good beginning. It is very much to be hoped
that means will be provided by which his work can be prosecuted
indefinitely, and under the most perfect conditions that money can
provide.
I hope that I will live long enough to see Dr. Yerkes develop the
mind of a young grizzly bear in a four-acre lot, to the utmost
limits of that keen and sagacious personality.
II
WILD ANIMAL TEMPERAMENT AND INDIVIDUALITY
In man and in vertebrate animals generally, temperament is the
foundation of intelligence and progress. Fifty years ago Fowler
and Wells, the founders of the science of phrenology and
physiognomy, very wisely differentiated and defined four
"temperaments" of mankind. The six types now recognized by me are
the _morose, lymphatic, sanguine, nervous, hysterical_ and
_combative_; and their names adequately describe them.
This classification applies to the higher wild animals, quite as
truly as to men. By the manager of wild animals in captivity,
wild-animal temperament universally is recognized and treated as a
factor of great practical importance. Mistakes in judging the
temper of dangerous animals easily lead to tragedies and sudden
death.
Fundamentally the temperament of a man or an animal is an
inheritance from ancestors near or remote. In the human species a
morose or hysterical temperament may possibly be corrected or
improved, by education and effort. With animals this is rarely
possible. The morose gorilla gives way to cheerfulness only when
it is placed in ideally pleasant and stimulating social
conditions. This, however, very seldom is possible. The nervous
deer, bear or monkey is usually nervous to the end of its days.
The morose and hysterical temperaments operate against mental
development, progress and happiness. In the human species among
individuals of equal mental calibre, the sanguine individual is
due to rise higher and go farther than his nervous or lymphatic
rivals. A characteristic temperament may embrace the majority of
a whole species, or be limited to a few individuals. Many species
are permanently characterized by the temperament common to the
majority of their individual members. Thus, among the great apes
the gorilla species is either morose or lymphatic; and it is
manifested by persistent inactivity and sullenness. This leads to
loss of appetite, indigestion, inactivity and early death. Major
Penny's "John Gorilla" was a notable exception, as will appear in
Chapter IX.
The orang-utan is sanguine, optimistic and cheerful, a good
boarder, affectionate toward his keepers, and friendly toward
strangers. He eats well, enjoys life, lives long, and is well
liked by everybody.
Except when quite young, the chimpanzee is either nervous or
hysterical. After six years of age it is irritable and difficult
to manage. After seven years of age (puberty) it is rough,
domineering and dangerous. The male is given to shouting, yelling,
shrieking and roaring, and when quite angry rages like a demon. I
know of no wild animal that is more dangerous per pound than a
male chimpanzee over eight years of age. When young they do
wonders in trained performances, but when they reach maturity,
grow big of arm and shoulder, and masterfully strong, they quickly
become conscious of their strength. It is then that performing
chimpanzees become unruly, fly into sudden fits of temper, their
back hair bristles up, they stamp violently, and sometimes leap
into a terrorized orchestra. Next in order, they are retired
willy-nilly from the stage, and are offered for sale to zoological
parks and gardens having facilities for confinement and control.
The baboons are characteristically fierce and aggressive, and in a
wild state they live in troops, or even in herds of hundreds.
Being armed with powerful canine teeth and wolf-like jaws, they
are formidable antagonists, and other animals do not dare to
attack them. It is because of their natural weapons, their
readiness to fight like fiends, and their combined agility and
strength that the baboons have been able to live on the ground and
survive and flourish in lands literally reeking with lions,
leopards, hyenas and wild dogs. The awful canine teeth of an old
male baboon are quite as dangerous as those of any leopard, and
even the leopard's onslaught is less to be feared than the wild
rage of an adult baboon. In the Transvaal and Rhodesia, it is a
common occurrence for an ambitious dog to go after a troop of
baboons and never return.
Temperamentally the commoner groups of monkeys are thus
characterized:
The rhesus monkeys of India are nervous, irritable and dangerous.
The green monkeys of Africa are sanguine, but savage and
treacherous.
The langur monkeys of India are sanguine and peace-loving.
The macaques of the Far East vary from the sanguine temperament to
the combative.
The gibbons vary from sanguine to combative.
The lemurs of Madagascar are sanguine, affectionate and peaceful.
Nearly all South American monkeys are sanguine, and peace-loving,
and many are affectionate.
The species of the group of Carnivora are too numerous and too
diversified to be treated with any approach to completeness.
However, to illustrate this subject the leading species will be
noticed.
TEMPERAMENTS OF THE LARGE CARNIVORES
The lion is sanguine, courageous, confident, reposeful and very
reliable.
The tiger is nervous, suspicious, treacherous and uncertain.
The black and common leopards are nervous and combative,
irreconcilable and dangerous.
The snow leopard is sanguine, optimistic and peace-loving. The
puma is sanguine, good natured, quiet and peaceful.
The wolves are sanguine, crafty, dangerous and cruel.
The foxes are hysterical, timid and full of senseless fear.
The lynxes are sanguine, philosophic, and peaceful.
The mustelines are either nervous or hysterical, courageous,
savage, and even murderous.
The bears are so very interesting that it is well worth while to
consider the leading species separately. Possibly our conclusions
will reveal some unsuspected conditions.
BEAR TEMPERAMENTS, BY SPECIES. The polar bears are sanguine, but
in captivity they are courageous, treacherous and dangerous.
The Alaskan brown bears in captivity are sanguine, courageous,
peaceful and reliable, but in the wilds they are aggressive and
dangerous.
The grizzlies are nervous, keen, cautious, and seldom wantonly
aggressive.
The European brown bears are sanguine, optimistic and good-
natured.
The American black bears are sanguine and quiet, but very
treacherous.
The sloth bears of India are nervous or hysterical, and uncertain.
The Malay sun bears are hysterical, aggressive and evil-tempered.
The Japanese black bears are nervous, cowardly and aggressive.
To those who form and maintain large collections of bears,
involving much companionship in dens, it is necessary to keep a
watchful eye on the temperament chart.
THE DEER. In our Zoological Park establishment there is no
collection in which both the collective and the individual
equation is more troublesome than the deer family. In their
management, as with apes, monkeys and bears, it is necessary to
take into account the temperament not only of the species, but
also of each animal; and there are times when this necessity bears
hard upon human nerves. The proneness of captive deer to maim and
to kill themselves and each other calls for the utmost vigilance,
and for heroic endurance on the part of the deer keeper.
Even when a deer species has a fairly good record for common
sense, an individual may "go crazy" the instant a slightly new
situation arises. We have seen barasingha deer penned up between
shock-absorbing bales of hay seriously try to jump straight up
through a roof skylight nine feet from the floor. We have seen
park-bred axis deer break their own necks against wire fences,
with 100 per cent of stupidity.
CHARACTERS OF DEER SPECIES
The white-tailed deer is sanguine, but in the fall the bucks are
very aggressive and dangerous, and to be carefully avoided. The
mule deer is sanguine, reasonable and not particularly dangerous.
The elk is steady of nerve, and sanguine in temperament, but in
the rutting season the herd-masters are dangerous.
The fallow deer species has been toned down by a hundred
generations of park life, and it is very quiet, save when it is to
be captured and crated.
The axis deer is nervous, flighty, and difficult to handle.
The barasingha deer is hysterical and unaccountable.
The Indian and Malay sambar deer are lymphatic, confident,
tractable and easily handled.
Never keep a deer as a "pet" any longer than is necessary to place
it in a good home. All "pet deer" are dangerous, and should be
confined all the time. Never go into the range or corral of a deer
herd unless accompanied by the deer-keeper; and in the rutting
season do not go in at all.
The only thoroughly safe deer is a dead one; for even does can do
mischief. A SAMPLE OF NERVOUS TEMPERAMENT. As an example of
temperament in small carnivores, we will cite the coati mundi of
South America. It is one of the most nervous and restless animals
we know. An individual of sanguine temperament rarely is seen. Out
of about forty specimens with which we have been well acquainted,
I do not recall one that was as quiet and phlegmatic as the
raccoon, the nearest relative of _Nasua_. With a disposition
so restless and enterprising, and with such vigor of body and
mind, I count it strange that the genus _Nasua_ has not
spread all over our south-eastern states, where it is surely
fitted to exist in a state of nature even more successfully than
the raccoon or opossum.
The temper of the coati mundi is essentially quarrelsome and
aggressive. While young, they are reasonably peaceful, but when
they reach adult age, they become aggressive, and quarrels are
frequent. Separations then are very necessary, and it is rare
indeed that more than two adult individuals can be caged together.
Even when two only are kept together, quarrels and shrill
squealings are frequent. But they seldom hurt each other. The
coati is not a treacherous animal, it is not given to lying in
wait to make a covert attack from ambush, and being almost
constantly on the move, it is a good show animal.
THE STRANGE COMBATIVE TEMPERAMENT OF THE GUANACO. In appearance
the guanaco is the personification of gentleness. Its placid
countenance indicates no guile, nor means of offense. Its lustrous
gazelle-like eyes, and its soft, woolly fleece suggest softness of
disposition. But in reality no animal is more deceptive. In a wild
state amongst its own kind, or in captivity,--no matter how
considerately treated,--it is a quarrelsome and at times
intractable animal. "A pair of wild guanacos can often be seen or
heard engaged in desperate combat, biting and tearing, and rolling
over one another on the ground, uttering their gurgling, bubbling
cries of rage. Of a pair so engaged, I shot one whose tail had
then been bitten off in the encounter. In confinement, the guanaco
charges one with his chest, or rears up on his hind legs to strike
one with his fore-feet, besides biting and spitting up the
contents of the stomach."--Richard Crawshay in "The Birds of Terra
del Fuego."
MENTAL TRAITS AND TEMPER OF THE ATLANTIC WALRUS
Mr. Langdon Gibson, of Schenectady, kindly wrote out for me the
following highly interesting observations on a remarkable arctic
animal with which we are but slightly acquainted:
"In the summer of 1891, as a member of the first Peary Expedition
I had an opportunity of observing some of the traits of the
Atlantic walrus. I found him to be a real animal, of huge size,
with an extremely disagreeable temper and most belligerently
inclined. We hunted them in open whale-boats under the shadows of
Greenland's mountain-bound coast, in the Whale Sound region, Lat.
77 degrees North.
"We hunted among animals never before molested, except by the
Eskimo who (so far as I was able to ascertain) hunt them only
during the winter season on the sea ice. We found animals whose
courage and belief in themselves and their prowess had hitherto
been unshaken by contact with the white man and his ingenious
devices of slaughter.
"The walrus has a steady nerve and a thoroughly convincing roar.
They have fought their kind and the elements for centuries and
centuries, and know no fear. This, then, was the animal we sought
in order to secure food for our dog teams. I can conceive of no
form of big game hunting so conducive to great mental excitement
and physical activity as walrus hunting from an open whale-boat.
At the completion of such a hunt I have seen Eskimo so excited and
worked up that they were taken violently sick with vomiting and
headache.
"The walrus is a gregarious animal, confederating in herds
numbering from ten to fifty, and in some instances no doubt larger
numbers may be found together. On calm days they rest in
unmolested peace on pans of broken ice which drift up and down the
waters of Whale Sound. It is unfortunate that no soundings were
taken in the region where the walrus were found, as a knowledge of
the depth of water would have furnished some information as to the
distances to which the animal will dive in search of food.
"The stomachs of all half- and full-grown walrus taken in Whale
Sound were without exception well filled with freshly opened
clams, with very few fragments of shells in evidence; the removal
of the clam from the shell being as neatly accomplished as though
done by an expert oysterman.
"In most cases these segregated herds of walrus were in charge of
a large bull who generally occupied a central position in the mass
of animals. Upon approaching such a herd for the first time, and
when within about 200 feet, a large bull would lift his head,
sniff audibly in our direction and give a loud grunt which
apparently struck a responsive chord in the other sleeping
animals. They would grunt in unison, in more subdued tones, after
which the old walrus would drop his head to resume his interrupted
nap. Their contempt for us was somewhat disconcerting.
"At the first crack of a rifle, however, the animals immediately
aroused, and then during the fusillade which followed there
occurred what might be called an orderly scramble for the water.
In the first place the young ones were hustled to the edge of the
ice-pan, and there, apparently under the protection of the
mother's flipper, pushed into the water, immediately followed by
the mother. The young bulls followed, and I recall no exceptions
where the last animal into the water was not the big bull, who
before diving would give our boat a wicked look and a roar of
rage.
"The animals would immediately dive, and then we first became
aware of a remarkable phenomenon. We found that when excited they
would continue their roaring under water, and these strange sounds
coming to us from below added considerably to the excitement of
the chase. Although the cows and young animals would generally
swim to places of safety, the other full grown animals would hover
beneath our boat and from time to time come to the surface and
charge. These charges were in all cases repulsed by the discharge
of our rifles in the faces of the animals. The balls, however,
from our .45 calibre carbines would flatten out under the skin on
the massive bony structure of the animal's skull, and cause only a
sort of rage and a sneeze, but it however had the effect of making
them dive again. It is my belief that when enraged the walrus if
not resisted would attack and attempt to destroy a boat. Icquah,
one of our native hunters, showed me in the deck of his kyak two
mended punctures which he told me were made by the tusks of a
walrus that had made an _unprovoked_ attack upon him.
"On more than one occasion I have seen two strong uninjured
animals come to the assistance of a wounded companion, and swim
away with it to a position of safety, _the injured animal being
supported on both sides_, giving the appearance of three
animals swimming abreast. The first time I witnessed this I did
not comprehend its real meaning, but on another occasion in
McCormick Bay I saw a wounded animal leaving a trail of blood and
oil, supported on either side by two uninjured ones. They were
making a hasty retreat and would occasionally dive together, but
would quickly return to the surface.
"We found the most effective exposed spot to place a bullet was at
the base of the animal's skull. A walrus instantly killed this way
generally sinks, leaving a trail of blood and oil to mark the
place of his descent. When hunting these animals it is well to
have an Eskimo along with harpoon and line in readiness to make
fast; otherwise one is apt to lose his quarry.
"In the early winter we usually found the walrus in smaller groups
up in the bays. This was after the ice had begun to make, and in
coming to the surface to breathe the animals found it necessary
to butt their noses against the ice to break it. I have seen this
done in ice at least four inches in thickness. In some instances
I have seen a fractured star in the ice, a record of an unsuccessful
attempt to make a breathing hole." Around these breathing holes
we frequently found fragments of clam-shells, sections of
crinoids and sea-anemones. It is evident that after raking the
bottom with his tusks and filling his mouth with food, the walrus
separates the food he desires to retain and rejects on his way up
and at the surface such articles as he has picked up in haste and
does not want.
"From the fact that the walrus is easily approached it is a simple
matter to kill him with the modern high power rule. It is
therefore to be hoped that future expeditions into the arctic seas
will kill sparingly of these tremendous brutes which from point of
size stand in the foremost rank among mammals."
The Elephant, Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus. _Individual
Elephants_ vary in temperament far more than do rhinoceroses
or hippopotami, and the variations are wide. In a wild state,
elephants are quiet and undemonstrative, almost to the point of
dullness. They do not domineer, or hector, or quarrel, save when a
rogue develops in the ranks, and sets out to make things
interesting by the commission of lawless acts. A professional
rogue is about everything that an orthodox elephant should not
be, and he soon makes of himself so great a nuisance that he is
driven out of the herd.
The temperament of the standardized and normal elephant is
distinctly sanguine, _but a nervous or hysterical individual is
easily developed by bad conditions or abuse_. Adult male
elephants are subject to various degrees of what we may as well
call sexual insanity, which is dangerous in direct proportion to
its intensity. This causes many a "bad" show elephant to be
presented to a zoological garden, where the dangers of this mental
condition can at least be reduced to their lowest terms. Our
Indian elephant who was known as Gunda was afflicted with sexual
insanity, and he gradually grew worse, and increasingly dangerous
to his keepers, until finally it was necessary to end his troubles
painlessly with a bullet through his brain.
_The Rhinoceros_ is a sanguine animal, of rather dull vision
and slow understanding. In captivity it gives little trouble, and
lives long. Adults individually often become pettish, or peevish,
and threaten to prod their keepers without cause, but I have never
known a keeper to take those lapses seriously. The average rhino
is by no means a dull or a stupid animal, and they have quite
enough life to make themselves interesting to visitors. In British
East Africa a black rhinoceros often trots briskly toward a
caravan, and seems to be charging, when in reality it is only
desiring a "close-up" to satisfy its legitimate curiosity.
_Every Hippopotamus_, either Nile or pygmy, is an animal of
serene mind and steady habits. Their appetites work with clock-
like regularity, and require no winding. I can not recall that any
one of our five hippos was ever sick for a day, or missed a meal.
When the idiosyncrasies of Gunda, our bad elephant, were at their
worst, the contemplation of Peter the Great ponderously and
serenely chewing his hay was a rest to tired nerves. Keeper Thuman
treats the four pygmy hippos like so many pet pigs,--save the
solitary adult male, who sets himself up to be peevish. The
breeding female is a wise and good mother, with much more maternal
instinct than our chimpanzee "Suzette."
It may be set down as an absolute rule that hippos are lymphatic,
easy-going, contented, and easy to take care of _provided_
they are kept scrupulously clean, and are fed as they should be
fed. They live long, breed persistently, give no trouble and have
high exhibition value.
_Giraffe_ individuals vary exceedingly,--beyond all other
hoofed animals. Each one has its own headful of notions, and
rarely will two be found quite alike in temperament and views of
life. Some are sanguine and sensible, others are nervous,
crotchety, and full of senseless fears. Those who are responsible
for them in captivity are constantly harassed by fears that they
will stampede in their stalls or yards, and break their own necks
and legs in most unexpected ways. They require greater vigilance
than any other hoofed animals we know. Sometimes a giraffe will
develop foolishness to such a degree as to be unwilling to go out
of its own huge door, into a shady and comfortable yard.
III
THE LANGUAGE OF WILD ANIMALS
Language is the means by which men and animals express their
thoughts. Of language there are four kinds: vocal, pictured,
written and sign language.
Any vocal sound uttered for the purpose of conveying thought, or
influencing thought or action, is to be classed as vocal language.
Among the mammals below man, _speech_ is totally absent; but
parrots, macaws, cockatoos and crows have been taught to imitate
the sound of man's words, or certain simple kinds of music.
The primitive races of mankind first employed the sign language,
and spoken words. After that comes picture language, and lastly
the language of written words. Among the Indians and frontiersmen
of the western United States and Canada, the sign language has
reached what in all probability is its highest development, and
its vocabulary is really wonderful.
The higher wild animals express their thoughts and feelings
usually by sign language, and rarely by vocal sounds. Their power
of expression varies species by species, or tribe by tribe, quite
as it does among the races and tribes of men. It is our belief
that there are today several living races of men whose
vocabularies are limited to about 300 words.
Very many species of animals appear to be voiceless; but it is
hazardous to attempt to specify the species. Sometimes under
stress of new emergencies, or great pain, animals that have been
considered voiceless suddenly give tongue. That hundreds of
species of mammals and birds use their voices in promoting
movements for their safety, there is no room to doubt. The only
question is of the methods and the extent of voice used. Birds and
men give expression to their pleasure or joy by singing.
In the jungle and the heavily wooded wilderness, one hears really
little of vocal wild-animal language. Through countless
generations the noisiest animals have been the first ones to be
sought out and killed by their enemies, and only the more silent
species have survived. All the higher animals, as we call the
higher vertebrates, have the ability to exchange thoughts and
convey ideas; and that is language.
At the threshold of this subject we are met by two interesting
facts. Excepting the song-birds, the wild creatures of today have
learned through instinct and accumulated experience that silence
promotes peace and long life. The bull moose who bawls through a
mile of forest, and the bull elk who bugles not wisely but too
well, soon find their heads hanging in some sportsman's dining-
room, while the silent Virginia deer, like the brook, goes on
forever.
Association with man through countless generations has taught
domestic animals not only the fact of their safety when giving
voice, but also that very often there is great virtue in a
vigorous outcry. With an insistent staccato neigh, the hungry
horse jars the dull brain of its laggard master, and prompts him
to "feed and water the stock." But how different is the cry of a
lost horse, which calls for rescue. It cannot be imitated in
printed words; but every plainsman knows the shrill and prolonged
trumpet-call of distress that can be heard a mile or more,
understandingly.
And think of the vocabulary of the domestic chicken! Years of life
in fancied security have developed a highly useful vocabulary of
language calls and cries. The most important, and the best known,
are the following:
"Beware the hawk!"--"Coor! Coor!" "Murder! Help!"--"Kee-
_owk_! Kee-_owk_! Kee-_owk_!" "Come on"--"Cluck!
Cluck! Cluck!" "Food here! Food!"--"Cook-cook-cook-cook!"
Announcement, or alarm--"Cut-cut-cut-_dah_-cut!" But does
the wild jungle-fowl, the ancestor of our domestic chicken,
indulge in all those noisy expressions of thought and feeling? By
no means. I have lived for months in jungles where my hut was
surrounded by jungle-fowl, and shot many of them for my table; but
the only vocal sound I ever heard from their small throats was the
absurdly shrill bantam-like crow of the cock. And even that led to
several fatalities in the ranks of _Gallus stanleyi_.
Domestic cattle, swine and fowls have each a language of their
own, and as far as they go they are almost as clear-cut and
understandable as the talk of human beings. Just how much more is
behind the veil that limits our understanding we cannot say; but
no doubt there is a great deal.
But it is with the language of wild animals that we are most
concerned. As already pointed out, wild creatures, other than
song-birds, do not care to say much, because of the danger of
attracting enemies that will exterminate them. Herein lies the
extreme difficulty of ascertaining how wild beasts communicate.
In the Animallai Hills of southern India I hunted constantly for
many weeks through forests actually teeming with big game. There
were herds upon herds of elephants, gaur, axis deer, sambar deer,
monkeys by the hundred, and a good sprinkling of bears, wild hogs
and tigers.
We saw hundreds upon hundreds of animals; but with the exception
of the big black monkeys that used to swear at us, I can almost
count upon my fingers the whole number of times that we heard
animals raise their voices to communicate with each other.
Ape Voices. Naturally it is of interest to know something of the
voices of the animals that physically and mentally stand nearest
to man.
The wild gorilla has a voice almost equal to that of the
chimpanzee, but in captivity he rarely utters any vocal sound
other than a shriek, or scream.
The baby orang-utan either whines or shrieks like a human child.
The half-grown or adult orang when profoundly excited bellows or
roars, in a deep bass voice. Usually, however, it is a
persistently silent animal.
The chimpanzee has a voice, and vociferously expresses its
emotions.
First and most often is the plaintive, coaxing note, "Who'-oo!
who'-oo! who'-oo!"
Then comes the angry and threatening, "Wah', wah', wah-!
_Wah'_-hool _Wah'_-hool"
Lastly we hear the fearful, high-pitched yell or shriek, "Ah-h-h-
h!" or "E-e-e-e."
The shriek, or scream, can be heard half a mile, and at close
range it is literally ear-splitting. Usually it is accompanied by
violent stamping or pounding with the feet upon the floor. It may
signify rage, or nothing more than the joy of living, and of
having a place in which to yell. It is this cry that is uncannily
human-like in sound, and when heard for the first time it seems to
register anguish.
In its Bornean jungle home, the orang-utan is nearly as silent as
the grave. Never save once did I hear one utter a vocal sound.
That was a deep bass roar emitted by an old male that I disturbed
while he was sleeping on the comfortable nest of green branches
that he had built for himself.
Concerning the chimpanzee, the late Mr. Richard L. Garner
testified as follows:
"Not only does the chimpanzee often break the silence of the
forest when all other voices are hushed, but he frequently answers
the sounds of other animals, as if in mockery or defiance. ...
Although diurnal in habit, the chimpanzees often make the night
reverberate with the sounds of their terrific screaming, which I
have known them to continue at times for more than an hour, with
scarcely a moment's pause,--not one voice but many, and within
the area of a square mile or so I have distinguished as many as
seven alternating adult male voices.
"The gorilla is more silent and stoical than the chimpanzee, but
he is far from being mute. He appears to be devoid of all
risibility, but he is often very noisy. Although diurnal in habit,
he talks less frequently during the day than at night, but his
silence is a natural consequence of his stealth and cunning. There
are times, however, when he ignores all danger of betraying his
whereabouts or his movements, and gives vent to a deluge of
speech. At night his screams and shouts are terrific."
The gibbons (including the siamang) have tremendous voices, with
numerous variations, and they love to use them. My acquaintance
with them began in Borneo, in the dense and dark coastal forest
that there forms their home. I remember their cries as vividly as
if I had heard them again this morning. While feeding, or quietly
enjoying the morning sun, the gray gibbon (_Hylobates
concolor_) emits in leisurely succession a low staccato,
whistle-like cry, like "Hoot! Hoot! Hoot!" which one can easily
counterfeit by whistling. This is varied by another whistle cry of
three notes, thus: "Who-ee-hoo! Who-ee-hoo!" also to be duplicated
by whistling. In hunting for specimens of that gibbon, for
American museums, I could rarely locate a troop save by the tree-
top talk of its members.
But all this was only childish prattle in comparison with the
daily performances of the big white-handed, and the black hoolock
gibbons, now and for several years past residing in our Primate
House. Every morning, and perhaps a dozen times during the day,
those three gibbons go on a vocal rampage and utter prolonged and
ear-splitting cries and shrieks that make the welkin ring. The
shrieking chorus is usually prolonged until it becomes tiresome to
the monkeys. In all our ape and monkey experience we never have
known its equal save in the vocal performances of Boma, our big
adult male chimpanzee, the husband of Suzette.
A baboon emits occasionally, and without any warning, a fearful
explosive bark, or roar, that to visitors is as startling as the
report of a gun. The commonest expressions are "Wah!" and
"_Wah'_-hoo!", and the visitor who can hear it close at hand
without jumping has good nerves.
The big and solemn long-nosed monkey of Borneo (_Nasalis
larvatus_) utters in his native tree-top (overhanging water), a
cry like the resonant "honk" of a saxophone. He says plainly, "Kee
honk," and all that I could make of its meaning was that it is
used as the equivalent of "All's well."
Of all the monkeys that I have ever known, either wild or in
captivity, the red howlers of the Orinoco, in Venezuela, have the
most remarkable voices, and make the most remarkable use of them.
The hyoid cartilage is expanded,--for Nature's own particular
reasons,--into a wonderful sound-box, as big as an English walnut,
which gives to the adult voice a depth of pitch and a booming
resonance that is impossible to describe. The note produced is a
prolonged bass roar, in alternately rising and falling cadence,
and in reality comprising about three notes. It is the habit of
troops of red howlers to indulge in nocturnal concerts, wherein
four, five or six old males will pipe up and begin to howl in
unison. The great volume of uncanny sound thus produced goes
rolling through the still forest, far and wide; and to the white
explorer who lies in his grass hammock in pitchy darkness,
fighting off the mosquitoes and loneliness, and wondering from
whence tomorrow's meals will come, the moral effect is gruesome
and depressing.
In captivity the youthful howler habitually growls and grumbles in
a way that is highly amusing, and the absurd pitch of the deep
bass voice issuing from so small an animal is cause for wonder.
It is natural that we should look closely to the apes and monkeys
for language, both by voice and sign. In 1891 there was a flood of
talk on "the speech of monkeys," and it was not until about 1904
that the torrent stopped. At first the knowledge that monkeys can
and do communicate to a limited extent by vocal sounds was hailed
as a "discovery"; but unfortunately for science, nothing has been
proved beyond the long-known fact that primates of a given species
understand the meaning of the few sounds and cries to which their
kind give utterance.
Thus far I have never succeeded in teaching a chimpanzee or
orangutan to say even as much as "Oh" or "Ah." Nothing seems to be
further from the mind of an orang than the idea of a new vocal
utterance as a means to an end.
Our Polly was the most affectionate and demonstrative chimpanzee
that I have ever seen, and her reaction to my voice was the best
that I have found in our many apes. She knew me well, and when I
greeted her in her own language, usually she answered me promptly
and vociferously. Often when she had been busy with her physical-
culture exercises and Delsartean movements on the horizontal bars
or the trapeze in the centre of her big cage, I tested her by
quietly joining the crowd of visitors in the centre of the room
before her cage, and saying to her: "Polly! Wah! Wah! Wah!"
Nearly every time she would stop short, give instant attention and
joyously respond "Wah! Wah! Wah!", repeating the cry a dozen times
while she clambered down to the lower front bars to reach me with
her hands. When particularly excited she would cry "_Who_-oo!
_Who_-oo! _Who_-oo!" with great clearness and vehemence,
the two syllables pitched four notes apart. This cry was uttered
as a joyous greeting, and also at feeding-time, in expectation of
food; but, simple as the task seems to be, I really do not know
how to translate its meaning into English. In one case it appears
to mean "How do you do?" and in the other it seems to stand for
"Hurry up!"
Polly screamed when angry or grieved, just like a naughty child;
and her face assumed the extreme of screaming-child expression.
She whined plaintively when coaxing, or when only slightly
grieved. With these four manifestations her vocal powers seemed to
stop short. Many times I opened her mouth widely with my fingers,
and tried to surprise her into saying "Ah," but with no result. It
seems almost impossible to stamp the vocal-sound idea upon the
mind of an orang-utan or chimpanzee. Polly uttered two distinct
and clearly cut syllables, and it really seemed as if her vocal
organs could have done more if called upon.
The cries of the monkeys, baboons and lemurs are practically
nothing more than squeals, shrieks or roars. The baboons (several
species, at least) bark or roar most explosively, using the
syllable "Wah!" It is only by the most liberal interpretation of
terms that such cries can be called language. The majority express
only two emotions--dissatisfaction and expectation. Every primate
calls for help in the same way that human beings do, by shrill
screaming; but none of them ever cry "Oh" or "Ah."
The only members of the monkey tribe who ever spoke to me in their
native forests were the big black langurs of the Animallai Hills
in Southern India. They used to glare down at us, and curse us
horribly whenever we met. Had we been big pythons instead of men
they could not have said "Confound you!" any more plainly or more
vehemently than they did.
In those museum-making days our motto was "All's fish that cometh
to net"; and we killed monkeys for their skins and skeletons the
same as other animals. My brown-skinned Mulcer hunters said that
the bandarlog hated me because of my white skin. At all events, as
we stalked silently through those forests, half a dozen times a
day we would hear an awful explosion overhead, startling to men
who were still-hunting big game, and from the middle zone of the
tree-tops black and angry faces would peer down at us. They said:
"Wah! Wah! Wah! Ah-^oo-oo-Aoo-oo-^oo-oo!" and it was nothing else
than cursing and blackguarding. How those monkeys did hate us! I
never have encountered elsewhere anything like it in monkey-land.
la 1902 there was a startling exhibition of monkey language at
our Primate House. That was before the completion of the Lion House.
We had to find temporary outdoor quarters for the big jaguar,
"Senor Lopez"; and there being nothing else available, we decided
to place him, for a few days only, in the big circular cage at the
north end of the range of outside cages. It was May, and the
baboons, red-faced monkeys, rhesus, green and many other of the
monkeys were in their outside quarters.
I was not present when Lopez was turned into the big: cage; but I
heard it. Down through the woods to the polar bears' den, a good
quarter of a mile, came a most awful uproar, made by many voices.
The bulk of it was a medley of raucous yells and screeches, above
which it was easy to distinguish the fierce, dog-like barks and
roars of the baboons.
We knew at once that Lopez had arrived. Hurrying up to the Primate
House, we found the wire fronts of the outside cages literally
plastered with monkeys and baboons, all in the wildest excitement.
The jaguar was in full view of them, and although not one out of
the whole lot, except the sapajous, ever had an ancestor who had
seen a jaguar, one and all recognized a hostile genus, and a
hereditary enemy.
And how they cursed him, reviled him, and made hideous faces at
him! The long-armed yellow baboons barked and roared until they
were heard half a mile away. The ugly-tempered macaques and
rhesus monkeys nearly burst with hatred and indignation. The row
was kept up for a long time, and the monkey language that was lost
to science on that occasion was, both in quantity and quality,
beyond compare.
Bear Language. In their native haunts bears are as little given
to loud talk as other animals; but in roomy and comfortable
captivity, where many are yarded together, they rapidly develop
vocal powers. Our bears are such cheerful citizens, and they do so
many droll things, that the average visitor works overtime in
watching them. I have learned the language of our bears
sufficiently that whenever I hear one of them give tongue I know
what he says. For example:
In warning or threatening an enemy, the sloth bear says: "Ach!
Ach! Ach!" and the grizzly says: "Woof! Woof!" A fighting bear
says: "Aw-aw-aw!" A baby's call for its mother is "Row! Row!" A
bear's distress call is: "Err-_wow_-oo-oo-oof!"
But even in a zoological park it is not possible for everyone to
recognize and interpret the different cries of bears, although the
ability to do so is sometimes of value to the party of the second
part. For example:
One day in February I was sitting in my old office in the Service
Building, engrossed in I know not what important and solemn
matter. The park was quiet; for the snow lay nine inches deep over
all. There were no visitors, and the maintenance men were
silently shovelling. Over the hill from the bear dens came the
voice of a bear. It said, as plainly as print: "Err-wow!" I said
to myself: "That sounds like a distress call," and listened to
hear it repeated.
Again it came: "Err-wow!"
I caught up my hat and hastened over the hill toward the bear
dens. On the broad concrete walk, about a hundred feet from the
dens, four men were industriously shovelling snow, unaware that
anything was wrong anywhere except on the pay-roll, opposite their
names.
Guided by the cries that came from "The Nursery" den, where six
yearling cubs were kept, I quickly caught sight of the trouble.
One of our park-born brown bear cubs was hanging fast by one
forefoot from the top of the barred partition. He had climbed to
the top of the ironwork, thrust one front paw through between two
of the bars (for bears are the greatest busybodies on earth), and
when he sought to withdraw it, the sharp point of a bar in the
overhang of the tree-guard had buried itself in the back of his
paw, and held him fast. It seemed as if his leg was broken, and
also dislocated at the shoulder. No wonder the poor little chap
squalled for help. His mother, on the other side of the partition,
was almost frantic with baffled sympathy, for she could do nothing
to help him.
It did not take more than a quarter of a minute to have several
men running for crowbars and other things, and within five minutes
from the discovery we were in the den ready for action. The little
chap gave two or three cries to let us know how badly it hurt his
leg to hang there, then bent his small mind upon rendering us
assistance.
First we lifted him up bodily, and held him, to remove the strain.
Then, by good luck, we had at hand a stout iron bar with a U-
shaped end; and with that under the injured wrist, and a crowbar
to spring the treacherous overhang, we lifted the foot clear, and
lowered little Brownie to the floor. From first to last he helped
us all he could, and seemed to realize that it was clearly "no
fair" to bite or scratch. Fortunately the leg was neither broken
nor dislocated, and although Brownie limped for ten days, he soon
was all right again.
After the incident had been closed, I gave the men a brief lecture
on the language of bears, and the necessity of being able to
recognize the distress call.
You can chase bison, elephants and deer all day without hearing a
single vocal utterance. They know through long experience the
value of silence.
The night after I shot my second elephant we noted an exception.
The herd had been divided by our onslaught. Part of it had gone
north, part of it south, and our camp for the night (beside the
dead tusker) lay midway between the two. About bedtime the
elephants began signalling to each other by trumpeting, and what
they sounded was "The assembly." They called and answered
repeatedly; and finally it became clear to my native followers
that the two herds were advancing to unite, and were likely to
meet in our vicinity. That particular trumpet call was different
from any other I have ever heard. It was a regular "Hello" signal-
call, entirely different from the "Tal-_loo_-e" blast which
once came from a feeding herd and guided us to it.
But it is only on rare occasions that elephants communicate with
each other by sound. I once knew a general alarm to be
communicated throughout a large herd by the sign language, and a
retreat organized and carried out in absolute silence. Their
danger signals to each other must have been made with their trunks
and their ears; but we saw none of them, because all the animals
were concealed from our view except when the two scouts of the
herd were hunting for us.
In captivity an elephant trumpets in protest, or through fear, or
through rage; but I am obliged to confess that as yet I cannot
positively distinguish one from the other.
Once in the Zoological Park I heard our troublesome Indian
elephant, Alice, roaring continuously as if in pain. It continued
at such a rate that I hurried over to the Elephant House to
investigate. And there I saw a droll spectacle. Keeper Richards
had taken Alice out into her yard for exercise and had ordered
her to follow him. And there he was disgustedly marching around
the yard while Alice marched after him at an interval of ten
paces, quite free and untrammeled, but all the while lustily
trumpeting and roaring in indignant protest. The only point at
which she was hurt was in her feelings.
Two questions that came into public notice concerning the voices
of two important American animals have been permanently settled
by "the barnyard naturalists" of New York.
The Voice of the American Bison. In 1907 the statement of George
Catlin, to the effect that in the fall the bellowing of buffalo
bulls on the plains resembled the muttering of distant thunder,
was denied and severely criticized in a sportsman's magazine. On
October 4 of that year, while we were selecting the fifteen bison
to be presented to the Government, to found the Wichita National
Bison Herd, four of us heard our best bull _bellow_ five
times, while another did the same thing four times.
The sound uttered was a deep-voiced roar,--not a grunt,--rising
and falling in measured cadence, and prolonged about four or five
seconds. It was totally different from the ordinary grunt of
hunger, or the menace of an angry buffalo, which is short and
sharp. In discussing the quality of the bellow, we agreed that it
could properly be called a low roar. It is heard only in the
rutting season,--the period described by Catlin,--and there is
good reason to believe that Caitlin's description is perfectly
correct.
The Scream of the Puma. This is a subject that will not lie still.
I presume it will recur every five years as long as pumas endure.
Uncountable pages of controversial letters have been expended upon
the question: "Does the puma ever scream, like a woman in
distress?"
The true answer is easy, and uncontestable by people whose minds
are open to the rules of evidence.
Yes; the adult female puma DOES scream,-_in the mating
season_, whenever it comes. It is loud, piercing, prolonged,
and has the agonized voice qualities of a boy or a woman screaming
from the pain of a surgical operation. To one who does not know
the source or the cause, it is nerve-racking. When heard in a
remote wilderness it must be truly fearsome. It says "Ow-w-w-w!"
over and over. We have heard it a hundred times or more, and it
easily carries a quarter of a mile.
The language of animals is a long and interesting subject,--so
much so that here it is possible only to sketch out and suggest
its foundations and scope. On birds alone, an entire volume should
be written; but animal intelligence is a subject as far reaching
as the winds of the earth.
No man who ever saw high in the heavens a V-shaped flock of wild
geese, or heard the honk language either afloat, ashore or in the
air, will deny the spoken language of that species. If any one
should do so, let him listen to the wild-goose wonder tales of
Jack Miner, and hear him imitate (to perfection) the honk call of
the gander at his pond, calling to wild flocks in the sky and
telling them about the corn and safety down where he is.
The woodpecker drums on the high and dry limb of a dead tree his
resounding signal-call that is nothing more nor less (in our view)
than so much sign language.
It was many years ago that we first heard in the welcome days of
early spring the resounding _"Boo-hoo-hoo"_ courting call of
the cock pinnated grouse, rolling over the moist earth for a mile
or more in words too plain to be misunderstood.
The American magpie talks beautifully; but I regret to say that I
do not understand a word of its language. One summer we had
several fine specimens in the great flying-cage, with the big and
showy waterfowl, condor, griffon vulture, ravens and crows. One of
those magpies often came over to the side of the cage to talk to
me, and as I believe, make complaints. Whether he complained about
his big and bulky cagemates, or the keepers, or me, I could not
tell; but I thought that his grievances were against the large
birds. Whenever I climbed over the guard rail and stooped down, he
would come close up to the wire, stand in one spot, and in a
quiet, confidential tone talk to me earnestly and gesticulate with
his head for five minutes straight. I have heard senile old men
run on in low-voiced, unintelligible clack in precisely the same
way. The modulations of that bird's voice, its inflections and its
vocabulary were wonderful. From his manner a messenger from Mars
might easily have inferred that the bird believed that every word
of the discourse was fully understood.
The lion roars, magnificently. The hyena "laughs"; the gray wolf
gives a mournful howl, the coyote barks and howls, and the fox
yaps. The elk bugles, the moose roars and bawls, in desire or
defiance. The elephant trumpets or screams in the joy of good
feeding, or in fear or rage; and it also rumbles deeply away down
in its throat. The red squirrel barks and chatters, usually to
scold some one whom he hates, but other small rodents know that
silence is golden.
The birds have the best voices of all creatures. They are the
sweet singers of the animal world, and to the inquiring mind that
field is a wonderland.
The frogs are vociferous; and now if they were more silent they
would last longer.
Of all the reptiles known to me, only two utter vocal sounds,--the
alligator and the elephant tortoise. The former roars or bellows,
the latter grunts.
IV
THE MOST INTELLIGENT ANIMALS
To the professional animal-man, year in and year out comes the
eternal question, "Which are the most intelligent animals?"
The question is entirely legitimate. What animals are the best
exponents of animal intelligence?
It seems to me that the numerous factors involved, and the
comparisons that must be made, can best be expressed in figures.
Opinions that are based upon only one or two sets of facts are not
worth much. There are about ten factors to be taken into account
and appraised separately.
In order to express many opinions in a small amount of space, we
submit a table of estimates and summaries, covering a few
mammalian species that are representative of many. But, try as
they will, it is not likely that any two animal men will set down
the same estimates. It all depends upon the wealth or the poverty
of first-hand, eye-witness evidence. When we enter the field of
evidence that must stand in quotation marks, we cease to know
where we will come out. We desire to state that nearly all of the
figures in the attached table of estimates are based upon the
author's own observations, made during a period of more than
forty years of ups and downs with wild animals. ESTIMATES OF THE
COMPARATIVE INTELLIGENCE AND ABILITY OF CERTAIN CONSPICUOUS WILD
ANIMALS, BASED UPON KNOWN PERFORMANCES, OR THE ABSENCE OF THEM.
[Footnote: To the author, correspondence regarding the reasons for
these estimates is impossible.]
[beginning of chart]
Perfection in all=100 [list of categories below are written
vertically above the columns, with the last column unnamed and
representing a total score of animal intelligence/1000]
Hereditary Knowledge Perceptive Faculties Original Thought Memory
Reason Receptivity in Training Efficiency in Execution Nervous
Energy Keenness of the Senses Use of the Voice
Primates
Chimpanzee . . . . . . . . .100 100 100 100 75 100 100 100 100 50 925
Orang-Utan . . . . . . . . .100 100 100 75 100 75 100 75 100 25 850
Gorilla. . . . . . . . . . . . .50 50 50 50 75 25 25 50 100 25 500
Ungulates
Indian Elephant . . . . . .100 100 100 100 100 100 100 75 50 25 850
Rhinoceros. . . . . . . . .25 25 25 25 25 0 0 25 25 0 175
Giraffe . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 25 25 25 25 25 0 25 100 0 300
White-Tailed Deer . . .100 100 100 25 50 0 0 100 100 0 575
Big-Horn Sheep . . . . . .100 100 50 25 50 0 0 100 100 0 525
Mountain Goat. . . . . . .100 100 100 25 100 0 0 100 100 0 625
Domestic Horse. . . . . .100 100 100 75 75 75 75 100 100 50 850
Carnivores
Lion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .100 100 50 75 50 75 50 100 100 25 725
Tiger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .100 75 50 50 50 25 25 100 100 0 575
Grizzly Bear . . . . . . . . .100 100 50 25 50 75 50 75 100 25 725
Brown Bear (European)100 100 50 25 50 75 50 75 100 25 650
Gray Wolf . . . . . . . . . . . 100 100 100 25 75 00 100 100 25 625
Coyote . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 75 50 25 50 0 0 75 100 25 500
Red Fox . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 100 50 75 100 0 0 100 100 25 650
Domestic Dog . . . . . . . . .50 100 75 75 75 75 100 100 100 100 850
Wolverine . . . . . . . . . . .100 100 100 25 100 0 75 100 100 0 700
Beaver . . . . . . . . . . . . . .100 100 100 25 100 0 100 100 100 0 725
According to the author's information and belief, _these are
"the most intelligent" animals:_ The Chimpanzee is the most
intelligent of all animals below man. His mind approaches most
closely to that of man, and it carries him farthest upward toward
the human level. He can learn more by training, and learn more
easily, than any other animal.
The Orang-Utan is mentally next to the chimpanzee.
The Indian Elephant in mental capacity is third from man.
The high-class domestic Horse is a very wise and capable animal;
but this is chiefly due to its age-long association with man, and
education by him. Mentally the wild horse is a very different
animal, and in the intellectual scale it ranks with the deer and
antelopes.
The Beaver manifests, in domestic economy, more intelligence,
mechanical skill and reasoning power than any other wild animal.
The Lion is endowed with keen perceptive faculties, reasoning
ability and judgment of a high order, and its mind is
surprisingly receptive.
The Grizzly Bear is believed to be the wisest of all bears.
The Pack Rat (_Neotona_) is the intellectual phenomenon of
the great group of gnawing animals. It is in a class by itself.
The White Mountain Goat seems to be the wisest of all the mountain
summit animals whose habits are known to zoologists and sportsmen.
A high-class Dog is the animal that mentally is in closest touch
with the mind, the feelings and the impulses of man; and it is the
only one that can read a man's feelings from his eyes and his
facial expression.
The Marvelous Beaver. Let us consider this animal as an
illuminating example of high-power intelligence.
In domestic economy the beaver is the most intelligent of all
living mammals. His inherited knowledge, his original thought, his
reasoning power and his engineering and mechanical skill in
constructive works are marvelous and beyond compare. In his
manifold industrial activities, there is no other mammal that is
even a good second to him. He builds dams both great and
small, to provide water in which to live, to store food and to
escape from his enemies. He builds air-tight houses of sticks and
mud, either as islands, or on the shore. When he cannot live as a
pond-beaver with a house he cheerfully becomes a river-beaver.
He lives in a river-bank burrow when house-building in a pond
is impossible; and he will cheerfully tunnel under a stone wall
from one-pond monotony, to go exploring outside.
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS AT THE
PRIMATES' HOUSE Chimpanzees (with large ears) and orang-utans
(small ears). The animal on the extreme right is an orang of the
common caste]
He cuts down trees, both small and large, and he makes them fall
as he wishes them to fall. He trims off all branches, and leaves
no "slash" to cumber the ground. He buries green branches, in
great quantity, in the mud at the bottom of his pond, so that in
winter he can get at them under a foot of solid ice. He digs
canals, of any length he pleases, to float logs and billets of
wood from hinterland to pond.
If you are locating beavers in your own zoo, and are wise, you can
induce beavers to build their dam where you wish it to be. This is
how we did it!
We dug out a pond of mud in order that the beavers might have a
pond of water; and we wished the beavers to build a dam forty feet
long, at a point about thirty feet from the iron fence where the
brook ran out. On thinking it over we concluded that we could
manage it by showing the animals where we wished them to go to
work.
We set a l2-inch plank on its edge, all the way across the dam
site, and pegged it down. Above it the water soon formed a little
pool and began to flow over the top edge in a very miniature
waterfall. Then we turned loose four beavers and left them.
The next morning we found a cart-load of sticks and fresh mud
placed like a dam against the iron fence. In beaver language this
said to us:
"We would rather build our dam here,--if you don't mind. It will
be easier for us, and quicker."
We removed all their material; and in our language that action
said: "No; we would rather have you build over the plank."
The next night more mud and sticks piled against the fence said to
us,
"We really _insist_ upon building it here!"
We made a second clearance of their materials, saying in effect:
"You _shall not_ build against the fence! You _must_
build where we tell you!"
Thereupon, the beavers began to build over the plank, saying,
"Oh, well, if you are going to make a fuss about it, we will let
you have your way."
So they built a beautiful water-tight dam precisely where we
suggested it to them, and after that our only trouble was to keep
them from overdoing the matter, and flooding the whole valley.
I am not going to dwell upon the mind and manners of the beaver.
The animal is well known. Three excellent books have been written
and pictured about him, in the language that the General Reader
understands. They are as follows: "The American Beaver and His
Works," Lewis H. Morgan (1868); "The Romance of the Beaver," A. R.
Dugmore (no date); "History and Traditions of the Canada Beaver,"
H. T. Martin (1892).
"Clever Hans," the "Thinking Horse." From 1906 to 1910 the world
read much about a wonderful educated horse owned and educated by
Herr von Osten, in Germany. The German scientists who first came
in touch with "Hans" were quite bowled over by the discovery that
that one horse could "think." The _Review of Reviews_ said,
in 1910:
"It may be recalled that Clever Hans knew figures and letters,
colors and tones, the calendar and the dial, that he could count
and read, deal with decimals and fractions, spell out answers to
questions with his right hoof, and recognize people from having
seen their photographs. In every case his 'replies' were given in
the form of scrapings with his right forehoof.
"Whether the questioner was von Osten, who had worked with him for
seven years, or a man like Schillings, who was a complete
stranger, seemed immaterial; and this went farthest, perhaps, in
disposing of all talk of 'collusion' between master and beast."
Now, by the bald records of the case the fact was fixed for all
time that Hans was the most wonderful mental prodigy that ever
bore the form of a four-footed animal. His learning and his
performances were astounding, and even uncanny. I do not care how
he was trained, nor by what process he received ideas and reacted
to them! He was a phenomenon, and I doubt whether this world ever
sees his like again. His mastery of figures alone, no matter how
it was wrought, was enough to make any animal or trainer
illustrious.
But eventually Clever Hans came to grief. He was ostensibly
thrown off his pedestal, in Germany, by human jealousy and
egotism. Several industrious German scientists deliberately set
to work to discredit him, and they stuck to it until they
accomplished that task. The chief instrument in this was no less a
man than the director of the "Psychological Institute" of the
Berlin University, Professor Otto Pfungst. He found that when Hans
was put on the witness stand and subjected to rigid cross
examinations _by strangers_, his answers were due partly to
_telepathy and hypnotic influence_! For example, the
discovery was made that Hans could not always give the correct
answer to a problem in figures unless it was known to the
questioner himself.
To Hans's inquisitors this discovery imparted a terrible shock. It
did not look like "thinking" after all! The mental process was
_different_ from the process of the German mind! The
wonderful fact that Hans could remember and recognize and
_reproduce_ the ten digits was entirely lost to view. At once
a shout went up all over Germany,--in the scientific circle, that
Hans was an "impostor," that he could not "think," and that his
mind was nothing much after all.
Poor Hans! The glory that should have been his, and imperishable,
is gone. He was the victim of scientists of one idea, who had no
sense of proportion. He truly WAS a thinking horse; and we are
sure that there are millions of men whose minds could not be
developed to the point that the mind of that "dumb" animal
attained,--no, not even with the aid of hypnotism and telepathy.
The bare fact that a horse _can_ be influenced by occult
mental powers proves the close parallelism that exists between the
brains of men and beasts. The Trap-Door Spider. Let no one
suppose for one moment that animal mind and intelligence is
limited to the brain-bearing vertebrates. The scope and activity
of the notochord in some of the invertebrates present phenomena
far more wonderful per capita than many a brain produces.
Interesting books have been written, and more will be written
hereafter, on the minds and doings of ants, bees, wasps, spiders
and other insects.
Consider the ways and means of the ant-lion of the East, and the
trap-door spider of the western desert regions. As one object
lesson from the insect world, I will flash upon the screen, for a
moment only, the trap-door spider. This wonderful insect personage
has been exhaustively studied by Mr. Raymond L. Ditmars, in the
development of a series of moving pictures, and at my request he
has contributed the following graphic description of this
spider's wonderful work.
"The trap-door spiders, inhabiting the warmer portions of both the
Old and New Worlds, dig a deep tunnel in the soil, line this with
a silken wallpaper, then construct a hinged door at the top so
perfectly fitted and camouflaged with soil, that when it is closed
there is no indication of the burrow. Moreover, the inside portion
of the door of some species is so constructed that it may be
"latched," there being two holes near the edge, precisely placed
where the curved fangs may be inserted and the door held firmly
closed. Also, the trap-door of a number of species is so designed
as to be absolutely rain-proof, being bevelled and as accurately
fitting a corresponding bevel of the tube as the setting of a
compression valve of a gasolene engine.
[Illustration: THE TRAP-DOOR
SPIDER'S DOOR AND BURROW By R. L. Ditmars 1. The door closed. Its
top carefully counterfeits the surrounding ground. 2. The door
with silken hinge, held open by a needle. 3. The spider in its
doorway, looking for prey. 4. Section of the burrow and trap-
door.]
"The study of a number of specimens of our southern California
species, which builds the cork-type door, including observations
of them at night, when they are particularly active, indicates
that the construction of the tube involves other material than the
silken lining employed by many burrowing spiders. In the
excavation of the tube and retention of the walls, the spider
appears to employ a glairy substance, which thoroughly saturates
the soil and renders the interior of the tube of almost cement-
like hardness. It is then plastered with a thick jet of silk from
the spinning glands. This interior finishing process appears to
be quite rapid, a burrow being readily lined within a couple of
hours.
"The construction of the trap-door is a far more complicated
process, this convex, beautifully bevelled entrance with its hinge
requiring real scientific skill. Judging from observations on a
number of specimens, the work is done from the outside, the spider
first spinning a net-like covering over the mouth of the tube.
This is thickened by weaving the body over the net, each motion
leaving a smoky trail of silk. Earth is then shoveled into the
covering, the spider carefully pushing the particles toward the
centre, which soon sags, and assumes the proper curvature, and
automatically moulds against the bevelled walls of the tube.
"The shoveling process must be nicely regulated to produce the
proper bevel and thickness of the door. Then the cementing
process is applied to the top, rendering the door a solid unit.
From the actions of these spiders,--which often calmly rest an
hour without a move,--it appears that the edges of the door are
now subjected, by the stout and sharp fangs, to a cutting process
like that of a can opener, leaving a portion of the marginal silk
to act as a hinge. This hinge afterward receives some finishing
touches, and the top of the door is either pebbled or finished
with a few fragments of dead vegetation, cemented on, in order to
exactly match the surrounding soil."
V
THE RIGHTS OF WILD ANIMALS
Every harmless wild bird and mammal has the right to live out its
life according to its destiny; and man is in honor bound to
respect those rights. At the same time it is a mistake to regard
each wild bird or quadruped as a sacred thing, which under no
circumstances may be utilized by man. We are not fanatical Hindus
of the castes which religiously avoid the "taking of life" of any
kind, and gently push aside the flea, the centipede and the
scorpion. The reasoning powers of such people are strictly
limited, the same as those of people who are opposed to the
removal by death of the bandits and murderers of the human race.
The highest duty of a reasoning being is to reason. We have no
moral or legal right to act like idiots, or to become a menace to
society by protecting criminal animals or criminal men from
adequate punishment. Like the tree that is known by its fruit,
every alleged "reasoning being" is to be judged by the daily
output of his thoughts.
Toward wild life, our highest duty is to be sane and sensible, in
order to be just, and to promote the greatest good for the
greatest number. Be neither a Hindu fanatic nor a cruel game-
butcher like a certain wild-animal slaughterer whom I knew, who
while he was on earth earned for himself a place in the hottest
corner of the hereafter, and quickly passed on to occupy it.
The following planks constitute a good platform on which to base
our relations with the wild animal world, and by which to regulate
our duty to the creatures that have no means of defense against
the persecutions of cruel men. They may be regarded as
representing the standards that have been fixed by enlightened and
humane civilization.
THE WILD ANIMALS' BILL OF RIGHTS
This Bill of Rights is to be copied and displayed conspicuously
in all zoological parks and gardens, zoos and menageries; in all
theatres and shows where animal performances are given, and in all
places where wild animals and birds are trained, sold or kept for
the pleasure of their owners.
Article 1. In view of the nearness of the approach of the higher
animals to the human level, no just and humane man can deny that
those wild animals have certain rights which man is in honor bound
to respect.
Art. 2. The fact that God gave man "dominion over the beasts of
the field" does not imply a denial of animal rights, any more than
the supremacy of a human government conveys the right to oppress
and maltreat its citizens.
Art. 3. Under certain conditions it is justifiable for man to kill
a limited number of the so-called game animals, on the same basis
of justification that domestic animals and fowls may be killed for
food.
Art. 4. While the trapping of fur-bearing animals is a necessary
evil, that evil must be minimized by reducing the sufferings of
trapped animals to the lowest possible point, and by preventing
wasteful trapping.
Art. 5. The killing of harmless mammals or birds solely for
"sport," and without utilizing them when killed, is murder; and no
good and humane man will permit himself to engage in any such
offenses against good order and the rights of wild creatures.
Art. 6. Shooting at sea-going creatures from moving vessels,
without any possibility of securing them if killed or wounded, is
cruel, reprehensible, and criminal, and everywhere should be
forbidden by ship captains, and also by law, under penalties.
Art. 7. The extermination of a harmless wild animal species is a
crime; but the regulated destruction of wild pests that have been
proven guilty, is sometimes necessary and justifiable.
Art. 8. No group or species of birds or mammals that is accused of
offenses sufficiently grave to merit destruction shall be
condemned undefended and unheard, nor without adequate evidence of
a character which would be acceptable in a court of law.
Art. 9. The common assumption that every bird or mammal that
offends, or injures the property of any man, is necessarily
deserving of death, is absurd and intolerable. The death penalty
should be the last resort, not the first one!
Art. 10. Any nation that fails adequately to protect its crop-and-
tree-protecting birds deserves to have its fields and forests
devastated by predatory insects.
Art. 11. No person has any moral right to keep a wild mammal,
bird, reptile or fish in a state of uncomfortable, unhappy or
miserable captivity, and all such practices should be prevented by
law, under penalty. It is entirely feasible for a judge to
designate a competent person as a referee to examine and decide
upon each case.
Art. 12. A wild creature that cannot be kept in comfortable
captivity should not be kept at all; and the evils to be guarded
against are cruelly small quarters, too much darkness, too much
light, uncleanliness, bad odors, and bad food. A fish in a glass
globe, or a live bird in a cage the size of a collar-box is a case
of cruelty.
Art. 13. Every captive animal that is suffering hopelessly from
disease or the infirmities of old age has the right to be
painlessly relieved of the burdens of life.
Art. 14. Every keeper or owner of a captive wild animal who
through indolence, forgetfulness or cruelty permits a wild
creature in his charge to perish of cold, heat, hunger or thirst
because of his negligence, is guilty of a grave misdemeanor, and
he should be punished as the evidence and the rights of captive
animals demand.
Art. 15. An animal in captivity has a right to do all the damage
to its surroundings that it can do, and it is not to be punished
therefor.
Art. 16. The idea that all captive wild animals are necessarily
"miserable" is erroneous, because some captive animals are better
fed, better protected and are more happy in captivity than similar
animals are in a wild state, beset by dangers and harassed by
hunger and thirst. It is the opinion of the vast majority of
civilized people that there is no higher use to which a wild bird
or mammal can be devoted than to place it in perfectly comfortable
captivity to be seen by millions of persons who desire to make
its acquaintance.
Art. 17. About ninety-five per cent of all the wild mammals seen
in captivity were either born in captivity or captured when in
their infancy, and therefore have no ideas of freedom, or visions
of their wild homes; consequently their supposed "pining for
freedom" often is more imaginary than real.
Art. 18. A wild animal has no more inherent right to live a life
of lazy and luxurious ease, and freedom from all care, than a man
or woman has to live without work or family cares. In the large
cities of the world there are many millions of toiling humans who
are worse off per capita as to burdens and sorrows and joys than
are the beasts and birds in a well kept zoological park. "Freedom"
is comparative only, not absolute.
Art. 19. While the use of trained animals in stage performances
is not necessarily cruel, and while training operations are based
chiefly upon kindness and reward, it is necessary that vigilance
should be exercised to insure that the cages and stage quarters of
such animals shall be adequate in size, properly lighted and
acceptably ventilated, and that cruel punishments shall not be
inflicted upon the animals themselves.
Art. 20. The training of wild animals may, or may not, involve
cruelties, according to the intelligence and the moral status of
the trainer. This is equally true of the training of children, and
the treatment of wives and husbands. A reasonable blow with a
whip to a mean and refractory animal in captivity is not
necessarily an act of cruelty. Every such act must be judged
according to the evidence.
Art. 21. It is unjust to proclaim that "all wild animal
performances are cruel" and therefore should be prohibited by law.
The claim is untrue, and no lawmaker should pay heed to it. Wild
animal performances are no more cruel or unjust than men-and-women
performances of acrobatics. Practically all trained animals are
well fed and tended, they welcome their performances, and go
through them with lively interest. Such performances, when good,
have a high educational value,--but not to closed minds.
Art. 22. Every bull-fight, being brutally unfair to the horses and
the bull engaged and disgustingly cruel, is an unfit spectacle for
humane and high-minded people, and no Christian man or woman can
attend one without self-stultification.
Art. 23. The western practice of "bulldogging," now permitted in
some Wild West shows, is disgusting, degrading, and never should
be permitted.
Art. 24. The use of monkeys by organ-grinders is cruel, it is
degrading to the monkeys, and should in all states be prohibited
by law.
Art. 25. The keeping of live fishes in glass globes nearly always
ends in cruelty and suffering, and should everywhere be prohibited
by law. A round glass straight-jacket is just as painful as any
other kind.
Art. 26. The sale and use of chained live chameleons as ornaments
and playthings for idiotic or vicious men and children always
means death by slow torture for the reptile, and should in all
states be prohibited by law.
II. MENTAL TRAITS OF WILD ANIMALS
VI
THE BRIGHTEST MINDS AMONG AMERICAN ANIMALS
We repeat that _the most interesting features of a wild animal
are its mind, its thoughts, and the results of its reasoning._
Besides these, its classification, distribution and anatomy are of
secondary importance; but at the same time they help to form the
foundation on which to build the psychology of species and
individuals. Let no student make the mistake of concluding that
when he has learned an animal's place in nature there is nothing
more to pursue.
After fifty years of practical experience with wild animals of
many species, I am reluctantly compelled to give the prize for
greatest cunning and foresight _in self-preservation_ to the
common brown rat,--the accursed "domestic" rat that has adopted
man as his perpetual servant, and regards man's goods as his
lawful prey. When all other land animals have been exterminated
from the earth, the brown rat will remain, to harry and to rob the
Last Man.
The brown rat has persistently accompanied man all over the world.
Millions have been spent in fighting him and the bubonic-plague
flea that he cheerfully carries in his offensive fur. For him no
place _that contains food_ is too hot or too cold, too wet or
too dry. Many old sailors claim to believe that rats will desert
at the dock an outward-bound ship that is fated to be lost at sea;
but that certificate of superhuman foreknowledge needs a backing
of evidence before it can be accepted.
Of all wild animals, rats do the greatest number of "impossible"
things. We have matched our wits against rat cunning until a
madhouse yawned before us. Twice in my life all my traps and
poisons have utterly failed, and left me faintly asking:
_Are_ rats possessed of occult powers? Once the answer to
that was furnished by an old he-one who left his tail in my steel
trap, but a little later _caught himself_ in a trap-like
space in the back of the family aeolian, and ignominiously died
there,--a victim of his own error in judging distances without a
tape line.
Tomes might be written about the minds and manners of the brown
rat, setting forth in detail its wonderful intelligence in quickly
getting wise to new food, new shelter, new traps and new poisons.
Six dead rats are, as a rule, sufficient to put any _new_
trap out of business; but poisons and infections go farther before
being found out. [Footnote: For home use, my best rat weapon is
rough-on-rats, generously mixed with butter and spread liberally
on very thin slices of bread. It has served me well in effecting
clearances.]
The championship for keen strategy in self-preservation belongs to
the musk-oxen for their wolf-proof circle of heads and horns.
Every musk-ox herd is a mutual benefit life insurance company.
When a gaunt and hungry wolf-pack appears, the adult bull and cow
musk-oxen at once form a close circle, with the calves and young
stock in the centre. That deadly ring of lowered heads and sharp
horns, all hung precisely right to puncture and deflate hostile
wolves, is impregnable to fang and claw. The arctic wolves know
this well. Mr. Stefansson says it is the settled habit of wolf
packs of Banks Land to pass musk-ox herds without even provoking
them to "fall in" for defense.
Judging by the facts that Charles L. Smith and the Norboe brothers
related to Mr. Phillips and me around our camp-fires in the
Canadian Rockies, the wolverine is one of the most cunning wild
animals of all North America. This is a large order; for the gray
wolf and grizzly bear are strong candidates for honors in that
contest.
The greatest cunning of the wolverine is manifested in robbing
traps, stealing the trapper's food and trap-baits, and at the same
time avoiding the traps set for him. He is wonderfully expert in
springing steel traps for the bait or prey there is in them,
without getting caught himself. He will follow up a trap line for
miles, springing all traps and devouring all baits as he goes.
Sometimes in sheer wantonness he will throw a trap into a river,
and again he will bury a trap in deep snow. Dead martens in traps
are savagely torn from them. Those that can not be eaten on the
spot are carried off and skilfully cached under two or three feet
of snow.
Trapper Smith once set a trap for a wolverine, and planted close
behind it a young moose skull with some flesh upon it. The
wolverine came in the night, started at a point well away from the
trap, dug a tunnel through six feet of snow, fetched up well
behind the trap,--and triumphantly dragged away the head through
his tunnel.
From the testimony of W. H. Wright, of Spokane, in his interesting
book on "The Grizzly Bear," and for other reasons, I am convinced
that the Rocky Mountain silver-tip grizzly is our brightest North
American animal, and very keen of nose, eye, ear and brain. Mr.
Wright says that "the grizzly bear far excels in cunning any other
animal found throughout the Rocky Mountains, and, for that matter,
he far excels them all combined." While the last clause is a large
order, I will not dispute the opinion of a man of keen
intelligence who has lived much among the most important and
interesting wild animals of the Rockies.
In the Bitter Root Mountains Mr. Wright and his hunting party once
set a bear trap for a grizzly, in a pen of logs, well baited with
fresh meat. On the second day they found the pen demolished, the
bait taken out, and everything that was movable piled on the top
of the trap.
The trap was again set, this time loosely, under a bed of moss.
The grizzly came and joyously ate all the meat that was scattered
around the trap, but the moss and the trap were left untouched.
And then followed a major operation in bear trapping. A mile away
there was a steep slope of smooth rock, bounded at its foot by a
creek. On one side was a huge tangle of down timber, on the other
side loomed some impassable rocks; and a tiny meadow sloped away
at the top. The half-fleshed carcasses of two dead elk were thrown
half way down the rock slide, to serve as a bait. On the two sides
two bear guns were set, and to their triggers were attached two
long silk fish-lines, stretched taut and held parallel to each
other, extending across the rocky slope. The idea was that the
bear could not by any possibility reach the bait from above or
below, without setting off at least one gun, and getting a bullet
through his shoulders.
On the first night, no guns went off. The next morning it was
found that the bear had crossed the stream and climbed straight up
toward the bait until he reached the first fish-line; where he
stopped. Without pressing the string sufficiently to set off its
gun, he followed it to the barrier of trees. Being balked there,
he turned about, retraced his steps carefully and followed the
string to the barrier of rocks. Being blocked there, he back-
tracked down the slide and across the stream, over the way he
came. Then he widely circled the whole theatre, and came down
toward the bait from the little meadow at its top of the slide.
Presently he reached the upper fish-line, twelve feet away from
the first one. First he followed this out to the log barrier, then
back to the rock ledge that was supposed to be unclimbable. There
he scrambled up the "impossible" rocks, negotiated the ledge foot
by foot, and successfully got around the end of line No. 2.
Getting between the two lines he sailed out across the slope to
the elk carcasses, feasted sumptuously, and then meandered out
the way he came, without having disturbed a soul.
All this was done at night, and in darkness; and presumably that
bear is there to this day, alive and well. No wonder Mr. Wright
has a high opinion of the grizzly bear as a thinking animal.
In hiding their homes and young, either in burrows or in nests on
the ground, wild rabbits and hares are wonderfully skilful, even
under new conditions. Being quite unable to fight, or even to dig
deeply, they are wholly dependent upon their wits in keeping their
young alive by hiding them. Thanks to their keenness in
concealment, the gray rabbit is plentiful throughout the eastern
United States in spite of its millions of enemies. Is it not
wonderful? The number killed by hunters last year in Pennsylvania
was about 3,500,000!
The most amazing risk that I ever saw taken by a rabbit was made
by a gray rabbit that nested in a shallow hole in the middle of a
lawn-mower lawn east of the old National Museum building in
Washington. The hollow was like that of a small wash-basin, and
when at rest in it with her young ones the neutral gray back of
the mother came just level with the top of the ground. At the
last, when her young were almost large enough to get out and go
under their own steam, a lawn-mower artist chanced to look down
at the wrong moment and saw the family. Evidently that mother
believed that the boldest ventures are those most likely to win.
Among the hoofed and horned animals of North America the white-
tailed deer is the shrewdest in the recognition of its enemies,
the wisest in the choice of cover, and in measures for self-
preservation. It seems at first glance that the buck is more keen-
witted than the doe; but this is a debatable question. Throughout
the year the buck thinks only of himself. During fully one-half
the year the doe is burdened by the cares of motherhood, and the
paramount duty of saving her fawns from their numerous enemies.
This, I am quite sure, is the handicap which makes it so much
easier to kill a doe in the autumn hunting season than to bag a
fully antlered and sophisticated buck who has only himself to
consider.
The white-tailed deer saves its life by skulking low in timber and
thick brush. This is why it so successfully resists the
extermination that has almost swept the mule deer, antelope,
white goat, moose and elk from all the hunting-grounds of the
United States. Thanks to its alertness in seeing its enemies
first, its skill and quickness in hiding, _and its mental
keenness in recognizing and using deer sanctuaries,_ the white-
tailed or "Virginia" deer will outlive all the other hoofed
animals of North America. In Pennsylvania they know enough to rush
for the wire-bounded protected area whenever the hunters appear.
That state has twenty-six such deer sanctuaries,--well filled
with deer.
The moose and caribou dwell upon open or half-open ground, and are
at the mercy of the merciless long-range rifles. Their keenness
does not count much against rifles that can shoot and kill at a
quarter of a mile. In the rutting season the bull moose of Maine
or New Brunswick is easily deceived by the "call" of a birch-bark
megaphone in the hands of a moose hunter who imitates the love
call of the cow moose so skilfully that neither moose nor man can
detect the falsity of the lure.
The mountain sheep is wide-eyed, alert and ready to run, but he
dwells in exposed places from the high foothills up to the
mountain summits, and now even the most bungling hunter can find
him and kill him at long range. In the days of black powder and
short ranges the sheep had a chance to escape; but now he has none
whatever. He has keener vision and more alertness than the goat,
but as a real life-saving factor that amounts to nothing! Wild
sheep are easily and quickly exterminated.
The mountain goat has no protection except elevation and
precipitous rocks, and to the hunter who has the energy to climb
up to him he, too, is easy prey. Usually his biped enemy finds him
and attacks him in precipitous mountains, where running and hiding
are utterly impossible. When discovered on a ledge two feet wide
leading across the face of a precipice, poor Billy has nothing to
do but to take the bullets as they come until he reels and falls
far down to the cruel slide-rock. He has a wonderful mind, but its
qualities and its usefulness belong in Chapter XIII.
Warm-Coated Animals Avoid "Fresh Air." On this subject there is a
strange divergence of reasoning power between the wild animals of
cold countries and the sleeping-porch advocates of today.
Even the most warm-coated of the fur-bearing animals, such as the
bears, foxes, beavers, martens and mink, and also the burrowing
rodents, take great pains to den up in winter just as far from the
"fresh air" of the cold outdoors as they can attain by deep
denning or burrowing. The prairie-dog not only ensconces himself
in a cul-de-sac at the end of a hole fourteen feet deep and long,
but as winter sets in he also tightly plugs up the mouth of his
den with moist earth. When sealed up in his winter den the black
bear of the north draws his supply of fresh air through a hole
about one inch in diameter, or less.
But the human devotees of fresh air reason in the opposite
direction. It is now the regular thing for mothers to open wide to
the freezing air of out-doors either one or all the windows of the
rooms in which their children sleep, giving to each child enough
fresh air to supply ten full-grown elephants, or twenty head of
horses. And the final word is the "sleeping-porch!" It matters not
how deadly damp is the air along with its 33 degrees of cold, or
the velocity of the wind, the fresh air must be delivered. The
example of the fat and heavily furred wild beast is ignored; and I
just wonder how many people in the United States, old and young,
have been killed, or permanently injured, by fresh air, during the
last fifteen years.
And furthermore. Excepting the hoofed species, it is the universal
rule of the wild animals of the cold-winter zones of the earth
that the mother shall keep her helpless young close beside her in
the home nest and keep them warm partly by the warmth of her own
body. The wild fur-clad mother does not maroon her helpless
offspring in an isolated cot in a room apart, upon a thin mattress
and in an atmosphere so cold that it is utterly impossible for the
poor little body and limbs to warm it and keep it warm. Yet many
human mothers do just that, and some take good care to provide a
warmer atmosphere for themselves than they joyously force upon
their helpless infants.
No dangerous fads should be forced upon defenseless children or
animals.
A proper amount of fresh air is very desirable, but the intake of
a child is much less than that of an elephant. Besides, if Nature
had intended that men should sleep outdoors in winter, with the
moose and caribou, we would have been furnished with ruminant
pelage and fat.
VII
KEEN BIRDS AND DULL MEN
If all men could know how greatly the human species varies from
highest to lowest, and how the minds and emotions of the lowest
men parallel and dove-tail with those of the highest quadrupeds
and birds, we might be less obsessed with our own human ego, and
more appreciative of the intelligence of animals.
A thousand times in my life my blood has been brought to the
boiling point by seeing or reading of the cruel practices of
ignorant and vicious men toward animals whom they despised because
of their alleged standing "below man." By his vicious and cruel
nature, many a man is totally unfitted to own, or even to
associate with, dogs, horses and monkeys. Many persons are born
into the belief that every man is necessarily a "lord of
creation," and that all animals per se are man's lawful prey. In
the vicious mind that impression increases with age. Minds of the
better classes can readily learn by precept or by reasoning from
cause to effect the duty of man to observe and defend the God-
given rights of animals.
It was very recently that I saw on the street a group that
represented man's attitude toward wild animals. It consisted of
an unclean and vicious-looking man in tramp's clothing, grinding
an offensive hand-organ and domineering over a poor little
terrorized "ringtail" monkey. The wretched mite from the jungle
was encased in a heavy woolen straight-jacket, and there was a
strap around its loins to which a stout cord was attached, running
to the Root of All Evil. The pavement was hot, but there with its
bare and tender feet on the hot concrete, the sad-eyed little waif
painfully moved about, peering far up into the faces of passers-by
for sympathy, but all the time furtively and shrinkingly watching
its tormentor. Every now and then the hairy old tramp would jerk
the monkey's cord, each time giving the frail creature a violent
bodily wrench from head to foot. I think that string was jerked
about forty times every hour.
And that exhibition of monkey torture in a monkey hell continues
in summer throughout many states of our country,--because "it
pleases the children!" The use of monkeys with hand-organs is a
cruel outrage upon the monkey tribe, and no civilized state or
municipality should tolerate it. I call upon all humane persons to
put an end to it.
As an antidote to our vaulting human egotism, we should think
often upon the closeness of mental contact between the highest
animals and the lowest men. In drawing a parallel between those
two groups, there are no single factors more valuable than the
home, and the family food supply. These hark back to the most
primitive instincts of the vertebrates. They are the bedrock
foundations upon which every species rests. As they are stable or
unstable, good or bad, so lives or dies the individual, and the
species also.
In employing the term "highest animals" I wish to be understood as
referring to the warm-blooded vertebrates, and not merely the apes
and monkeys that both structurally and mentally are nearest to
man.
Throughout my lifetime I have been by turns amazed, entertained
and instructed by the marvelous intelligence and mechanical skill
of small mammals in constructing burrows, and of certain birds in
the construction of their nests. Today the hanging nest of the
Baltimore oriole is to me an even greater wonder than it was when
I first saw one over sixty years ago. Even today the mechanical
skill involved in its construction is beyond my comprehension. My
dull brain can not figure out the processes by which the bird
begins to weave its hanging purse at the tip end of the most
unstable of all earthly building sites,--a down-hanging elm-tree
branch that is swayed to and fro by every passing breeze. The
situation is so "impossible" that thus far no moving picture
artist has ever caught and recorded the process.
Take in your hand a standard oriole nest, and examine it
thoroughly. First you will note that it is very strong, and
thoroughly durable. It can stand the lashings of the fiercest
gales that visit our storm-beaten shore.
How long would it take a man to unravel that nest, wisp by wisp,
and resolve it into a loose pile of materials? Certainly not less
than an entire day. Do you think that even your skilful fingers,--
unassisted by needles,--could in two days, or in three, weave of
those same materials a nest like that, that would function as did
the original? I doubt it. The materials consist of long strips of
the thin inner bark of trees, short strings, and tiny grass stems
that are long, pliable and tough. Who taught the oriole how to
find and to weave those rare and hard-to-find materials? And how
did it manage all that weaving with its beak only? Let the wise
ones answer, if they can; for I confess that I can not!
Down in Venezuela, in the delta of the Orinoco River, and
elsewhere, lives a black and yellow bird called the giant cacique
(pronounced cay-seek'), which as a nest-builder far surpasses our
oriole. Often the cacique's hanging nest is from four to six feet
long. The oriole builds to escape the red squirrels, but the
cacique has to reckon with the prehensile-tailed monkeys.
Sometimes a dozen caciques will hang their nests in close
proximity to a wasps' nest, as if for additional protection. A
cacique's nest hangs like a grass rope, with a commodious purse at
its lower end, entered by a narrow perpendicular slit a foot or so
above the terminal facilities. It is impossible to achieve one of
these nests without either shooting off the limb to which it
hangs, or felling the tree. If it hangs low enough a charge of
coarse shot usually will cut the limb, but if high, cutting it down
with a rifle bullet is a more serious matter.
[Illustration with caption: HANGING NEST OF THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE
(From the "American Natural History")]
[Illustration with caption: GREAT HANGING NESTS OF THE CRESTED
CACIQUE As seen in the delta of the Orinoco Rover, Venezuela.]
To our Zoological Park visitors the African weaver birds are a
wonder and a delight. Orioles and caciques do not build nests in
captivity, but the weavers blithely transfer their activities to
their spacious cage in our tropical-bird house. The bird-men keep
them supplied with raffia grass, and they do the rest. Fortunately
for us, they weave nests for fun, and work at it all the year
round! Millions of visitors have watched them doing it. To
facilitate their work the upper half of their cage is judiciously
supplied with tree-branches of the proper size and architectural
slant. The weaving covers many horizontal branches. Sometimes a
group of nests will be tied together in a structure four feet
long; and it branches up, or down, or across, seemingly without
rhyme or reason.
Some of the weavers, which inhabit Africa, Malayana and Australia,
are "communal" nest-builders. They build colonies of nests, close
together. Imagine twenty-five or more Baltimore orioles massing
their nests together on one side of a single tree, in a genuine
village. That is the habit of some of the weaver birds;--and this
brings us to what is called the most wonderful of all
manifestations of house-building intelligence among birds. It is
the community house of the little sociable weaver-bird of South
Africa (_Philetoerus socius_). Having missed seeing the work
of this species save in museums, I will quote from the Royal
Natural History, written by the late Dr. Richard Lydekker, an
excellent description: --This species congregates in large flocks,
many pairs incubating their eggs under the same roof, which is
composed of cartloads of grass piled on a branch of some camel-
thorn tree in one enormous mass of an irregular umbrella shape,
looking like a miniature haystack and almost solid, but with the
under surface (which is nearly flat) honeycombed all over with
little cavities, which serve not only as places for incubation,
but also as a refuge against rain and wind.
"They are constantly being repaired by their active little
inhabitants. It is curious that even the initiated eye is
constantly being deceived by these dome-topped structures, since
at a distance they closely resemble native huts. The nesting-
chambers themselves are warmly lined with feathers."
Here must we abruptly end our exhibits of the intelligence of a
few humble little birds as fairly representative of the wonderful
mental ability and mechanical skill so common in the ranks of the
birds of the world. It would be quite easy to write a volume on
The Architectural Skill of Birds!
Now, let us look for a moment into the house-building intelligence
and skill of some of the lower tribes of men. Out of the multitude
of exhibits available I will limit myself to three, widely
separated. In the first place, the habitations of the savage and
barbaric tribes are usually the direct result of their own mental
and moral deficiencies. The Eskimo is an exception, because his
home and its location are dictated by the hard and fierce
circumstances which dictate to him what he must do. Often he is
compelled to move as his food supply moves. The Cliff-Dweller
Indian of the arid regions of the Southwest was forced to cliff-
dwell, in order to stave off extermination by his enemies. Under
that spur he became a wonderful architect and engineer.
For present purposes we are concerned with three savage tribes
which might have been rich and prosperous agriculturists or
herdsmen had they developed sufficient intelligence to see the
wisdom of regular industry.
Consider first the lowest of three primitive tribes that inhabit
the extreme southern point of Patagonia, whose real estate
holdings front on the Strait of Magellan. That region is treeless,
rocky, windswept, cold and inhospitable. I can not imagine a place
better fitted for an anarchist penal colony. North of it lie
plains less rigorous, and by degrees less sterile, and finally
there are lands quite habitable by cattle-and-crop-growing men.
But those three tribes elect to stick to the worst spot in South
America. The most primitive is the tribe of "canoe Indians" of
Tierra del Fuego, which probably represents the lowest rung of the
human ladder. Beside them the cave men of 30,000 years ago were
kings and princes. Their only rivals seem to be the Poonans of
Central Borneo, who, living in a hot country, make no houses or
shelters of any kind, and have no clothing but a long strip of
bark cloth around the loins.
The Fuegians have long been known to mariners and travellers. They
inhabit a region that half the year is bleak, cold and raw, but
they make nothing save the rudest of the rude in canoes--of rough
slabs tied together and caulked _with moss,_--and rough bone-
pointed spears, bows, arrows and paddles. Their only clothing
consists of skins of the guanacos loosely hung from the neck, and
flapping over the naked and repulsive body. They make no houses,
and on shore their only shelters from the wind and snow and
chilling rains are rabbit-like forms of brush, broken off by hand.
These people are lower in the scale of intelligence than any wild
animal species known to me; for they are mentally too dull and low
to maintain themselves on a continuing basis. Their hundred years
of contact with man has taught them little; and numerically they
are decreasing so rapidly that the world will soon see the
absolute finish of the tribe.
In the best of the three tribes, the Tchuelclus, the birth rate is
so low that within recent times the tribe has diminished from
about 5,000 to a remnant of about 500.
Now, have those primitive creatures "immortal souls?" Are they
entitled to call chimpanzees, elephants, bears and dogs "lower
animals?" Do they "think," or "reason," any more than the animals
I have named?
It is a far cry from the highest to the lowest of the human race;
and we hold that the highest animals intellectually are higher
than the lowest men.
Now go with me for a moment to the lofty and dense tropical forest
in the heart of the Territory of Selangor, in the Malay Peninsula.
That forest is the home of the wild elephant, rhinoceros and
sladang. And there dwells a jungle tribe called the Jackoons, some
members of which I met at their family home, and observed
literally in their own ancestral tree. Their house was not wholly
bad, but it might have been 100 per cent better. It was merely a
platform of small poles, placed like a glorified bird's nest in
the spreading forks of a many-branched tree, about twenty feet
from the ground. The main supports were bark-lashed to the large
branches of the family tree. Over this there was a rude roof of
long grass, which had a fairly intelligent slope. As a shelter
from rain, the Jackoon house left much to be desired. The scanty
loin cloths of the habitants knew no such thing as wash-day or
line. With all its drawbacks, however, this habitation was far
more adequate to the needs of its builders than the cold brush
rabbit-forms of the Patagonian canoe Indians.
We now come to a tribe which has reduced the problem of housing
and home life to its lowest common denominator. The Poonans of
Central Borneo, discovered and described by Carl Bock, build _no
houses of any kind,_ not even huts of green branches; and their
only overture toward the promotion of personal comfort in the home
is a five-foot grass mat spread upon the sodden earth, to lie upon
when at rest. And this, in a country where in the so-called "dry
season" it rains half the time, and in the "wet season" all the
time.
The Poonans have rudely-made spears for taking the wild pig, deer
and smaller game, their clothes consist of bark cloth, around the
loins only. They know no such thing as agriculture, and they live
off the jungle.
It was said some years ago that a similarly primitive jungle tribe
of Ceylon, known as the Veddahs, could count no more than five,
that they could not comprehend "day after to-morrow," and that
their vocabulary was limited to about 200 words.
It is very probable that the language of the Poonans and the
Jackoons is equally limited. And what are we to conclude from
all the foregoing? Briefly, I should say that the architectural
skill of the orioles, the caciques and the weaver birds is greater
than that of the South Patagonia native, the Jackoon and the
Poonan. I should say that those bird homes yield to their makers
more comfort and protection, and a better birth-rate, than are
yielded by the homes of those ignorant, unambitious and
retrogressive tribes of men now living and thinking, and supposed
to be possessed of reasoning powers. If the whole truth could be
known, I believe it would be found that the stock of ideas
possessed and used by the groups of highly-endowed birds would
fully equal the ideas of such tribes of simple-minded men as those
mentioned. If caught young, those savages could be trained by
civilized men, and taught to perform many tricks, but so can
chimpanzees and elephants.
Curiously enough, it is a common thing for even the higher types
of civilized men to make in home-building just as serious mistakes
as are made by wild animals and savages. For example, among the
men of our time it is a common mistake to build in the wrong
place, to build entirely too large or too ugly, and to build a
Colossal Burden instead of a real Home. From many a palace there
stands forth the perpetual question: "_Why_ did he do it?"
Any reader who at any time inclines toward an opinion that the
author is unduly severe on the mentality of the human race, even
as it exists today in the United States, is urged to read in the
_Scientific Monthly_ for January, 1922, an article by
Professor L. M. Tennan entitled "Adventures in Stupidity.--A
Partial Analysis of the Intellectual Inferiority of a College
Student." He should particularly note the percentages on page 34
in the second paragraph under the subtitle "The Psychology of
Stupidity."
VIII
THE MENTAL STATUS OF THE ORANG-UTAN
My first ownership of a live orang-utan began in 1878, in the
middle of the Simujan River, Borneo, where for four Spanish
dollars I became the proud possessor of a three-year old male. No
sooner was the struggling animal deposited in the bottom of my own
boat than it savagely seized the calf of my devoted leg and
endeavored to bite therefrom a generous cross section. My leggings
and my leech stockings saved my life. That implacable little beast
never gave up; and two days later it died,--apparently to spite
me.
My next orang was a complete reverse of No. 1. He liked not the
Dyaks who brought him to me, but in the first moment of our
acquaintance he adopted me as his foster-father, and loved me like
a son. Throughout four months of jungle vicissitudes he stuck to
me. He was a high-class orang,--and be it known that many orangs
are thin-headed scrubs, who never amount to anything. His skull
was wide, his face was broad, and he had a dome of thought like a
statesman. He had a fine mind, and I am sure I could have taught
him everything that any ape could learn.
During the four months that he lived with me I taught him, almost
without effort, many things that were necessary in our daily life.
Even the Dyaks recognized the fact that the "Old Man" was an orang
(or "mias") of superior mind, and some of them traveled far to see
him. Unfortunately the exigencies of travel and work compelled me
to present him to an admiring friend in India. Mr. Andrew Carnegie
and his then partner, Mr. J. W. Vandevorst, convoyed my Old Man
and another small orang from Singapore to Colombo, Ceylon, whence
they were shipped on to Madras, received there by my old friend A.
G. R. Theobald,--and presented at the court of the Duke of
Buckingham.
Up to a comparatively recent date, the studies of the
psychologists that have been devoted to the minds of animals below
man, have been chiefly concerned with low and common types.
Comparatively few investigators have found it possible to make
extensive and prolonged observations of the most intelligent wild
animals of the world, even in zoological gardens, and their
observations on wild animals in a state of nature seem to have
been even more circumscribed. I know only three who have studied
any of the great apes.
In attempting to fathom the mental capacity and the mental
processes of some of the highest mammals, there is the same
superior degree of interest attaching to the study of wild species
that the ethnologist finds in the study of savage races of men
that have been unspoiled by civilization. Obviously, it is more
interesting to fathom the mind of a creature in an absolute state
of nature than of one whose ancestors have been bred and reared in
the trammels of domestication and for many successive generations
have bowed to the will of man. The natural fury of the Atlantic
walrus, when attacked, is much more interesting as a psychologic
study than is the inbred rage of the bull-dog; and the remarkable
defensive tactics of the musk-ox far surpass in interest the
vagaries of range cattle.
For several reasons, the great apes, and particularly the
chimpanzees and orang-utans, are the most interesting subjects for
psychologic study of all the wild-animal species with which the
writer is acquainted. Primarily this is due to the fact that
intellectually and temperamentally, as well as anatomically,
these animals stand very near to man himself, and closely resemble
him. The great apes mentioned can give visible expression to a
wide range of thoughts and emotions,
The voice of the adult orang-utan is almost absent, and only
sufficient to display on rare occasions. What little there is of
it, in animals over six years of age, is very deep and guttural,
and may best be described as a deep-bass roar. Under excitement
the orang can produce a roar by inhalation. Young orangs under two
years of age often whine, or shriek or scream with anger, like
excited human children, but with their larger growth that vocal
power seems to leave them.
Despite the difference in temperament and quickness in delivery, I
regard the measure of the orang-utan's mental capacity as being
equal to that of the chimpanzee; but the latter is, and always
will remain, the more alert and showy animal. The superior feet of
the chimpanzee in bipedal work is for that species a great
advantage, and the longer toes of the orang are a handicap.
Although the orang's sanguine temperament is far more comforting
to a trainer than the harum-scarum nervous vivacity of the
chimpanzee, the value of the former is overbalanced, on the stage,
by the superior acting of the chimp. For these reasons the
trainers generally choose the chimp for stage education.
The chimpanzee is not only nervous and quick in thought and in
action, but it is equally so _in temper._ It will play with
any good friend to almost any extent, but the moment it suspects
malicious unfairness, or what it regards as a "mean trick," it
instantly becomes angry and resentful. Once when I attempted to
take from our large black-faced chimpanzee, called Soko, a small
lump of rubber which I feared she might swallow, my efforts were
kindly but firmly thwarted. At last, when I diverted her by small
offerings of chocolate, and at the right moment sought by a
strategic movement to snatch the rubber from her, the palpable
unfairness of the attempt caused the animal instantly to fly into
a towering passion, and seek to wreak vengeance upon me. Her lips
drew far back in a savage snarl, and she denounced my perfidy by
piercing cries of rage and indignation. She also did her utmost to
seize and drag me forcibly within reach of her teeth, for the
punishment which she felt that I deserved.
A large male orang-utan named Dohong, under a similar test,
revealed a very different mental attitude. He dexterously snatched
a valuable watch-charm from a visitor who stood inside the railing
of his cage, and fled with it to the top of his balcony. As
quickly as possible I thrust my handkerchief between the bars, and
waved it vigorously, to attract him. At once the animal came down
to me, to secure another trophy, and before he realized his
position I successfully snatched the charm from him, and restored
it unharmed to its owner. Dohong seemed to regard the episode as a
good joke. Without manifesting any resentment he turned a
somersault on his straw, then climbed upon his trapeze and began
to perform, as if nothing in particular had occurred.
The orang is distinctly an animal of more serene temper and more
philosophic mind than the chimpanzee. This has led some authors
erroneously to pronounce the orang an animal of morose and
sluggish disposition, and mentally inferior to the chimpanzee.
After a close personal acquaintance with about forty captive
orangs of various sizes, I am convinced that the facts do not
warrant that conclusion. The orang-utans of the New York
Zoological Park certainly have been as cheerful in disposition, as
fond of exercise and as fertile in droll performances as our
chimpanzees. Even though the mind of the chimpanzee does act more
quickly than that of its rival, and even though its movements are
usually more rapid and more precise, the mind of the orang carries
that animal precisely as far. Moreover, in its native jungles the
orang habitually builds for itself a very comfortable nest on
which to rest and sleep, which the chimpanzee ordinarily does not
do.
I think that the exact mental status of an anthropoid ape is best
revealed by an attempt to train it to do some particular thing, in
a manner that the trainer elects. Usually about five lessons,
carefully observed, will afford a good index of the pupil's mental
capabilities. Some chimpanzees are too nervous to be taught, some
are too obstinate, and others are too impatient of restraint. Some
orang-utans are hopelessly indifferent to the business in hand,
and refuse to become interested in it. I think that no orang is
too dull to learn to sit at a table, and eat with the utensils
that are usually considered sacred to man's use, but the majority
of them care only for the food, and take no interest in the
function. On the other hand, the average chimpanzee is as restless
as a newly-caught eel, and its mind is dominated by a desire to
climb far beyond the reach of restraining hands, and to do almost
anything save that which is particularly desired.
Among the twenty or more orangs which up to 1922 have been
exhibited in the Zoological Park, two stand out with special
prominence, by reason of their unusual mental qualities. They
differed widely from each other. One was a born actor and
imitator, who loved human partnership in his daily affairs. The
other was an original thinker and reasoner, with a genius for
invention, and at all times impatient of training and restraint.
The first was named Rajah, the latter was called Dohong.
Rajah was a male orang, and about four years of age when received
by us. His high and broad forehead, large eyes and general breadth
of cranium and jaw marked him at once as belonging to the higher
caste of orangs. Dealers and experts have no difficulty in
recognizing at one glance an orang that has a good brain and good
general physique from those which are thin-headed, narrow-jawed,
weak in body and unlikely to live long.
At the Zoological Park we have tested out the orang-utan's
susceptibility to training, and proven that the task is so simple
and easy that even amateurs can accomplish much in a short time.
Desiring that several of our orangs should perform in public, we
instructed the primate keepers to proceed along certain lines and
educate them to that idea. Naturally, the performance was laid out
to match our own possibilities. In a public park, where only a
very little time can be devoted to training, we do not linger long
over an animal that is either stupid or obstinate. Those which
cannot be trained easily and quickly are promptly set aside as
ineligible.
Without any great amount of labor, and with no real difficulty,
our orangs were trained to perform the following simple acts:
1. To sit at table, and eat and drink like humans. This involved
eating sliced bananas with a fork, pouring out milk from a teapot
into a teacup, drinking out of a teacup, drinking out of a beer-
bottle, using a toothpick, striking a match, lighting a cigarette,
smoking and spitting like a man.
2. To ride a tricycle, or bicycle.
3. To put on a pair of trousers, adjust the suspenders, put on a
sweater or coat, and a cap, reversing the whole operation after
the performance.
4. To drive nails with a hammer.
5. Use a key to lock and unlock a padlock. The animal most
proficient in this became able to select the right Yale key out of
a bunch of half a dozen or more, with as much quickness and
precision as the average man displays.
The orang Dohong learned to pedal and to guide a tricycle in about
three lessons. He caught the two ideas almost instantly, and soon
brought his muscles under control sufficiently to ride
successfully, even under difficult conditions.
It was quickly recognized that our Rajah was a particularly good
subject, and with him the keepers went farther than with the four
others. From the first moment, the training operations were to him
both interesting and agreeable. The animal enjoyed the work, and
he entered into it so heartily that in two weeks he was ready to
dine in public, somewhat after the manner of human beings.
A platform eight feet in height was erected in front of the
Reptile House, and upon it were placed a table, a high chair such
as small children use, and various dishes. To the platform a step-
ladder led upward from the ground. Every day at four o'clock lusty
Rajah was carried to the exhibition space, and set free upon the
ground. Forthwith the keepers proceeded to dress him in trousers,
vest, coat and cap. The moment the last button had been fastened
and the cap placed upon his head, he would promptly walk to the
ladder, climb up to the platform, and in the most business-like
way imaginable, seat himself in his chair at the table, all ready
to dine.
He used a napkin, ate his soup with a spoon, speared and conveyed
his sliced bananas with his fork, poured milk from a teapot into
his teacup, and drank from his cup with great enjoyment and
decorum. When he took a drink (of tea) from a suspicious-looking
black bottle, the audience always laughed. When he elevated the
empty bottle to one eye and looked far into it, they roared; and
when he finally took a toothpick and gravely placed it in his
mouth, his auditors were delighted. Several times during the
progress of each meal, Rajah would pause and benignly gaze down
upon the crowd, like a self-satisfied judge on his bench.
Not once did Rajah spoil this exhibition, which was continued
throughout an entire summer, nor commit any overt act of
impatience, indifference or meanness. The flighty, nervous temper
of the chimpanzee was delightfully absent. The most remarkable
feature of it all was his very evident enjoyment of his part of
the performance, and his sense of responsibility to us and to his
audiences.
Rajah easily and quickly learned to ride a tricycle, and guide it
himself. But for his untimely death, through a remarkable invasion
of a microscopic parasite (_Balentidium coli_) imported from
the Galapagos Islands by elephant tortoises, his mind would have
been developed much farther. Since his death, in 1902, we have had
other orang-utans that were successfully taught to dine, but none
of them entered into the business with the same hearty zest which
characterized Rajah, and made his performances so interesting.
We now come to a consideration of simian mental traits of very
different character. Another male orang, named Dohong, of the
same age and intellectual caste as Rajah, developed a faculty for
mechanics and invention which not only challenged our admiration,
but also created much work for our carpenters. He discovered, or
invented, as you please, the lever as a mechanical force,--as fairly
and squarely as Archimedes discovered the principle of the screw.
Moreover, he delighted in the use of the new power thus acquired,
quite as much as the successful inventor usually does. At the same
time, two very bright chimpanzees of his own age, and with the
same opportunities, discovered nothing.
[Illustration caption: THUMB-PRINT OF AN ORANG-UTAN
A group of fourteen experts in the New York City Departement of
Criminal Records were unable to recognise this thumb print as
anything else than that of a man]
[Illustration caption: "RAJAH," THE ACTOR ORANG-UTAN
In three lessons he learned to ride a tricycle]
Dohong was of a reflective turn of mind, and never was entirely
willing to learn the things that his keepers sought to teach him.
To him, dining at a table was tiresomely dull, and the donning of
fashionable clothing was a frivolous pastime, On the other hand,
the interior of his cage, and his gymnastic appliances of ropes,
trapeze and horizontal bars, all interested him greatly. Every
square inch of surface, and every piece of material in his
apartment, was carefully investigated, many times over.
When three years old he discovered his own strength, and at first
he used it good-naturedly to hector his cage-mate, a female
chimpanzee smaller than himself. That, however, was of trifling
interest. The day on which he made the discovery that he could
break the wooden one and one-half inch horizontal bars that were
held out from his cage walls on cast iron brackets, was for him a
great day. Before his discovery was noted by the keepers he had
joyfully destroyed two bars, and with a broken piece used as a
lever was attacking a third. These bars were promptly replaced by
larger bars, of harder wood, but screwed to the same cast-iron
brackets that had carried the first series.
For a time, the heavier bars endured; but in an evil moment the
ape swung his trapeze bar, of two-inch oak, far over to one side
of his cage, and applied the bar as a lever, inside of a
horizontal bar and from above. The new force was too much for the
cast-iron brackets, and one by one they gave way. Some were broken
off, and others were torn from the wall by the breaking of the
screws that held them. Knowing that all those brackets
must be changed immediately, Dohong was left to destroy them;
which he did, promptly and joyfully. We then made heavy
brackets of flat wrought iron bars, 1/2 by 21/2 inches, unbreakable
even with a lever. These were screwed on with screws
so large and heavy that our carpenters knew they were quite
secure.
[Illustration caption: THE LEVER THAT OUR ORANG-UTAN INVENTED, AND
THE WAY HE APPLIED IT By W. A. Camadeo, in the "Scientific
American," 1907]
In due time, Dohong tested his lever upon the bars with their new
brackets, and at first they held securely. Then he engaged Polly,
his chimpanzee companion, to assist him to the limit of her
strength. While Dohong pulled on the lever, Polly braced her
absurd little back against the wall, and pushed upon it, with all
her strength. At first nothing gave way. The combined strength
exerted by the three brackets was not to be overcome by prying at
the horizontal bar itself. It was then that Dohong's inventive
genius rose to its climax. He decided to attack the brackets
singly, and conquer them one by one. On examining the situation
very critically, he found that each bracket consisted of a right-
angled triangle of wrought iron, with its perpendicular side
against the wall, its base uppermost, and its hypotenuse out in
the air. Through the open centre of the triangle he introduced the
end of his trapeze bar, chain and all, as far as it would go, then
gave a mighty heave. The end of his lever was against the wall,
and the power was applied in such a manner that few machine screws
could stand so great a strain. One by one, the screws were torn
out of the wood, and finally each bracket worked upon was torn
off.
But there was one exception. The screws of one bracket were so
firmly set in a particularly hard strip of the upright tongued-
and-grooved yellow pine flooring that formed the wall, the board
itself was finally torn out, full length! The board was four
inches wide, seven-eighths of an inch thick, and seven feet long.
Originally it was so firmly nailed that no one believed that it
could be torn from its place. [Footnote: In the Winter of 1921
about a dozen newspapers in the United States published a
sensational syndicated article, occupying an entire page, in which
all of Dohong's lever discovery and cage-wrecking performances
were reported as of recent occurrence, and credited to a stupid
and uninteresting young orang called Gabong, now in the Zoological
Park, that has not even the merit of sufficient intelligence to
maintain a proper state of bodily uprightness, let alone the
invention of mechanical principles.]
Without delay, Dohong started in with his lever to pry off the
remaining boards of the wall, but this movement was promptly
checked. Our next task consisted in making long bolts by which the
brackets of the horizontal bars were bolted entirely through the
partition walls and held so powerfully on the other side that even
the lever could not wreck them.
As soon as the brackets were made secure, Dohong turned his
attention to the two large sleeping boxes which were built very
solidly on the balcony of his cage. Both of those structures he
tore completely to pieces,--always working with the utmost good
nature and cheerfulness. Realizing that they could not exist in
the cage with him, we gave him a permit to tear them out--and save
the time of the carpenters.
Dohong's use of his lever was seen by hundreds of visitors, and
one frequent visitor to the Park, Mr. L. A. Camacho, an engineer,
was so much impressed that he published in the _Scientific
American_ an illustrated account of what he saw.
For a long period, Dohong had been more or less annoyed by the
fact that he could not get his head out between the front bars of
his cage, and look around the partition into the home of his next-
door neighbor. Very soon after he discovered the use of the lever,
he swung his trapeze bar out to the upper corner of his cage,
thrust the end of it out between the first bar and the steel
column of the partition, and very deftly bent two of the iron bars
outward far enough so that he could easily thrust his head outside
and have his coveted look.
One of our later and largest orangs made a specialty of twisting
the straw of his bedding into a rope six or seven feet long, then
throwing it over his trapeze bar and swinging by it, forward and
back.
Time and space will not permit the enumeration of the various
things done by that ape of mechanical mind with his swinging rope
and his trapeze, with ropes of straw _twisted by himself,_
with keys, locks, hammer, nails and boxes. Any man who can witness
such manifestations as those described above, and deny the
existence in the animal of an ability to reason from cause to
effect, must be prepared to deny the evidence of his own senses.
The individual variations between orangs, as also between
chimpanzees, are great and striking. It may with truth be said
that no two individuals of either species are really quite alike
in physiognomy, temperament and mental capacity. As subjects for
the experimental psychologist, it is difficult to see how any
other could be found that would be even a good second in living
interest to the great apes. The facts thus far recorded, so I
believe, present only a suggestion of the rich results that await
the patient scientific investigator. In the year 1915 Dr. Robert
M. Yerkes, of Harvard University, conducted at Montecito,
southern California, in a comfortable primate laboratory, six
months of continuous and diligent experiments on the behavior of
orang-utans and monkeys. His report, published under the title of
"The Mental Life of Monkeys and Apes: A Study of Ideational
Behavior," is a document of much interest and value. Dr. Yerkes'
use of the orang-utan as a subject was a decided step forward in
the study of "animal behavior" in America.
IX
THE MAN-LIKENESS OF THE CHIMPANZEE
During the past twenty years, millions of thinking people have
been startled, and not a few shocked, by the amazing and uncanny
human-likeness of the performances of trained chimpanzees on the
theatrical stage. Really, when a well trained "chimp" is dressed
from head to foot like a man, and is seen going with quickness,
precision and spirit through a performance half an hour in length,
we go away from it with an uncomfortable feeling that speech is
all that he lacks of being a citizen.
In 1904 the American public saw Esau. Next came Consul,--in about
three or four separate editions! In 1909 we had Peter. Then came I
know not how many more, including the giant Casey and Mr. Garner's
Susie; and finally in 1918 our own Suzette. The theatre-going
public has been well supplied with trained chimpanzees, and the
mental capacity of that species is now more widely known and
appreciated than that of any other wild animal except the Indian
elephant.
There are several reasons why chimpanzees predominate on the
stage, and why so few performing orang-utans have been seen. They
are as follows:
1. The orang is sanguine, and slower in execution than the nervous
chimpanzee.
2. The feet of the orang are not good for shoes, and biped work.
3. The orang is rather awkward with its hands, and finally,
4. There are fully twice as many chimps in the market.
But the chimpanzee has certain drawbacks of his own. His nervous
temper and his forced-draught activities soon wear him out. If he
survives to see his sixth or seventh year, it is then that he
becomes so strong and so full of ego that he becomes dangerous and
requires to be retired.
Bright minds are more common among the chimpanzee species than
among the orangs. Three chimps out of every five are good for
training, but not more than two orangs out of five can be
satisfactorily developed.
Some sensitive minds shrink from the idea that man has "descended"
from the apes. I never for a moment shared that feeling. I would
rather descend from a clean, capable and bright-minded genus of
apes than from any unclean, ignorant and repulsive race of the
genus _Homo._ In comparing the chimpanzees of Fernan Vaz
with the Canoe Indians of the Strait of Magellan and other human
tribes we could name, I think the former have decidedly the best
of it. There are millions of members of the human race who are
more loathsome and repulsive than wild apes.
The face of the chimpanzee is highly mobile, and the mouth, lips,
eyes and voice express the various emotions of the individual
with a degree of clearness and precision second only to the facial
expression of man himself. In fact, the face of an intelligent
chimpanzee or orang-utan is a fairly constant index of the state
of mind of the individual. In their turn, those enormously
expansive lips and keen brown eyes express contentment, doubt,
fear and terror; affection, disapproval, jealousy, anger, rage;
hunger and satiety; lonesomeness and illness.
The lips of the chimpanzee afford that animal several perfectly
distinct expressions of the individual's mind and feelings. While
it is not possible to offer a description of each which will
certainly be recognizable to the reader, the two extremes will at
least be appreciated. When coaxing for food, or attention, the
lips are thrust far out beyond the teeth, and formed into a funnel
with the small end outermost. When the chimpanzee flies into a
rage at some real or fancied offense, the snarling lips are drawn
back, and far up and down, until the teeth and gums are fully
exposed in a ghastly threat of attack. At the same time, the voice
gives forth shrill shrieks of rage, correctly represented by the
syllable "Ee-ee-ee!", prolonged, and repeated with great force,
three or four times. On such occasions as the latter, the
offending party must look out for himself, or he may be roughly
handled.
The voice of the chimpanzee is strong, clear, and in captivity it
is very much in evidence. Two of its moderate tones are almost
musical. It is heard when the animal says, coaxingly, "Who'-oe!
Who'-oe!" A dozen times a day, our large specimens indulge in
spells of loud yelling, purely for their own amusement. Their
strident cry sounds like "Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! _Wah'_-hoo!
_Wah'_-hoo! Hoo'-hoo! _Wah_-h-h-h! _Wah_-h-h!" The
second combination, "Wah-hoo," consists of two sounds, four notes
apart.
It is with their voices that chimpanzees first manifest their
pleasure at seeing cherished friends of the human species, or
their anger. Their recognition, and their exuberant joy on such
occasions, is quite as apparent to every observer as are the
manifestations of welcome of demonstrative human beings.
Like all other groups of species, the apes of various genera now
living vary widely in their mentalities. The chimpanzee has the
most alert and human-like mind but with less speed the orang-utan
is a good second. The average captive gorilla, if judged by
existing standards for ape mentality, is a poor third in the
anthropoid scale, below the chimp and orang; but since the rise of
Major Penny's family-pet gorilla, named John, we must revise all
our former views of that species, and concede exceptions.
In studying the mental status of the primates I attach great
importance to the work and results of the professional trainers
who educate animals for stage performances. If the trainer does
not know which are the brightest species of apes, baboons and
monkeys, then who does? Their own fortunes depend upon their
estimate of comparative mentality in the primates. Fortunately for
our purposes, the minds of the most intelligent and capable apes,
baboons, and monkeys have been partially developed and exploited
by stage trainers, and to a far less extent by keepers in zoological
parks. Some wonderful results have been achieved, and the best of
these have been seen by the public in theatres, in traveling shows
and in zoological parks. All these performances have greatly
interested me, because they go so far as measures of mental
capacity. I wish to make it clear that I take them very seriously.
[Illustration
with caption: PORTRAIT OF A HIGH-CASTE CHIMPANZEE "Baldy" was an
animal of fine intelligence and originality in thought. He was a
natural comedian]
While many of the acts of trained animals are due to their power
of mimicry and are produced by imitation rather than by original
thought, even their imitative work reveals a breadth of
intelligence, a range of memory and of activity and precision in
thought and in energy which no logical mind can ignore. To say
that a chimpanzee who can swing through thirty or forty different
acts "does not think" and "does not reason," is to deny the
evidence of the human senses, and fall outside the bounds of human
reason.
Training Apes for Performances. As will appear in its own chapter,
there is nothing at all mysterious in the training of apes. The
subject must be young, and pliant in mind, and of cheerful and
kind disposition. The poor subjects are left for cage life. The
trainer must possess intelligence of good quality, infinite
patience and tireless industry. Furthermore, the stage properties
must be ample. An outfit of this kind can train any ape that is
mentally and physically a good subject. Of course in every animal
species, wild or domestic, there are individuals so dull and
stupid that it is inexpedient to try to educate them.
The chimpanzee Suzette who came to us direct from the vaudeville
stage performed every summer in her open-air "arena cage," until
she entered motherhood, which put an end to her stage work. She
was a brilliant "trick" bicycle rider. She could stand upright on
a huge wooden ball, and by expert balancing and foot-work roll it
up a steep incline, down a flight of stairs, and land it safely
upon the stage, without once losing her balance or her control.
She was entirely at home on roller skates, and when taken out upon
the pavement of Baird Court she would go wildly careering around
the large grass plat at high speed.
All the above acts were acrobatic feats that called for original
thought and action, and were such as no dull mind and body could
exert. All the training skill in the world could not take a
machine and teach it to ride a bicycle through a collection of
bottles, and an intelligent ape is a million years from being a
"machine in fur and feathers."
More than once I have been astounded by the performances of apes
on the stage. Mr. J. S. Edwards' orang-utan Joe was a very capable
animal, and his performances were wonderful. He could use a
hammer in driving nails, and a screwdriver in inserting and
extracting screws, with wonderful dexterity.
The most remarkable chimpanzee performance that I ever saw was
given in a New York theatre in 1909. The star actor was a fine
male animal about six years old, called Peter. I made a complete
record of his various acts, and the program was as follows
PERFORMANCE OF PETER, A CHIMPANZEE
Stage properties: a suit of clothes, shoes, chair, table, bed,
bureau, hatrack, candle, cigarette, match, cuspidor, roller
skates, bottles, flag, inclined plane and steps; plate, napkin,
cup, spoon, teapot.
As Peter entered, he bowed to the audience, took off his cap and
hung it upon a hatrack. He went to the table, seated himself in
the chair, unfolded and put on a napkin, and with a string
fastened it in place under his chin. With a fork he speared some
slices of banana and ate them. Into his tumbler he poured liquid
from a bottle, drank, then corked the bottle. Next, he poured
tea into a cup, put in sugar and cream, took tea from the spoon,
then drank from the cup. After that he took a toothpick and used
it elaborately.
Striking a match he lit a cigarette, and smoked. In perfect man-
fashion he took the cigarette between his fingers, gave his keeper
a light, smoked again, and blew puffs of smoke first from one
corner of his mouth and then the other. Then he elaborately spat
into the cuspidor.
Next in order he went to the bureau, cleaned his teeth with a
tooth-brush, brushed his hair on both sides, looked into the
mirror and powdered his face.
Finally he bit a coin and put it on the keeper's plate as a tip.
He pulled off his coat, took off his cuffs and vest, and thus half
undressed he joyously danced about, beating a tambourine. Then he
removed his shirt, trousers, shoes, garters and socks. Lighting
his candle he walked to his bed, blew out the candle and went to
bed.
Very soon he rose, put on his trousers and a pair of roller skates
and playfully pursued a young woman who ran before him. His use of
the roller skates was excellent.
The stage was cleared of furniture, and a bicycle was brought out.
He mounted it and started off, at the first trial, and swiftly
rode around the stage about fifteen times. While riding he took
off his cap and waved it. He rode up an inclined plane and down
four steps without falling off, repeating for an encore,--but
here he became peeved about something.
Five bottles were set in a figure 8, and he rode between them
several times. At last he took up a bottle and drank out of it.
Then he drank out of a tumbler, all while riding. After much flag-
waving and swift riding, Peter stopped at the center of the stage,
dismounted, bowed, clapped his hands vigorously and retired.
Peter's performance was remarkable because of the great length of
it, the absolute skill and precision of it, and the animal's easy
mastery of every situation. There was a notable absence of
hesitations and mistakes, and of visible direction. The trainer
seemed to do nothing save to assist with the stage properties,
just as an assistant helps any acrobat through the property
business of his act. If any commands or signs were given, the
audience was not aware of it. Later on I learned that sometimes
Peter did not perform with such spirit, and required some urging
to be prompt. The trainer was kept hustling to keep up with his
own duties. The animal seemed to remember, and I believe he did
remember, the sequence of a performance of _fifty-six separate
acts!_
When I witnessed Peter's performance in New York, saw the length
of it and noted the immense amount of nervous energy that each
performance used up, I made the prediction that he could not for
one year endure such a strain. It was reported to me that he died
nine months from that time.
In October, 1909, when Peter went to Philadelphia, he was
frequently and closely studied and observed by Dr. Lightner
Witmer, professor of psychology at the University of Pennsylvania,
and his mentality was tested at the laboratory of the University.
Dr. Witmer's conclusions, as set forth in a paper in the December
(1909) issue of the _Psychological Clinic,_ are of very great
interest. He approached Peter's first performance in a skeptical
frame of mind. I gladly waive the opportunity to express my own
views regarding Peter in order to put upon the stand a more
competent witness. Hear Dr. Witmer:
"As I entered the theatre," he says, "my feelings were commingled
interest and doubt. My doubts were bred from knowledge of the
difficulty of judging the intelligence of an animal from a stage
performance. So-called educated horses and even educated seals and
fleas have made their appeal in large number to the credulity of
the public. Can any animal below man be educated in the proper
sense of the word? Or is the animal mind susceptible of nothing
more than a mechanical training, and only given the specious
counterfeit of an educated intelligence when under the direct
control of the trainer?
"Since that day I have seen Peter in five public performances,
have tested him at my psychological clinic and privately on three
occasions. I now believe that in a very real sense the animal is
himself giving the stage performance. He knows what he is doing,
he delights in it, he varies it from time to time, he understands
the succession of tricks which are being called for, he is guided
by word of mouth without any signal open or concealed, and the
function of his trainer is exercised mainly to steady and control.
"I am prepared to accept the statement of his trainers, Mr. and
Mrs. McArdle, that Peter's proficiency is not so much the result
of training as of downright self-education."
Peter was put through many of the tests which Dr. Witmer uses for
the study of backward children. He performed many of these tests
in a very satisfactory manner. He was able to string beads the
first time he tried it. He put pegs in the ordinary kindergarten
pegging board. He opened and closed a very difficult lock. He used
hammer and screw driver, and distinguished without any mistake
between nails and screws. A peculiar kind of hammer was given to
him in order to fool him, but Peter was not fooled. He felt both
ends of the hammer and used the flat end instead of the round end.
Showing his initiative during the tests, Peter got away from those
who were watching him and darted for a washstand, quickly turned
the faucet and put his mouth to the spigot and secured a drink
before he was snatched away by his trainers. He understood
language and followed instructions without signs. He was able to
say "mamma," and Doctor Witmer taught him in five minutes to give
the sound of "p." The most remarkable performance was making the
letter "w" on the blackboard, in which he imitated Doctor Witmer's
movements exactly, and reproduced a fair copy of the letter.
The last four paragraphs reproduced above have been copied from an
article which appeared in the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_ on
December 17, 1909.
Dr. Witmer declares that the study of this ape's mind is a subject
fit, not for the animal psychologist, but for the child
psychologist.
Suzette's Failure in Maternal Instinct. As a closing contribution
to our observations on the chimpanzee, I must record a tragic
failure in maternal instinct, as well as in general intelligence,
in a chimpanzee.
In 1919 our two fine eight-year old chimpanzees, Boma and Suzette,
were happily married. It was a genuine love match, and strictly
monogamous at that; for while big Fanny Chimp in the cage next
door to Boma loved Boma and openly courted him, he was
outrageously indifferent to her, and even scorned her. After
seven months of gestation, a very good baby was born to Suzette,
quite naturally and successfully. Boma's shouts of excitement and
delight carried half a mile throughout the Park. Everything looked
most auspicious for the rearing of a wonderful cage-bred and
cage-born chimpanzee, the second one ever born in captivity.
Instead of carrying her infant astride her hip, as do orang
mothers, and the coolie women of India, Suzette astonished us
beyond measure by tucking it _into her groin,_ between her
thigh and her abdomen, head outward. It was a fine place,--warm
and soft,--but not good when overdone! When Suzette walked, as she
freely did, she held up the leg responsible for the baby, to hold
it securely in place, and walked upon the other foot and her two
hands. About all this there was one very bad thing. The baby was
perfectly helpless! As long as the mother chose to keep it in her
groin prison, it could not get free.
Suzette was completely isolated, kept absolutely quiet, and every
chance was given her to go on with the functions of motherhood.
Her breasts contained plenty of milk, and the flow was due to
start on the second day after the infant's arrival.
Day and night the baby was jealously confined in that massive and
powerful groin,--and _under too much pressure!_ When the baby
cried, and kicked, and struggled to get free, Suzette would
nervously rearrange her straw bed, carefully pick from the tiny
fingers every straw that they had clutched, and settle down again.
If the struggle was soon renewed, Suzette would change the infant
over to the other groin, and close upon it as before.
Sleeping or waking, walking, sitting or lying down, she held it
there. If we attempted to touch the infant, the mother instantly
became savage and dangerous. Not one human finger was permitted to
touch it. For hours, and for days, we anxiously watched for
nursing to begin; but in vain. At last we became almost frantic
from the spectacle of the infant being slowly starved to death
because the mother did not realize that it needed her milk, and
that she alone could promote nursing. _Her mother instinct
utterly failed to supply the link that alone could connect infancy
to motherhood, and furnish life._
Of course this failure was due to poor Suzette's artificial life,
and unnatural surroundings. Had she been all alone, in the depths
of a tropical forest, Nature would have proceeded along her usual
lines. But in our Primate House, Suzette felt that her infant was
surrounded by a host of strange enemies, from whom it must be
strongly and persistently _guarded and defended._ That was
the idea that completely dominated her mind, ruled out all human
help, and blocked the main process of nature.
During the eight days that the infant lived, it was able to reach
her breast and nurse only once, for about one minute; and then
back it went to its prison, where it died from sheer lack of
nourishment.
In 1920, that same history was repeated, except that on this
occasion our Veterinary Surgeon, Dr. W. Reid Blair, worked (on the
fifth day) for seven hours without intermission to stupefy Suzette
with chloroform, or other opiates, sufficiently to make it
possible to remove the baby without a fight with the mother and
its certain death. Owing to her savage temper all the work had to
be done between iron bars, to keep from losing hands or arms, and
the handicap on the human hand was too great. Even when Suzette
had received chloroform for an hour and twenty minutes, and was
regarded as _half dead,_ at the first touch of a human finger
upon her thigh she instantly aroused and sprang up, raging and
ready for battle.
The whole effort failed. To rope Suzette and attempt to control
her by force would have been sheer folly, or worse. In such a
struggle the infant would have been torn to pieces.
The second one died as the first one did, and for an awful week we
were unable to gain possession of the decomposing cadaver. Suzette
knew that something was wrong, and she realized the awful odor,
but that idea of defense of her offspring obscured all others. In
maintaining her possession of that infant, nothing could surpass
the cunning of that ape mother. Will we ever succeed in outwitting
her, and in getting one of her babies alive into a baby incubator?
Who can say?
X
THE TRUE MENTAL STATUS OF THE GORILLA
The true mental status of the gorilla was discovered in 1919 and
1920, at 15 Sloane Street, London, by Major Rupert Penny, of the
Royal Air Service, and his young relative, Miss Alyse Cunningham.
Prior to that time, through various combinations of retarding
circumstances, no living gorilla had ever been placed and kept in
an environment calculated to develop and display the real mental
calibre of the gorilla mind. It seems that an exhibition cage, in
a zoological park or garden thronged with visitors, actually tends
to the suppression, or even the complete extinguishment, of true
gorilla character. The atmosphere of the footlights and the stage
in which the chimpanzee delights and thrives is to the gorilla
repulsive and unbearable.
Judging by Major Penny's "John," the gorilla wishes to live in a
high-class human family, in a modern house, and be treated like a
human being! It is now definitely recognized by us, and also by
our colleagues in the London Zoological Gardens, that gorillas can
not live long and thrive on public exhibition, before great crowds
of people, and that it is folly to insist upon trying to compel
them to do so. The male individual that lived several years in the
Breslau Zoological Garden and attained the age of seven years was
a striking exception.
We have had two gorillas at our Park, one of which, a female named
Dinah, arrived in good health, and lived with us eleven and one-
half months. Her mind was dull and hopelessly unresponsive. She
learned next to nothing, and she did nothing really interesting.
Other captive gorillas I have known have been equally morose and
unresponsive, and lived fewer months than Dinah.
It is because of such animals as Dinah that for fifty years the
mental status of the gorilla species has been under a cloud. Until
now it has been much misunderstood and unappreciated. Of the few
gorillas that have been seen in England and America, I think that
all save John have been so morose and unresponsive, _and so
undeveloped by companionship and training_, that mentally they
have been rated far below the chimpanzee and orang.
Our own Dinah was no exception to the rule. Personally she was a
stupid little thing, even when in excellent health. Her most
pronounced and exasperating stupidities were shown in her refusal
to eat, or to taste, strange food, even when very hungry. Any ape
that does not know enough to eat a fine, ripe banana, and will
only mince away at the _inner lining_ of the banana skin, is
an unmitigated numskull, and hardly fit to live. Dinah was all
that, and more. But, alas! We have seen a few stupid human
children who obstinately refused even to taste certain new and
unknown kinds of food, because they "know" they will not like
them! So Dinah was not alone in her childish folly.
At last a chain of circumstances placed an intellectual and
sensible gorilla, two years of age, in the hands of a family
specially fitted by education and home surroundings to develop its
mind and its manners. The results of those efforts have given to
the gorilla an entirely new mental status. Thanks to the
enterprise and diligence of Major Rupert Penny and Miss Cunningham
in purchasing and caring for a sick and miserable young male
gorilla,--a most hazardous risk,--a new chapter in wild-animal
psychology now is to be written.
In December, 1918, "John Gorilla" was purchased in a London
department store, out of a daily atmosphere heated to _85
degrees_, and a nightly condition of solitude and terror. From
that awful state it was taken to live in Major Penny's comfortable
apartments. John was seriously ill. He was in a "rickety"
condition, and he weighed only 32 pounds. With a pure atmosphere,
kept at 65 degrees only, and amid good surroundings, he soon
became well. He attained such robust health and buoyant spirits
that in March, 1921, he stood 40 1/2 inches high and weighed 112
pounds.
At my solicitation Miss Cunningham wrote out for me the very
remarkable personal history of that wonderful animal,--apparently
the most wonderful gorilla ever observed in captivity. It is a
clear, straightforward and convincing record, and not one of its
statements is to be for one moment doubted. While it is too long
to reproduce here in its entirety, I will present a condensation
of it, in Miss Cunningham's own words that will record the salient
facts,--with no changes save in arrangement.
Miss Cunningham says:
LONELINESS. "We soon found it was impossible to leave him alone at
night, because he shrieked every night, and nearly all night, from
loneliness and fear. This we found he had done in the store where
he lived before coming to us. He always began to cry directly he
saw the assistants putting things away for the night. We found
that this loneliness at night was trying on his health and
appetite. As soon as possible my nephew had his bed made up every
night in the room adjoining the cage, with the result that John
was quite happy, and began to grow and put on fat.
TREATMENT. "I fed him, washed his hands, face and feet twice a
day, and brushed and combed his hair,--which he would try to do
himself whenever he got hold of the brush or comb. He soon got to
like all this.
TRAINING. "My next idea was to teach him to be strictly clean in
his habits. It was my ambition to be able to have him upstairs in
our house as an ordinary member of the household. I taught him
first as a child is taught and handled. This took some time. At
first I could not make him understand what we expected of him,
even though I always petted him and gave him grapes (of which he
was especially fond), but I think at first he imagined that this
treatment was a punishment. At first, without other reasons, he
would roll on the floor and shriek, but directly he understood
what was expected of him he soon learned, and began to behave
excellently.
"This training occupied quite six weeks. About February, 1919, we
took him out of his cage, and allowed him the freedom of the
house. Thereafter he would run upstairs to the bathroom of his own
accord, turning the doorknob of whatever room he was in, and also
opening the door of the bathroom.... He would get out of bed in
the night by himself, go back to bed, and pull the blankets over
himself quite neatly.
FOOD. "John's appetite seemed to tire of foods very quickly. The
only thing he stuck to was milk, which he liked best when warmed.
We began by giving him a quart a day, rising to three and one-half
quarts a day. I found that he preferred to choose his own food, so
I used to prepare for him several kinds, such as bananas, oranges,
apples, grapes, raisins, currants, dates and any small fruits in
season, such as raspberries or strawberries, _all of which he
liked to have warmed!_
"These displays I placed on a high shelf in the kitchen, where he
could get them with difficulty. I think that he thought himself
very clever when he stole anything. He never would eat anything
stale. He was extremely fond of fresh lemon jelly, but he never
would touch it after the second day. He loved roses, _to
eat_, more than anything. The more beautiful they were, the
more he liked them, but he never would eat faded roses. He never
cared much for nuts of any other kind than baked peanuts, save
walnuts. I found that nuts gave him dreadful spells of
indigestion.
USE OF TOOLS. "He knew what hammers and chisels were for, but for
obvious reasons we never encouraged him in anything to do with
carpentry. With cocoanuts he was very funny. He knew that they had
to be broken, and he would try to break them on the floor. When he
found he couldn't manage that, he would bring the nut to one of us
and try to make us understand what he wished. If we gave him a
hammer he would try to use it on the nut, and on not being able to
manage that, he would give back to us both the hammer and the
cocoanut.
GAMES AND PLAY. "We never taught him any tricks; he simply
acquired knowledge himself. A game he was very fond of was to
pretend he was blind, shutting his eyes very tightly, and running
around the room knocking against tables and chairs. . . . We found
that exercise was the thing he required to keep him in health, and
my nephew used to give him plenty of that by playing hide and seek
with him in the morning before breakfast, and in the evening
before dinner,--up and down stairs, in and out of all the rooms.
He simply loved that game, and would giggle and laugh while being
chased.... If he saw that a stranger was at all nervous about him,
he loved running past him, and giving him a smack on the leg,--and
you could see him grin as he did so.
"A thing he greatly enjoyed was to stand on the top rail of his
bed and jump on the springs, head over heels, just like a child.
CAUTION. "He was very cautious. He would never run into a dark
room without first turning on the light.
FEAR. "John seemed to realize danger for other people in high
places, for if anyone looked out of a high window he always pushed
them away if he were at the window himself, but if he was away
from it he would run and pull them back. . . . He was very much
afraid of full-grown sheep, cows and horses, but he loved colts,
calves and lambs, proving to us that he recognized youth.
WOODS VS. FIELDS. "We found he did not like fields or open
country, but he was very happy in a garden, or in woods. . . . He
always liked nibbling twigs, and to eat the green buds of trees.
TABLE MANNERS. "His table manners were really very good. He always
sat at the table, and whenever a meal was ready, would pull his
own chair up to his place. He did not care to eat a great deal,
but he especially liked to drink water out of a tumbler. . . . He
was the least greedy of all the animals I have ever seen. He never
would snatch anything, and always ate very slowly. He always drank
a lot of water, which he would always get himself whenever he
wanted it by turning on a tap. Strange to say, he always turned
off the water when he had finished drinking.
PLAYING TO THE GALLERY. "John seemed to think that everyone was
delighted to see him, and he would throw up the window whenever he
was permitted. If he found the sash locked he would unfasten it,
and when a big crowd had collected outside he would clap his chest
and his hands. [Footnote: In the summer of 1920 a globe-trotter
just arrived from England excitedly reported to me: "While driving
along a street in London _I saw a live gorilla_ in the upper
window of an apartment. It was a _real gorilla;_ and it
clapped its hands at us as we looked! Now _what_ did it all
mean?" Fortunately I was able to explain it.]
PUNISHMENT AND REPENTANCE. "We made one very great mistake with
John. His cage was used as a punishment, with the result that we
never could leave him there alone, for he would shriek all the
time. . . . Now, a stick was the one thing that our gorilla would
not stand from anyone, save Major Penny and myself. Presently we
found out that the only way to deal with him was to tell him that
he was very naughty, and push him away from us; when he would roll
on the floor and cry, and be very-repentant, holding one's ankles,
and putting his head on our feet.
AFFECTION FOR A CHILD. "He was especially fond of my little niece,
three years old. John and she used to play together for hours, and
he seemed to understand what she wanted him to do. If she ever
cried, and her mother would not go and pick her up, John would
always try and nip the mother, or give her a smack with the full
weight of his hand, evidently thinking she was the cause of the
child's tears.
A SENSE OF GOOD ORDER. "He loved to take everything
out of a wastepaper basket and strew the contents all over the
room, after which, when told to do so he would pick up everything
and put it all back, but looking very bored all the while. If the basket
was very full he would push it all down very carefully, to make room
for more. He would always put things back when told to do so, such
as books from a bookshelf or things from a table.
[Illustration caption: THE GORILLA WITH THE WONDERFUL MIND Owned
by Major Rupert Penny, educated by Miss Alyse Cunningham, London,
1918-1921]
TWO CASES OF ORIGINAL THOUGHT. (1) "One day we were going out, for
which I was sitting ready dressed, when John wished to sit in my
lap. My sister, Mrs. Penny, said: 'Don't let him. He will spoil
your dress.'
"As my dress happened to be a light one I pushed him away, and
said, 'No!' He at once lay on the floor and cried just like a
child, for about a minute. Then he rose, looked round the room,
found a newspaper, went and picked it up, spread it on my lap and
climbed up. This was quite the cleverest thing I ever saw him do.
_Even those who saw it said they would not have believed it had
they not seen it themselves!_ Both my nephews, (Major Penny and
Mr. E. C. Penny), his wife and my sister (Mrs. Penny) were in the
room, and can testify to the correctness of the above record.
(2) "Another clever thing John did, although I suspect this was
due more to instinct that to downright cleverness. A piece of
filet beefsteak had just come from the butcher. Inasmuch as
occasionally I gave him a small mouthful of raw beef, a small
piece of the coarser part of the steak was cut off, and I gave it
to him. He tasted it, then gravely handed it back to me. Then he
took my hand and put it on the finer part of the meat. From that I
cut off a tiny piece, gave it to him, and he ate it. When my
nephew came home he wouldn't believe it, so I tried it again, with
the same result, except that then he did not even attempt to eat
the coarser meat."
* * * * *
Concerning Miss Cunningham's wonderful story, I wish to state that
I believe all of it,--because there is no reason to do otherwise!
It sets a new mark in gorilla lore, and it lifts a curtain from an
animal mind that previously was unknown, and very generally
misunderstood.
To the Doubting Thomases who will doubt some portions of Miss
Cunningham's story, let me cite, by way of caution, the following
history:
When Du Chaillu discovered the gorilla, and came to America and
England with his specimens to tell about it, he said that when a
big gorilla is attacked and made angry it beats its breast,
repeatedly, with its clenched fists. The wiseacres of that day
solemnly shook their heads and said: "Oh, no! That can not be
true. No ape ever did that. He is romancing!" But now we know that
this breast-beating and chest-clapping habit is to a gorilla a
common-place performance, even in captivity.
Sometimes there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt of in all our philosophy.
XI
THE MIND OF THE ELEPHANT
It was in the jungles of the Animallai Hills of southern India
that I first became impressed by the mental capacity of the Indian
elephant. I saw many wild herds. I saw elephants at work, and at
one period I lived in a timber camp, consisting of working
elephants and mahouts. I saw a shrewd young elephant-driver
soundly flogged for stealing an elephant, farming it out to a
native timber contractor for four days, and then elaborately
pretending that the animal had been "lost." Later on I saw
elephant performances in the "Greatest Show on Earth" and
elsewhere, and for eighteen years I have been chief mourner over
the idiosyncrasies of Gunda and Alice. If I do not now know
something about elephants, then my own case of animal intelligence
is indeed hopeless.
To me it seems that the only thing necessary to establish the
elephant as an animal of remarkable intellect and power of
original reasoning is to set forth the unadorned facts that lie
ready to hand.
Cuvier recorded the opinion that in sagacity the elephant in no
way excels the dog and some other species of carnivora. Sir
Emerson Tennent, even after some study of the elephant, was
disposed to award the palm for intelligence to the dog, but only
"from the higher degree of development consequent on his more
intimate domestication and association with man." In the mind of
G. P. Sanderson we fear that familiarity with the elephant bred a
measure of contempt; and this seems very strange. He says:
"Its reasoning faculties are undoubtedly far below those of the
dog, and possibly of other animals; and in matters beyond its
daily experience it evinces no special discernment."
To me it seems that all three of those opinions are off the
target. The dog is not a wild, untrammeled animal; and neither
dogs, cats nor savage men evince any special discernment "beyond
the range of their daily experience." Moreover, there are some
millions of tame men of whom the same may be said with entire
safety.
Very often the question is asked: "Is the African elephant equal
in intelligence and training capacity to the Indian species?"
To this we must answer: Not proven. We do not know. The African
species never has been tried out on the same long and wide basis
as the Indian. Many individual African elephants, very
intelligent, have been trained, successfully, and have given good
accounts of themselves. For my own part I am absolutely sure that
when taken in hand at the same age, and trained on the same basis
as the Indian species, the African elephant will be found mentally
quite the equal of the Indian, and just as available for work or
performances.
No negro tribe really likes to handle elephants and train them.
The Indian native loves elephants, and enjoys training them and
working with them. It is these two conditions that have left the
African elephant far behind the procession. The African elephant
belongs to the great Undeveloped Continent. He has been, and he
still is, mercilessly pursued and slaughtered for his tusks. All
the existing species of African elephants are going down and out
before the ivory hunters. We fear that they will all be dead one
hundred years from this time, or even less. A century hence, when
the last _africanus_ has gone to join the mammoth and the
mastodon, his well protected wild congener in India still will be
devouring his four hundred pounds of green fodder per day, and the
tame ones will be performing to amuse the swarming human millions
of this overcrowded world.
In the minds of our elephant keepers, familiarity with elephants
has bred just the reverse of contempt. Both Thuman and Richards
are quite sure that elephants are the wisest of all wild animals.
Despite the very great amount of trouble made for Keeper Thuman by
Gunda, the Indian, and Kartoum, the African, Thuman grows
enthusiastic over the shrewdness of their "cussedness." He is
particularly impressed by their skill in opening chain shackles,
and unfastening the catches and locks of doors and gates. And
really, Kartoum's ingenuity in finding out how to open latches and
bolts is almost inexhaustible, as well as marvelous.
Keeper Richards declares that our late African pygmy elephant,
Congo, was the wisest animal he ever has known. I have elsewhere
referred to his ability in shutting his outside door. Richards
taught him to accept coins from visitors, deposit them in a box,
then pull a cord to ring a bell, one pull for each coin
represented. The keeper devised four different systems of intimate
signals by which he could tell Congo to stop at the right point,
and all these were so slight that no one ever detected them. One
was by a voice-given cue, another by a hand motion, and a third
was by an inclination of the body.
Keeper Richards relates that Congo would go out in his yard,
collect a trunkful of peanuts from visitors, bring them inside and
secretly cache them in a corner behind his feed box. Then he would
go out for more graft peanuts, bring them in, hide them and
proceed to eat the first lot. There are millions of men who do not
know what it is to conserve something that can be eaten.
In this discussion of the intellectual powers and moral qualities
of the elephant I will confine myself to my own observations on
_Elephas indicus_, except where otherwise stated. A point to
which we ask special attention is that in endeavoring to estimate
the mental capacity of the elephant, we will base no general
conclusions upon _any particularly intelligent individual_,
as all mankind is tempted to do in discussions of the intelligence
of the dog, the cat, the horse, parrot and ape. On the contrary,
it is our desire to reveal the mental capacity of _every
elephant living_, tame or wild, except the few individuals with
abnormal or diseased minds. It is not to be shown how successfully
_an_ elephant has been taught by man, but how _all_
elephants in captivity have been taught, and the mental capacity
of _every_ elephant.
Under the head of intellectual qualities we have first to consider
the elephant's
POWERS OF INDEPENDENT OBSERVATIONS, AND REASONING FROM CAUSE TO
EFFECT
While many wonderful stories are related of the elephant's
sagacity and independent powers of reasoning, it must be admitted
that a greater number of more wonderful anecdotes are told on
equally good authority of dogs. But the circumstances in the case
are wholly to the advantage of the universal dog, and against the
rarely seen elephant. While the former roams at will through his
master's premises, through town and country, mingling freely with
all kinds of men and domestic animals, with unlimited time to lay
plans and execute them, the elephant in captivity is chained to a
stake, with no liberty of action whatever aside from begging with
his trunk, eating and drinking. His only amusement is in swaying
his body, swinging one foot, switching his tail, and (in a
zoological park) looking for something that he can open or
destroy. Such a ponderous beast cannot be allowed to roam at large
among human beings, and the working elephant never leaves his
stake and chain except under the guidance of his mahout. There is
no means of estimating the wonderful powers of reasoning that
captive elephants might develop if they could only enjoy the
freedom accorded to all dogs except the blood-hound, bull-dog and
a few others.
In the jungles of India the writer frequently has seen wild
elephants reconnoitre dangerous ground by means of a scout or spy;
communicate intelligence by signs; retreat in orderly silence from
a lurking danger, and systematically march, in single file, like
the jungle tribes of men.
Once having approached to within fifty yards of the stragglers of
a herd of about thirty wild elephants, which was scattered over
about four acres of very open forest and quietly feeding, two
individuals of the herd on the side nearest us suddenly suspected
danger. One of them elevated his trunk, with the tip bent forward,
and smelled the air from various points of the compass. A moment
later an old elephant left the herd and started straight for our
ambush, scenting the air with upraised trunk as he slowly and
noiselessly advanced. We instantly retreated, unobserved and
unheard. The elephant advanced until he reached the identical spot
where we had a moment before been concealed. He paused, and stood
motionless as a statue for about two minutes, then wheeled about
and quickly but noiselessly rejoined the herd. In less than half
a minute the whole herd was in motion, heading directly away from
us, and moving very rapidly, but _without the slightest
noise_. The huge animals simply vanished like shadows into the
leafy depths of the forest. Before proceeding a quarter of a mile,
the entire herd formed in single file and continued strictly in
that order for several miles. Like the human dwellers in the
jungle, the elephants know that the easiest and most expeditious
way for a large body of animals to traverse a tangled forest is
for the leader to pick the way, while all the others follow in his
footsteps.
In strong contrast with the stealthy and noiseless manner in which
elephants steal away from a lurking danger, or an ambush
discovered, from an open attack accompanied with the noise of
fire-arms they rush away at headlong speed, quite regardless of
the noise they make. On one occasion a herd which I was designing
to attack, and had approached to within forty yards, as its
members were feeding in some thick bushes, discovered my presence
and retreated so silently that they had been gone five minutes
before I discovered what their sudden quietude really meant. In
this instance, as in several others, the still alarm was
communicated by silent signals, or sign-language.
At the Zoological Park we reared an African pygmy elephant
(_Elephas pumilio_). When his slender little tusks grew to
eighteen inches in length he made some interesting uses of them.
Once when the keepers wished to lead him upon our large platform
scales, the trembling of the platform frightened him. He conceived
the idea that it was unsafe, and therefore that he must keep off.
He backed away, halted, and refused to leave solid ground. The men
pushed him. He backed, and trumpeted a shrill protest. The men
pushed harder, and forced him forward. Trumpeting his wild alarm
and his protest against what he regarded as murder, he fell upon
his knees and drove his tusks into the earth, quite up to his
mouth, to anchor himself firmly to the solid ground. It was
pathetic, but also amusing. When Congo finally was pushed upon the
scales and weighed, he left the trembling instrument of torture
with an air of disgust and disapproval that was quite as eloquent
as words. On several occasions when taken out for exercise in the
park, he endeavored to hinder the return to quarters by anchoring
himself to Mother Earth.
Congo once startled us by his knowledge of the usefulness of
doors. For a time he was kept in a compartment that had an outside
door running sidewise on a trolley track, and controlled by two
hanging chains, one to close it and one to open it. Each chain had
on its end a stout iron ring for a handle. One chilly morning when
I went to see Congo, I asked his keeper to open his door, so that
he could go out.
The keeper did so, by pulling the right hand chain. The moment the
draft of chilly outer air struck Congo, who stood in the centre of
his stall facing me, he impatiently wheeled about, walked up to
the left hand chain, grabbed it with his trunk, slipped the ring
over one of his tusks, then inclined his head downward and with an
irritated tug pulled the door shut with a spiteful slam. "Open
it again," I said to the keeper.
He did so, and in the same way, but with a visible increase in
irritation, Congo closed it in the same manner as before. Again
the keeper opened the door, and this time, with a real exhibition
of temper Congo again thrust the ring over his tusk, and brought
the door shut with a resounding bang. It was his regular habit to
close that door, or to open it, when he felt like more air or less
air; and who is there who will say that the act was due to
"instinct" in a jungle-bred animal, or anything else than original
thought. The ring on his tusk was his own invention, as a means to
a desired end.
Every elephant that we ever have had has become, through his own
initiative and experimenting, an expert in unfastening the latches
of doors and gates, and in untying chains and ropes. Gunda always
knew enough to attack the padlocks on his leg chains, and break
them if possible. No ordinary clevis would hold him. When the pin
was threaded at one end and screwed into its place, Gunda would
work at it, hour by hour, until he would start it to unscrewing,
and then his trunk-tip would do the rest. The only clevis that he
could not open was one in which a stout cotter pin was passed
through the end of the clevis-pin and strongly bent.
Through reasons emanating in his own savage brain, Gunda took
strong dislikes to several of our park people. He hated Dick
Richards,--the keeper of Alice. He hated a certain messenger boy,
a certain laborer, a painter and Mr. Ditmars. Toward me he was
tolerant, and never rushed at me to kill me, as he always did to
his pet aversions. He stood in open fear of his own keeper, Walter
Thuman, until he had studied out a plan to catch him off his guard
and "get him." Then he launched his long-contemplated attack, and
Thuman was almost killed.
Our present (1921) male African elephant, Kartoum, is not so
hostile toward people, but his insatiable desire is to break and
to smash all of his environment that can be bent or broken. His
ingenuity in finding ways to damage doors and gates, and to bend
or to break steel beams, is amazing. His greatest feat consisted
in breaking squarely in two, by pushing with his head, a 90-pound
steel railroad iron used as the top bar of his fence. He knows the
mechanism of the latch of the ponderous steel door between his two
box stalls, and nothing but a small pin that only human fingers
can manipulate suffices to thwart his efforts to control the
latch.
Kartoum has gone over every inch of surface of his two apartments,
his doors, gates and fences, to find something that he can break
or damage. The steel linings of his apartment walls, originally
five feet high, we have been compelled to extend upward to a
height of nine feet, to save the brick walls from being battered
and disfigured. He has searched his steel fences throughout, in
order to find their weakest points, and concentrate his attacks
upon them. If the sharp-pointed iron spikes three inches long that
are set all over his doors are perfectly solid, he respects them,
but if one is the least bit loose in its socket, he works at it
until he finally breaks it off.
I invite any Doubting Thomas who thinks that Kartoum does not
"think" and "reason" to try his own thinking and reasoning at
inventing for Kartoum's door a latch that a keeper can easily and
surely open and close at a distance of ten feet, and that will be
Kartoum-proof. As for ourselves, three or four seemingly
intelligent officers and keepers, and a capable foreman of
construction, have all they can do to keep ahead of that one
elephant, so great is his ingenuity in thwarting our ways and
means to restrain him.
In about two days of effort our elephant keepers taught Gunda to
receive a coin from the hand of a visitor, or pick it off the
floor, lift the lid of a high-placed cash-box, drop the coin into
it and ring a bell. This very amusing industry was kept up for
several years, but finally it became so popular that it had to be
discontinued.
Keeper Dick Richards easily taught Alice to blow a mouth organ,
and to ring a telephone, to take the receiver off its hook and
hold it to her ear and listen. For years Alice has rendered, every
summer, valuable services of a serious nature in carrying children
and other visitors around her yard, and only once or twice has she
shown a contrary or obstinate spirit.
Tame elephants never tread on the feet of their attendants or
knock them down by accident; or, at least, no instances of the
kind have come to my knowledge. The elephant's feet are large, his
range of vision is circumscribed, and his extreme and wholly
voluntary solicitude for the safety of his human attendants can
not be due to anything else than independent reasoning. The most
intelligent dog is apt to greet his master by planting a pair of
dirty paws against his coat or trousers. The most sensible
carriage-horse is liable to step on his master's foot or crowd him
against a wall in a moment of excitement; but even inside the
keddah, with wild elephants all about, and a captive elephant
hemmed in by three or four tame animals, the noosers safely work
under the bodies and between the feet of the tame elephant until
the feet of the captive are tied.
All who have witnessed the tying of captives in a keddah wherein a
whole wild herd has been entrapped, testify to the uncanny human-
like quality of the intelligence displayed by the tame elephants
who assist in tying, leading out and subjugating the wild
captives. They enter into the business with both spirit and
understanding, and as occasion requires will deceitfully cajole or
vigorously punish a troublesome captive. Sir Emerson Tennent
asserts that the tame elephants display the most perfect
conception of every movement, both of the object to be attained
and the means to accomplish it.
Memory in the Elephant. So far as memory may be regarded as an
index of an animal's mental capacity, the weight of evidence is
most convincingly creditable to the elephant. As a test of memory
in an animal, we hold that a trained performance surpasses all
others. During the past forty years millions of people have
witnessed in either Barnum's or Ringling Brothers' shows, or in
the two combined, an imitation military drill performed by from
twelve to twenty elephants which in animals of any other species
would be considered a remarkable performance. The following were
the commands given by one trainer, understood and remembered by
each elephant, and executed without any visible hesitation or
mistake. These we will call the
Accomplishments of Performing Elephants.
1. Fall in line.
2. Roll-call. (As each elephant's name is called, he takes his
place in the ranks).
3. Present arms. (The trunk is uplifted, with its tip curved
forward and held in that position for a short time.)
4. Forward, march.
5. File left, march.
6. Right about face, march.
7. Left about face, march.
8. Right by twos, march.
9. Double quick, march.
10. Single file, march.
11. File right.
12. Halt.
13. Ground arms. (All lie down, and lie motionless.)
14. Attention (All arise.)
15. Shoulder arms. (All stand up on their hind-legs.)
In all, fifteen commands were obeyed by the whole company of
elephants.
It being impossible, or at least impracticable, to supply so large
a number of animals with furniture and stage properties for a
further universal performance, certain individuals were supplied
with the proper articles when necessary for a continuation of the
performance, as follows:
16. Ringing bells.
17. Climbing up a step-ladder.
18. Going lame in a fore leg.
19. Going lame in a hind leg.
20. Stepping up on a tub turned bottom up.
[Illustration with
caption: TAME ELEPHANTS ASSISTING IN TYING A WILD CAPTIVE The
captive elephant is marked "C." The tame elephants have been
quietly massed around him to keep him still and to give the
noosers a chance to work at his legs from under the bodies of the
tame elephants. The black figures on the tame elephants are their
mahouts, wrapped in blankets and lying down. (From A. G. R.
Theobald, Mysore)]
21. Standing on a tub on right legs only.
22. The same, on opposite legs.
23. The same, on the fore legs only.
24. The same, on the hind legs only.
25. Using a fan.
26. Turning a hand-organ.
27. Using a handkerchief to wipe the eyes.
28. Sitting in a chair.
29. Kneeling, with the fore legs.
30. Kneeling with the hind legs.
31. Walking astride a man lying lengthwise.
32. Stepping over a man lying down.
33. Forming a pyramid of elephants, by using tubs of various
sizes.
While it is true that not all of the acts in the latter part of
this performance were performed by each one of the elephants who
went through the military drill, there is no reason to doubt the
entire ability of each individual to be trained to obey the whole
thirty-three commands, and to remember them all accurately and
without confusion. The most astonishing feature of the
performance, aside from the perfect obedience of the huge beasts,
was their easy confidence and accuracy of memory.
We come now to a consideration of the Accomplishments of Working
Elephants. In all the timber-forests of southern India every
captive elephant is taught to perform all the following acts and
services, as I have witnessed on many occasions:
1. To _salaam,_ or salute, by raising the trunk.
2. To kneel, to receive a load or a passenger.
3. When standing, to hold up a fore-foot, to serve the driver as a
step in climbing to his place.
4. To lie down to be washed, first on one side and then on the
other.
5. To open the mouth. 6. To "hand up" any article from the
ground to the reach of a person riding.
7. To pull down an obstructing bough.
8. To halt.
9. To back.
10. To pick up the end of a drag-rope and place it between the
teeth.
11. To drag a timber.
12. To kneel and with the head turn a log over, or turn it with
the tusks if any are present.
13. To push a log into position parallel with others.
14. To balance and carry timbers on the tusks, if possessing tusks
of sufficient size.
15. To "speak," or trumpet.
16. To work in harness.
Every working elephant in India is supposed to possess the
intelligence necessary to the performance of all the acts
enumerated above at the command of his driver, either by spoken
words, a pressure of the knees or feet, or a touch with the
driving goad. For the sake of generalization I have purposely
excluded from this list all tricks and accomplishments which are
not universally taught to working elephants. We have seen,
however, that performing elephants are capable of executing
nearly double the number of acts commonly taught to the workers;
and, while it is useless to speculate upon the subject, it must be
admitted that, were a trainer to test an elephant's memory by
ascertaining the exact number of commands it could remember and
execute in rotation, the result would far exceed anything yet
obtained. For my own part, I believe it would exceed a hundred.
The performance in the circus-ring is limited by time and space,
and not by the mental capacity of the elephants.
Comprehension under Training. When we come to consider the
comparative mental receptivity and comprehension of animals under
man's tuition, we find the elephant absolutely unsurpassed. On
account of the fact that an elephant is about eighteen years in
coming to anything like maturity, according to the Indian
Government standard for working animals, it is far more economical
and expeditious to catch full-grown elephants in their native
jungles, and train them, than it is to breed and rear them. About
ninety per cent of all the elephants now living in captivity were
caught in a wild state and tamed, and of the remainder at least
eighty per cent were born in captivity of females that were gravid
when captured. It will be seen, therefore, that the elephant has
derived no advantage whatever from ancestral association with man,
and has gained nothing from the careful selection and breeding
which, all combined, have made the collie dog, the pointer and the
setter the wonderfully intelligent animals they are. For many
generations the horse has been bred for strength, for speed, or
for beauty of form, but the breeding of the dog has been based
_chiefly_ on his intelligence as a means to an end. _With
all his advantages, it is to be doubted whether the comprehensive
faculties of the dog, even in the most exceptional individuals of
a whole race, are equal to those of the adult wild elephant fresh
from the jungle._
The extreme difficulty of teaching a dog _of mature age_ even
the simplest thing is so well known that it has passed into a
proverb: "It is hard to teach an old dog new tricks." In other
words, the conditions _must_ be favorable. But what is the
case with the elephant? The question shall be answered by G. P.
Sanderson. In his "Wild Beasts of India," he says: "_Nor are
there any elephants which can not be easily subjugated, whatever
their size or age. The largest and oldest elephants are frequently
the most easily tamed, as they are less apprehensive than the
younger ones._"
Philosophy of the Elephant in Accepting Captivity and Making the
Best of It. The most astounding feature in the education of an
elephant is the suddenness of his transition from a wild and
lawless denizen of the forest to the quiet, plodding, good-
tempered, and cheerful beast of draught or burden. I call it
astounding, because in comparison with what could _not_ be
done with other wild animals caught when adult, no other word is
adequate to express the difference. The average wild animal caught
fully grown is "a terror," and so far as training is concerned,
perfectly impossible.
There takes place in the keddah, or pen of capture, a mighty
struggle between the giant strength of the captive and the
ingenuity of man, ably seconded by a few powerful tame elephants.
When he finds his strength utterly overcome by man's intelligence,
he yields to the inevitable, and accepts the situation
philosophically. Sanderson once had a narrow escape from death
while on the back of a tame elephant inside a keddah, attempting
to secure a wild female. She fought his elephant long and
viciously, with the strength and courage of despair, but finally
she was overcome by superior numbers. Although her attack on
Sanderson in the keddah was of the most murderous description, he
states that her conduct after her defeat was most exemplary, and
she never afterward showed any signs of ill-temper.
Mr. Sanderson and an elephant-driver once mounted a full-grown
female elephant _on the sixth day after her capture, without
even the presence of a tame animal._ Sir Emerson Tennent
records an instance wherein an elephant fed from the hand on the
first night of its capture, and in a very few days evinced
pleasure at being patted on the head. Such instances as the above
can be multiplied indefinitely. To what else shall they be
attributed than philosophic reasoning on the part of the elephant?
The orang-utan and the chimpanzee, so often put forward as his
intellectual superior, when captured alive at any other period
than that of helpless infancy, are vicious, aggressive, and
intractable not only for weeks and months, but for the remainder
of their lives. Orangs captured when fully adult exhibit the most
tiger-like ferocity, and are wholly intractable.
If dogs are naturally superior to elephants in natural intellect,
it should be as easy to tame and educate newly-caught wild dogs or
wolves of mature age, as newly-caught elephants. But, so far from
this being the case, it is safe to assert that it would be
_impossible_ to train even the most intelligent company of
pointers, setters or collies ever got together to perform the
feats accomplished with such promptness and accuracy by all
regularly trained work elephants.
The successful training of all elephants up to the required
working point is so fully conceded in India that the market value
of an animal depends wholly upon its age, sex, build and the
presence or absence of good tusks. The animal's education is
either sufficient for the buyer, or, if it is not, he knows it can
be made so.
Promptness and Accuracy in the Execution of Man's Orders. This is
the fourth quality which serves as a key to the mental capacity
and mental processes of an animal.
To me the most impressive feature of a performance of elephants in
the circus-ring is the fact that every command uttered is obeyed
with true military promptness and freedom from hesitation, and so
accurately that an entire performance often is conducted and
concluded without the repetition of a single command. One by one
the orders are executed with the most human-like precision and
steadiness, amounting sometimes to actual nonchalance. Human
beings of the highest type scarcely could do better. To some
savage races--for example, the native Australians, the Veddahs of
Ceylon, or the Jackoons of the Malay Peninsula, I believe that
such a performance would be impossible, even under training. I do
not believe their minds act with sufficient rapidity and accuracy
to enable a company of them to go through with such a wholly
artificial performance as successfully as the elephants do.
The thoughtful observer does not need to be told that the brain of
the ponderous quadruped acts, as far as it goes, with the same
rapidity and precision as that of an intelligent man,--and this,
too, in a performance that is wholly artificial and acquired.
In the performance of Bartholomew's horses, of which I once kept a
record in detail, even the most accomplished members of his troupe
often had to be commanded again and again before they would obey.
A command often was repeated for the fifth or sixth time before
the desired result was obtained. I noted particularly that not one
of his horses,--which were the most perfectly trained of any ever
seen by me,--was an exception to this rule, or performed his
tasks with the prompt obedience and self-confidence so noticeable
in _each one_ of the sixteen Barnum elephants. The horses
usually obeyed with tardiness and hesitation, and very often
manifested nervousness and uncertainty.
In the mind of the elephant, e. g., _each_ elephant, there
was no confusion of ideas or lapses of memory, but, on the
contrary, the mental grasp on the whole subject was so secure and
comprehensive that the animal felt himself the master of the
situation.
I have never yet seen a performance of trained dogs which could be
considered worthy of serious comparison with the accomplishments
of either performing or working elephants. In the matter of native
educational capacity the dog can not on any grounds be considered
the rival of the elephant. The alleged mental superiority of the
dog is based almost wholly upon his powers of independent
reasoning and observation as exhibited in a state of almost
perfect _freedom._ Until the elephant who has grown to
maturity under man's influence, is allowed the dog's freedom to
plan and execute, no conclusive comparison between them can be
made.
Moral Qualities of the Elephant. Finally, we come to a
consideration of the elephant's moral qualities that have a direct
bearing upon our subject. In India, excepting the professional
"rogue," the elephant bears a spotless reputation for patience,
amiability and obedience. The "rogue" is an individual afflicted
with either an incorrigible disposition, or else is afflicted with
insanity, either temporary or permanent. I know of no instance on
record wherein a _normal elephant_ with a _healthy mind_
has been guilty of unprovoked homicide, or even of attempting it.
I have never heard of an elephant in India so much as kicking,
striking or otherwise injuring either human beings or other
domestic animals. There have been several instances, however, of
persons killed by elephants which were temporarily insane, or
"_must,_" and also by others permanently insane. In America
several persons have been killed in revenge for ill treatment. In
Brooklyn a female elephant once killed a civilian who burned her
trunk with a lighted cigar. It is the misfortune but not the fault
of the elephant that in advanced age or by want of necessary
exercise, he is liable to be attacked by _must,_ or sexual
insanity, during which period he is clearly irresponsible for his
acts.
So many men have been killed by elephants in this country that of
late years the idea has been steadily gaining ground that
elephants are naturally ill-tempered, and vicious to a dangerous
extent. Under fair conditions, nothing could be farther from the
truth. We have seen that in the hands of the "gentle Hindu" the
elephant is safe and reliable, and never attacks man except under
the circumstances already stated. In this country, however, many
an elephant is at the mercy of quick-tempered and sometimes
revengeful showmen, who very often do not understand the
temperaments of the animals under their control, and who during
the traveling season are rendered perpetually ill-tempered and
vindictive by reason of overwork and insufficient sleep. With such
masters as these it is no wonder that occasionally an animal
rebels, and executes vengeance. In Minneapolis in December an
elephant once went on a rampage through the freezing of its ears.
I am quite convinced that an elephant could by ill treatment be
driven to insanity, and I have no doubt that this has been done
many times. Our bad elephant, Gunda, was bad by nature, but
finally he became afflicted with sexual insanity, for which there
was no cure. When commanded by man, the elephant will tear a
criminal limb from limb, or crush him to death with his knees, or
go out to battle holding a sword in his trunk. He will, when told
to do so, attack his kind with fury and persistence; but in the
course of many hours, and even days, spent in watching wild herds,
I never yet saw a single individual show any signs of impatience
or ill-temper toward his fellows.
It is safe to say that, thus far, not one half the elephant's
mental capabilities have been developed, or even understood. It
would be of great interest to determine by experiment the full
educational capacity of this interesting quadruped. It would be
equally interesting to determine the limit of its reasoning
powers in applied mechanics. An animal that can turn a hand-organ
at the proper speed, or ring a telephone and go through the
motions of listening with a receiver, can be taught to push a
smoothing-plane invented purposely for him; but whether he would
learn of himself to plane the rough surface smooth, and let the
smooth ones remain untouched, is an open question.
While it is generally fruitless and unsatisfactory to enter the
field of speculation, I can not resist the temptation to assert my
belief that an elephant can be taught to read written characters,
and also to express some of his own thoughts or states of feeling
in writing. It would be a perfectly simple matter to prepare
suitable appliances by which the sagacious animal could hold a
crayon in his trunk, and mark upon a surface adapted to his
convenience. Many an elephant has been taught to make chalk-marks
on a blackboard. In Julian's work on "The Nature of Animals," the
eleventh chapter of the second book, he describes in detail the
wonderful performances of elephants at Rome, all of which he saw.
One passage is of peculiar interest to us, and the following has
been given as a translation: "...I saw them writing letters on
Roman tablets with their trunks, neither looking awry nor turning
aside. The hand, however, of the teacher was placed so as to be a
guide in the formation of the letters; and, while it was writing,
the animal kept its eye fixed down in an accomplished and scholar-
like manner."
I can conceive how an elephant may be taught that certain
characters represent certain ideas, and that they are capable of
intelligent combinations. The system and judgment and patient
effort which developed an active, educated, and even refined
intellect in Laura Bridgman--deaf, dumb and blind from birth--
ought certainly to be able to teach a clear-headed, intelligent
elephant to express at least _some_ of his thoughts in
writing.
I believe it is as much an act of murder to wantonly take the life
of a healthy elephant as to kill a native Australian or a Central-
African savage. If it is more culpable to kill an ignorant human
savage than an elephant, it is also more culpable to kill an
elephant than an echinoderm. Many men are both morally and
intellectually lower than many quadrupeds, and are, in my opinion,
as wholly destitute of that indefinable attribute called soul as
all the lower animals commonly are supposed to be.
If an investigator like Dr. Yerkes, and an educator like Dr. Howe,
should take it in hand to develop the mind of the elephant to the
highest possible extent, their results would be awaited with
peculiar interest, and it would be strange if they did not
necessitate a revision of the theories now common among those who
concede an immortal soul to every member of the human race, even
down to the lowest, but deny it to all the animals below man.
Curvature in the Brain of an Elephant. There is curvature of the
spine; and there is curvature in the brain. It afflicts the human
race, and all other vertebrates are subject to it.
In the Zoological Park we have had, and still have, a persistent
case of it in a female Indian elephant now twenty-three years of
age, named "Alice." Her mental ailment several times manifested
itself in Luna Park, her former home; but when we purchased the
animal her former owners carelessly forgot to mention it.
Four days after Alice reached her new temporary home in our
Antelope House, and while being marched around the Park for
exercise, she heard the strident cry of one of our mountain lions,
and immediately turned and bolted.
Young as she was at that time, her two strong and able-bodied
keepers, Thuman and Bayreuther, were utterly unable to restrain
her. She surged straight forward for the front door of the Reptile
House, and into that building she went, with the two keepers
literally swinging from her ears.
As the great beast suddenly loomed up above the crowd of
sightseers in the quiet building, the crowd screamed and became
almost panic-stricken.
Partly by her own volition and partly by encouragement, she
circumnavigated the turtle-bank and went out.
Once outside she went where she pleased, and the keepers were
quite unable to control her. Half an hour later she again headed
for the Reptile House and we knew that she would again try to
enter.
In view of the great array of plate glass cases in that building,
many of them containing venomous cobras, rattlesnakes, moccasins
and bushmasters, we were thoroughly frightened at the prospect of
that crazy beast again coming within reach of them.
With our men fighting frantically, and exhausted by their
prolonged efforts to control her, Alice again entered the Reptile
House. As she attempted to pass into the main hall,--the danger
zone,--our men succeeded in chaining her front feet to the two
steel posts of the guard rail, set solidly in concrete on each
side of the doorway. Alice tried to pull up those posts by their
roots, but they held; and there in front of the Crocodile Pool the
keepers and I camped for the night. We fed her hay and bread, to
keep her partially occupied, and wondered what she would do in the
morning when we would attempt to remove her.
Soon after dawn a force of keepers arrived. Chaining the
elephant's front feet together so that she could not step more
than a foot, we loosed the chains from the two posts and ordered
her to come to an "about face," and go out. Instead of doing that
she determinedly advanced toward the right, and came within reach
of twelve handsome glazed cases of live reptiles that stood on a
long table. Frantically the men tried to drive her back. For
answer she put her two front feet on the top bar of the steel
guard rail and smashed ten feet of it to the floor. Then she began
to butt those glass snake cages off their table, one by one.
_"Boom!" "Bang!" "Crash!"_ they went on the floor, one after
another. Soon fourteen banded rattlesnakes of junior size were
wriggling over the floor. "Smash" went more cases. The Reptile
House was in a great uproar. Soon the big wall cases would be
reached, and then--I would be obliged to shoot her dead, to avoid
a general delivery of poisonous serpents, and big pythons from
twenty to twenty-two feet long. The room resounded with our
shouts, and the angry trumpeting of Alice.
At last, by vigorous work with the elephant hooks, Alice was
turned and headed out of the building. A foot at a time she passed
out, then headed toward the bear dens. Midway, we steered her in
among some young maple trees, and soon had her front legs chained
to one of them. Alice tried to push it over, and came near to
doing so.
Then we quickly tied her hind legs together,--and she was all
ours. Seeing that all was clear for a fall, we joyously pushed
Alice off her feet. She went over, and fell prone upon her side.
In three minutes all her feet were securely anchored to trees, and
we sat down upon her prostrate body.
At that crowning indignity Alice was the maddest elephant in the
world for that day. We gave her food, and the use of her trunk,
and left her there twenty-four hours, to think it over. She
deserved a vast beating with canes; but we gave her no punishment
whatever. It would have served no good purpose.
During the interval we telephoned to Coney Island, and asked Dick
Richards, the former keeper of Alice, to come and reason with her.
Promptly he came,--and he is still guiding as best he can the
checkered destinies of that erring female.
When Alice was unwound and permitted to arise,--with certain
limitations as to her progress through the world,--it was evident
that she was in a chastened mood. She quietly marched to her
quarters at the Antelope House, and there we interned her. But
that was not all of Alice. Very soon we had to move her to the
completed Elephant House, half a mile away. Keeper Richards said
that two or three times she had bolted into buildings at Luna
Park; so we prepared to overcome her idiosyncrasies by a
combination of force and strategy. I had the men procure a strong
rope about one hundred feet long, in the middle of which I had
them fix a very nice steel hook, large enough to hook suddenly
around a post or a tree.
One end of that rope we tied to the left foot of Charming Alice,
and the remainder of the rope was carried out at full length in
front of her.
Willingly enough she started from the Antelope House, and Richards
led her about three hundred feet. Then she stopped, and
disregarding all advice and hooks, started to come about, to
return to the Antelope House. Quickly the anchor was hooked around
the nearest fence post, and Alice fetched up against a force
stronger than herself. She was greatly annoyed, but in a few
minutes decided to go on.
Another lap of two hundred feet, and the same act was repeated,
without the slightest variation.
This process continued for nearly half a mile. By that time we
were opposite the Elk House and Alice had become wild with baffled
rage. She tried hard to smash fences and uproot trees.
At last she stood still and refused to move another foot; and then
we played our ace of trumps. Near by, twenty laborers were
working. Calling all hands, they took hold of that outstretched
rope, and heading straight for the new Elephant House started a
new tug of war. Every "heave-ho" of that hilarious company meant a
three-foot step forward for Gentle Alice,--willy-nilly. As she
raged and roared, the men heaved and laughed. A yard at a time
they pulled that fatal left foot, into the corral and into the
apartment of Alice; and she had to follow it.
Ever since that time, Alice has been permanently under arrest, and
confined to her quarters; but within the safe precincts of two
steel-bound yards she carries children on her back, and in summer
earns her daily bread.
Elephant Mentality in the Jungle. Mr. A. E. Ross, while
Commissioner of Forests in Burma, had many interesting experiences
with elephants, and he related the following:
A bad-tempered mahout who had been cruel to his work-elephant
finally so enraged the animal that it attempted to take revenge.
To forestall an accident, the mahout was discharged, and for two
years he completely disappeared. After that lapse of time he
quietly reappeared, looking for an engagement. As the line of
elephants stood at attention at feeding time, with a score of
persons in a group before them, the elephant instantly recognized
the face of his old enemy, rushed for him, and drove him out of
the camp.
An ill-tempered and dangerous elephant, feared by everybody, once
had the end of his trunk nearly cut off in an accident. While the
animal was frantic with the pain of it, Mr. Ross ordered him to
lie down. As the patient lay in quiet submission, he dressed the
wound and put the trunk in rude bamboo splints. The elephant
wisely aided the amateur elephant doctor until the wound healed;
and afterward that once dangerous animal showed dog-like affection
for Mr. Ross.
XII
THE MENTAL AND MORAL TRAITS OF BEARS
Considered as a group, the bears of the world are supremely
interesting animals. In fact, no group surpasses them save the
Order Primates, and it requires the enrollment of all the apes,
baboons and monkeys to accomplish it.
From sunrise to sunrise a bear is an animal of original thought
and vigorous enterprise. Put a normal bear in any new situation
that you please, he will try to make himself master of it. Use any
new or strange material that you please, of wood, metal, stone or
concrete, and he will cheerfully set out to find its weakest
points and destroy it. If one board in a wall happens to be of
wood a little softer than its fellows, with wonderful quickness
and precision he will locate it. To tear his way out of an
ordinary wooden cage he asks nothing better than a good crack or a
soft knot as a starting point.
Let him who thinks that all animals are mere machines of heredity
and nothing more, take upon himself the task of collecting,
yarding, housing and KEEPING a collection of thirty bears from all
over the world, representing from ten to fifteen species. In a
very short time the believer in bear knowledge by inheritance
only, will begin to see evidences of new thought.
In spite of our best calculations, in twenty-two years and a total
of about seventy bears, we have had three bear escapes. The
species involved were an Indian sloth bear, an American black bear
and a Himalayan black bear. The troublesome three laboriously
invented processes by which, supported by surpassing acrobatics,
they were able to circumvent our overhanging bars. Now, did the
mothers of those bears bequeath to them the special knowledge
which enabled them to perform the acrobatic mid-air feat of
warping themselves over that sharp-pointed overhang barrier? No;
because none of their parents ever saw steel cage-work of any
kind.
Universal Traits. The traits common to the majority of bear
_species_ as we see them manifested in captivity are the
following:
First, playfulness; second, spasmodic treachery; third,
contentment in comfortable captivity; fourth, love of water;
fifth, enterprise in the mischievous destruction of things that
can be destroyed.
The bears of the world are distributed throughout Asia, Borneo,
the heavy forests of Europe, all North America, and the
northwestern portion of South America. In view of their
wonderfully interesting traits, it is surprising that so few books
have been written about them. The variations in bear character
and habit are almost as wide as the distribution of the species.
There are four books in English that are wholly devoted to
American bears and their doings. These are "The Grizzly Bear" and
"The Black Bear," by William H. Wright, of Spokane(Scribner's),
"The Grizzly Bear," by Enos A. Mills, and "The Adventures of James
Capen Adams." In 1918 Dr. C. Hart Merriam published as No. 41 of
"North American Fauna" a "Review of the Grizzly and Brown Bears of
North America" (U.S. Govt.). This is a scientific paper of 135
pages, the product of many years of collecting and study, and it
recognizes and describes eighty-six species and sub-species of
those two groups in North America. The classification is based
chiefly upon the skulls of the animals.
It is unfortunate that up to date no bear student with a tireless
pen has written The Book of Bears. But let no man rashly assume
that he knows "all about bears." While many bears do think and act
along certain lines, I am constantly warning my friends, "Beware
of the Bear! You never can tell what he will do next." I hasten to
state that of all the bears of the world, the "pet" bear is the
most dangerous.
A Story of a "Pet" Bear. In one of the cities of Canadaa
gentleman greatly interested in animals kept a young bear cub, as
a pet; and once more I say--if thine enemy offend thee, present
him with a black-bear cub. The bear was kept in a back yard,
chained to a post, and after his first birthday that alleged "pet"
dominated everything within his circumpolar region.
One day a lady and gentleman called to see the pet, to observe how
tame and good-natured it was. The owner took on his arm a basket
of tempting apples, and going into the bear's territory proceeded
to show how the Black One would eat from his owner's hand.
The bear was given an apple, which was promptly eaten. The owner
reached for a second, but instead of accepting it, the bear
instantly became a raging demon. He struck Mr. C. a lightning-
quick and powerful blow upon his head, ripping his scalp open.
With horrible growls and bawling, the beast, standing fully erect,
struck again and again at his victim, who threw his arms across
his face to save it from being torn to pieces. Fearful blows from
the bear's claw-shod paws rained upon Mr. C.'s head, and his scalp
was almost torn away. In the melee he fell, and the bear pounced
upon him, to kill him.
The visiting gentleman rushed for a club. Meanwhile the lady
visitor, rendered frantic by the sight of the bear killing her
host, did a very brave but suicidally dangerous thing. She
_seized the hindquarters_ of the bear, gripping the fur in
her bare hands, and actually dragged the animal off its victim!
Fortunately at that dangerous juncture the lady's husband rushed
up with a club, beat the raging animal as it deserved, and
mastered it.
The owner of the bear survived his injuries, and by a great effort
the surgeons saved his scalp. A "pet" bear in its second year
may become the most dangerous of all wild animals. This is
because it _seems_ so affectionate and docile, and yet is
liable to turn in one second,--and without the slightest warning,
--into a deadly enemy.
Scores of times we have seen this quick change in temper take
place in bears inhabiting our dens. Four bears will be quietly and
peacefully consuming their bread and vegetables when,--
"_biff!_" Like a stroke of lightning a hairy right arm shoots
out and lands with a terriffic jolt on the head of a peaceful
companion. The victim roars,--in surprise, pain and protest, and
then a fight is on. The aggressor roars and bawls, and follows up
his blow as if to exterminate his perfectly inoffensive cage-mate.
Mean and cruel visitors are fond of starting bear fights by
throwing into the cages tempting bits of fruit, or peanuts; and
sometimes a peach stone kills a valuable bear by getting jammed in
the pyloric orifice of the stomach.
The owners of bears should NEVER allow visitors to throw food to
them. Unlimited feeding by visitors will spoil the tempers of the
best bears in the world.
Power of Expression in Bears. Next to the apes and monkeys, I
regard bears as the most demonstrative of all wild animals. The
average bear is proficient in the art of expression. The position
of his ears, the pose of his head and neck, the mobility of his
lips and his walking or his resting attitudes all tell their
story.
To facial and bodily expression the bear adds his voice; and
herein he surpasses most other wild animals! According to his mood
he whines, he threatens, or warns by loud snorting. He roars with
rage, and when in pain he cries, or he bawls and howls. In
addition to this he threatens an enemy by snapping his jaws
together with a mighty ominous clank, accompanied by a warning
nasal whine. An angry bear will at times give a sudden rake with
his claws to the ground, or the concrete on which he stands.
Now, with all this facility for emotional expression, backed by an
alert and many-sided mind, boundless energy and a playful
disposition, is it strange that bears are among the most
interesting animals in the world?
Bears in Captivity. With but few exceptions the bears of the world
are animals with philosophic minds, and excellent reasoning power,
though rarely equal to that of the elephant. One striking proof of
this is the promptness with which adult animals accept
_comfortable_ captivity, and settle down in contentment.
What we mean by comfortable captivity very shortly will be
defined.
No bear should be kept in a cage with stone walls and an uneven
floor; nor without a place to climb; and wherein life is a daily
chapter of inactive and lonesome discomfort and unhappiness. The
old-fashioned bear "pit" is an abomination of desolation, a sink-
hole of misery, and all such means of bear torture should be
banished from all civilized countries.
He who cannot make bears comfortable, contented and happy should
not keep any.
A large collection of bears of many species properly installed may
be relied upon to reveal many variations of temperament and
mentality, from the sanguine and good-natured stoic to the
hysterical demon. Captivity brings out many traits of character
that in a wild state are either latent or absent.
Prominent Traits of Prominent Species. After twenty years of daily
observation we now know that
The grizzly is the most keen-minded species of all bears.
The big Alaskan brown bears are the least troublesome in
captivity.
The polar bear lives behind a mask, and is not to be trusted.
The black bear is the nearest approach to a general average in
ursine character.
The European brown bears are best for training and performances.
The Japanese black bear is nervous, cowardly and hysterical; the
little Malay sun bear is the most savage and unsatisfactory.
The Lesson of the Polar and Grizzly. The polar bears of the north,
and the Rocky Mountain grizzlies, a hundred years ago were bold
and aggressive. That was in the days of the weak, small-bore,
muzzle-loading rifles, black powder and slow firing. Today all
that is changed. All those bears have recognized the fearful
deadliness of the long-range, high-power repeating rifle, and the
polar and the grizzly flee from man at the first sight of him,
fast and far. No grizzly attacks a man unless it has been
attacked, or wounded, or cornered, or _thinks_ it is
cornered. As an exception, Mr. Stefansson observed two or three
polar bears who seemed to be quite unacquainted with man, and but
little afraid of him.
The great California grizzly is now believed to be totally
extinct. The campaign of Mr. J. A. McGuire, Editor of _Outdoor
Life_ Magazine, to secure laws for the reasonable protection of
bears, is wise, timely and thoroughly deserving of success because
such laws are now needed. The bag limit on grizzlies this side of
Alaska should be one per year, and no trapping of grizzlies should
be permitted anywhere.
The big brown bears of Alaska have not yet recognized the true
deadliness of man. They have vanquished so many Indians, and
injured or killed so many white men that as yet they are unafraid,
insolent, aggressive and dangerous. They need to be shot up so
thoroughly that they will learn the lesson of the polars and
grizzlies,--that man is a dangerous animal, and the only safe
course is to run from him at first sight.
Bears Learn the Principles of Wild Life Protection. Ordinarily
both the grizzlies and black bears are shy, suspicious and
intensely "wild" creatures; and therefore the quickness and
thoroughness with which they learn that they are in sanctuary is
all the more surprising. The protected bears of the Yellowstone
Park for years have been to tourists a source of wonder and
delight. The black bears are recklessly trustful, and familiar
quite to the utmost limits. The grizzlies are more reserved, but
they have done what the blacks have very wisely not done. They
have broken the truce of protection, and attacked men on their
own ground.
Strange to say, of several attacks made upon camping parties, the
most serious and most nearly fatal was that of 1917 upon Ned
Frost, the well-known guide of Cody, Wyoming, and his field
companion. They were sleeping under their wagon, well wrapped from
the cold in heavy blankets and comfortables, and it is to their
bedding alone that they owe their lives. They were viciously
attacked by a grizzly, dragged about and mauled, and Frost was
seriously bitten and clawed. Fortunately the bedding engaged the
activities of their assailant sufficiently that the two men
finally escaped alive.
How Buffalo Jones Disciplined a Bad Grizzly. The most ridiculous
and laughable performance ever put up with a wild grizzly bear as
an actor was staged by Col. C. J.("Buffalo") Jones when he was
superintendent of the wild animals of the Yellowstone Park. He
marked down for punishment a particularly troublesome grizzly that
had often raided tourists' camps at a certain spot, to steal food.
Very skilfully he roped that grizzly around one of his hind legs,
suspended him from the limb of a tree, and while the disgraced and
outraged silver-tip swung to and fro, bawling, cursing, snapping,
snorting and wildly clawing at the air, Buffalo Jones whaled it
with a bean-pole until he was tired. With commendable forethought
Mr. Jones had for that occasion provided a moving-picture camera,
and this film always produces roars of laughter.
Now, here is where we guessed wrongly. We supposed that whenever
and wherever a well-beaten grizzly was turned loose, the angry
animal would attack the lynching party. But not so. When Mr.
Jones' chastened grizzly was turned loose, it thought not of
reprisals. It wildly fled to the tall timber, plunged into it, and
there turned over a new leaf. I once said: "C. J., you ought to shoot
some of those grizzlies, and teach all the rest of them to behave
themselves."
[Illustration with caption: WILD
BEARS QUICKLY RECOGNIZE PROTECTION The truce of the black bears of
the Yellowstone Park. The grizzlies are not nearly so trustful.
Photographed by Edmund Heller, 1921. (All rights reserved.)]
"I know it!" he responded, "I know it! But Col. Anderson won't let
me: He says that if we did, some people would make a great fuss
about it; and I suppose they would."
Recently, however, it has been found imperatively necessary to
teach the Park grizzlies a few lessons on the sanctity of a
sanctuary, and the rights of man.
We will now record a few cases that serve to illustrate the mental
traits of bears.
Case I. The Steel Panel. Two huge male Alaskan brown bears, Ivan
and Admiral, lived in adjoining yards. The partition between them
consisted of panels of steel. The upper panels were of heavy bar
iron. The bottom panels, each four feet high and six feet long,
were of flat steel bars woven into a basket pattern. The ends of
these flat bars had been passed through narrow slots in the heavy
steel frame, and firmly clinched. We would have said that no land
animal smaller than an elephant could pull out one of those
panels.
By some strange aberration in management, one day it chanced that
Admiral's grizzly bear wife was introduced for a brief space into
Ivan's den. Immediately Admiral went into a rage, on the ground
that his constitutional rights had been infringed. At once he set
to work to recover his stolen companion. He began to test those
partition panels, one by one. Finally he found the one that seemed
to him least powerful, and he at once set to work to tear it out
of its frame.
The keepers knew that he could not succeed; but he thought
differently. Hooking his short but very powerful claws into the
meshes he braced backward and pulled. After a fierce struggle an
upper corner yielded. Then the other corner yielded; and at last
the whole upper line gave way.
I reached the scene just as he finished tearing both ends free. I
saw him bend the steel panel inward, crush it down with his
thousand pounds of weight, and dash through the yawning hole into
his rival's arena.
Then ensued a great battle. The two huge bears rose high on their
hind legs, fiercely struck out with their front paws, and fought
mouth to mouth, always aiming to grip the throat. They bit each
other's cheeks but no serious injuries were inflicted, and very
soon by the vigorous use of pick-handles the two bear keepers
drove the fighters apart.
Case 2. Ivan's Begging Scheme. Ivan came from Alaska when a small
cub and he has long been the star boarder at the Bear Dens. He is
the most good-natured bear that we have, and he has many thoughts.
Having observed the high arm motion that a keeper makes in
throwing loaves of bread over the top of the nine-foot cage work,
Ivan adopted that motion as part of his sign language when food is
in sight outside. He stands up high, like a man, and with his left
arm he motions, just as the keepers do. Again and again he waves
his mighty arm, coaxingly, suggestively, and it says as plain as
print: "Come on! Throw it in! Throw it!"
If there is too much delay in the response, he motions with his
right paw, also, both arms working together. It is irresistible.
At least 500 times has he thus appealed, and he will do it
whenever a loaf of bread is held up as the price of an exhibition
of his sign language. Of course Ivan thought this out himself, and
put it into practice for a very definite purpose.
Case 3. Ivan's Invention for Cracking Beef Bones. Ivan invented a
scheme for cracking large beef bones, to get at the ultimate
morsels of marrow. He stands erect on his hind feet, first holds
the picked bone against his breast, then with his right paw he
poises it very carefully upon the back of his left paw. When it is
well balanced he flings it about ten feet straight up into the
air. When it falls upon the concrete floor a sufficient number of
times it breaks, and Ivan gets his well-earned reward. This same
plan was pursued by Billy, another Alaskan brown bear. Case 4. A
Bear's Ingenious Use of a Door. When Admiral is annoyed and chased
disagreeably by either of his two cage-mates he runs into his
sleeping-den, slams the steel door shut from the inside, and thus
holds his tormentors completely at bay until it suits him to roll
the door back again and come out. At night in winter when he goes
to bed he almost always shuts the door tightly from within, and
keeps it closed all night. He does not believe in sleeping-
porches, nor wide-open windows in sleeping-quarters.
Case 5. Admiral Will Not Tolerate White Boots. Recently our bear
keepers have found that Admiral has violent objections to boots of
white rubber. Keeper Schmidt purchased a pair, to take the place
of his old black ones, but when he first wore them into the den
for washing the floor the bear flew at him so quickly and so
savagely that he had all he could do to make a safe exit. A second
trial having resulted similarly, he gave the boots a coat of black
paint. But one coat was not wholly satisfactory to Admiral. He saw
the hated white through the one coat of black, promptly registered
"disapproval," and the patient keeper was forced to add another
coat of black. After that the new boots were approved.
Case 6. The Mystery of Death. Once upon a time we had a Japanese
black bear named Jappie, quartered in a den with a Himalayan black
bear,--the species with long, black side-whiskers and a white tip
to its chin. The Japanese bear was about one-third smaller than
the Himalayan black.
One night the Japanese bear died, and in the morning the keepers
found it lying on the level concrete top of the sleeping dens.
At once they went in to remove the body; but the Himalayan black
bear angrily refused to permit them to touch it. For half an hour
the men made one effort after another to coax, or entice or to
drive the guardian bear away from the dead body, but in vain. When
I reached the strange and uncanny scene, the guardian bear was in
a great rage. It took a position across the limp body, and from
that it fiercely refused to move or to be driven. As an experiment
we threw in a lot of leaves, and the guardian promptly raked them
over the dead one and stood pat.
We procured a long pole, and from a safe place on the top of the
nearest overhang, a keeper tried to prod or push away the guardian
of the dead. The living one snarled, roared, and with savage vigor
bit the end of the pole. By the time the bear was finally enticed
with food down to the front of the den, and the body removed,
seven hours had elapsed.
Now, what were the ideas and emotions of the bear? One man can
answer about as well as another. We think that the living bear
realized that something terrible had happened to its cage-mate,--
in whom he never before had manifested any guardianship
interest,--and he felt called upon to defend a friend who was very
much down and out. It was the first time that he had encountered
the great mystery, Death; and whatever it was, he resented it.
Case 7. A Terrible Punishment. Once we had a particularly mean
and vicious young Adirondack black bear named Tommy. In a short
time he became known as Tommy the Terror. We put him into a big
yard with Big Ben, from Florida, and two other bears smaller than
Ben, but larger than himself.
In a short time the Terror had whipped and thoroughly cowed Bruno
and Jappie. Next he tackled Ben; but Ben's great bulk was too much
for him. Finally he devoted a lot of time to bullying and reviling
_through the bars_ a big but good-natured cinnamon bear,
named Bob, who lived in the next den. In all his life up to that
time, Bob had had only one fight. Tommy's treatment of Bob was so
irritating to everybody that it was much remarked upon; and
presently we learned how Bob felt about it.
One morning while doing the cage work, the keeper walked through
the partition gate from Bob's den into Tommy's. He slammed the
iron gate behind him, as usual, but this time the latch did not catch
as usual. In a moment Bob became aware of this unstable condition.
Very innocently he sauntered up to the gate, pushed it open, and
walked through into the next den. The keeper was then twenty feet
away, but a warning cry from without set him in motion to stop
the intruder.
[Illustration
with caption: ALASKAN BROWN BEAR "IVAN" BEGGING FOR FOOD He
invented the very expressive sign language that he employs.]
[Illustration with caption: THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. Himalayan bear
jealously guarding the body of a dead cage-mate.]
Having no club to face, Bob quietly ignored the keeper's broom.
Paying not the slightest attention to the three inoffensive
bears, Bob fixed his gaze on the Terror, at the far end of the
den, then made straight for him. Tommy made a feeble attempt at
defense, but Bob seized him by the back, bit him, and savagely
shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. The Terror yelled lustily
"Murder! Murder! Help!" but none of the other bears made a move
for his defense. Bob was there to give Tommy the punishment that
was due him for his general meanness and his insulting behavior.
The horrified keeper secured his pike-pole, with a stout spike set
in the end for defense, and drove the spike into Bob's shoulder.
Bob went right on killing the Terror. Again the keeper drove in
his goad, and blood flowed freely; but Bob paid not the slightest
attention to this severe punishment.
Then the keeper began to beat the cinnamon over the nose; and that
made him yield. He gave the Terror a parting shake, let him go,
and with a bloody shoulder deliberately walked out of that den and
into his own. The punishment of the Terror went to the full limit,
and we think all those bears approved it. In a few hours he died
of his injuries.
Case 8. The Grizzly Bear and the String. One of the best
illustrations I know of the keenness and originality of a wild
bear's mind and senses, is found in Mr. W. H. Wright's account of
the grizzly bear he did not catch with an elk bait and two set
guns, in the Bitter Root Mountains. This story is related in
Chapter VI.
Case 9. Silver King's Memory of His Capture. At this moment we
have a huge polar bear who refuses to forget that he was captured
in the water, in Kane Basin, and who now avoids the water in his
swimming pool, almost as much as any burned child dreads fire.
Throughout the hottest months of midsummer old Silver King lies on
the rock floor of his huge and handsome den, grouching and
grumbling, and not more than once a week enjoying a swim in his
spacious pool. No other polar bear of ours ever manifested such an
aversion for water. The other polar bears who have occupied that
same den loved that pool beyond compare, and used to play in its
waters for hours at a time. Evidently the chase of Silver King
through green arctic water and over ice floes, mile after mile,
his final lassoing, and the drag behind a motor boat to the ship
were, to old Silver King, a terrible tragedy. Now he regards all
deep water as a trap to catch bears, but, strange to relate, the
winter's snow and ice seem to renew his interest in his swimming
pool. Occasionally he is seen at play in the icy water, and toying
with pieces of ice.
Memory in Bears. I think that ordinarily bear memory for human
faces and voices is not long. Once I saw Mr. William Lyman
Underwood test the memory of a black bear that for eighteen months
had been his household pet and daily companion. After a
separation of a year, which the bear spent in a public park near
Boston, Mr. Underwood approached, alone, close up to the bars of
his cage. He spoke to him in the old way, and called him by his
old name, but the bear gave absolutely no sign of recognition or
remembrance.
How a Wild Grizzly Bear Caches Food. The silver-tip grizzly bear
of the Rocky Mountains has a mental trait and a corresponding
habit which seems to be unique in bear character. It is the habit
of burying food for future use. Once I had a rare opportunity to
observe this habit. It was in the Canadian Rockies of British
Columbia, in the month of September(1905), while bears were very
activism. John M. Phillips and I shot two large white goats,
one of which rolled down a steep declivity and out upon the slide-
rock, where it was skinned. The flensed body of the other was
rolled over the edge of a cliff, and fell on a brushy soil-covered
spot about on the same level as the remains of goat No. 1.
The fresh goat remains were promptly discovered by a lusty young
grizzly, which ate to satiety from Goat No. 1. With the remains
of. Goat No. 2 the grizzly industriously proceeded to establish a
cache of meat for future use.
The goat carcass was dragged to a well chosen spot of seclusion
on moss-covered earth. On the steep hillside a shallow hole was
dug, the whole carcass rolled into it, and then upon it the bear
piled nearly a wagon load of fresh earth, moss, and green plants
that had been torn up by the roots. Over the highest point of the
carcass the mass was twenty-four inches deep. On the ground the
cache was elliptical in shape, and its outline measured about
seven by nine feet. On the lower side it was four feet high, and
on the upper side two feet. The cache was built around two larch
saplings, as if to secure their support. On the uphill side of the
cache the ground was torn up in a space shaped like a half moon,
twenty-eight feet long by nineteen wide.
I regard that cache as a very impressive exhibit of ursine
thought, reasoning and conclusion. It showed more fore-thought
and provision, and higher purpose in the conservation of food than
some human beings ever display, even at their best. The plains
Indians and the buffalo hunters were horribly wasteful and
improvident. _The impulse of that grizzly was to make good use
of every pound of that meat, and to conserve for the future._
Survival of the Bears.--The bears of North America have survived
thirty thousand years after the lions and the sabre-toothed tigers
of La Brea perished utterly and disappeared. But there were bears
also in those days, as the asphalt pits reveal. Now, why did not
all the bears of North America share the fate of the lions and the
tigers? It seems reasonable to answer that it was because the
bears were wiser, more gifted in the art of self-preservation, and
more resourceful in execution. In view of the omnivorous menu of
bears, and their appalling dependence upon small things for food,
it is to me marvelous that they now maintain themselves with such
astounding success.
A grizzly will dig a big and rocky hole three or four feet deep to
get one tiny ground-squirrel, a tidbit so small that an adult
grizzly could surely eat one hundred of them, like so many plums,
at one sitting. A bear will feed on berries under such handicaps
that one would not be surprised to see a bear starve to death in a
berry-patch.
But almost invariably the wild bear when killed is fairly well fed
and prosperous; and I fancy that no one ever found a bear that had
died of cold and exposure. The cunning of the black bear in self-
preservation surpasses that of all other large mammal species of
North America save the wolf, the white-tailed deer and the coyote.
In the game of self-preservation I will back that quartet against
all the other large land animals of North America.
What Constitutes Comfortable Captivity. It is impossible for any
man of good intelligence to work continuously with a wild animal
without learning something of its thoughts and its temper.
In our Zoological Park, day by day and hour by hour our people
carry into practical effect their knowledge of the psychology of
our mammals, birds and reptiles. In view of the work that we have
done during the past twenty-one years of the Park's history, we do
not need to apologize for claiming to know certain definite things
about wild animal minds. It is my belief that nowhere in the world
is there in one place so large an aggregation of dangerous beasts,
birds and reptiles as ours. And yet accidents to our keepers from
them have been exceedingly few, and all have been slight save
four.
Twenty-five years ago I endeavored to plan for the Zoological
Society the most humane and satisfactory bear dens on earth.
Fortunately we knew something about bears, both wild and captive.
Never before have we written out the exact motif of those dens,
but it is easily told. We endeavored to give each bear the
following things:
A very large and luxurious den, open to the sky, and practically
on a level with the world;
Perfect sanitation;
A great level playground of smooth concrete;
High, sloping rocks to climb upon when tired of the level floor;
A swimming pool, always full and always clean;
Openwork steel partitions between cages, to promote sociability
and cheerfulness;
Plenty of sunlight, but an adequate amount of shade;
Dry and dark sleeping dens with wooden floors, and
_Close-up views of all bears for all visitors._
If there are anywhere in the wilds any bears as healthy, happy and
as secure in their life tenure as ours, I do not know of them. The
wild bear lives in hourly fear of being shot, and of going to bed
hungry.
The service of our bear dens is based upon our knowledge of bear
psychology. We knew in the beginning that about 97 per cent of our
bears would come to us as cubs, or at least when quite young, and
we decided to take full advantage of that fact. All our bears save
half a dozen all told, have been trained to permit the keepers of
the dens to go into their cages, and to _make no fuss about
it._ The bears know that when the keepers enter to do the
morning housework, or at any other time for any other purpose,
they must at once climb up to the gallery, above the sleeping
dens, and stay there until the keepers retire. A bear who is slow
about going up is sternly ordered to "Go on!" and if he shows any
inclination to disobey, a heavy hickory pick-handle is thrown at
him with no uncertain hand.
Now, in grooming a herd of bears, a hickory pick-handle leaves no
room for argument. If it hits, it hurts. If it does not hit a
bear, it strikes the concrete floor or the rocks with a resound
and a rebound that frightens the boldest bear almost as much as
being hit. So the bear herd wisely climbs up to the first balcony
and sits down to wait. No bear ever leaps down to attack a keeper.
The distance and the jolt are not pleasant; and whenever a bear
grows weary and essays to climb down, he is sternly ordered back.
The keepers are forbidden to permit any familiarities on the part
of their bears.
All the bears, save one, that have come to us fully grown, and
savage, have been managed by other methods, involving shifting
cages.
On two occasions only have any of our keepers been badly bitten in
our bear dens. Both attacks were due to over-trustfulness of
"petted" bears, and to direct disobedience of fixed orders.
From the very beginning I laid down this law for our keepers, and
have repeated it from year to year.
"_Make no pets of animals large enough to become dangerous._
Make every animal understand and admit day by day that you are
absolute master, that it has got to obey, and that if it disobeys,
or attacks you, _you will kill it!_"
Familiarity with a dangerous wild animal usually breeds contempt
and attack.
Timidity is so fatal that none but courageous and determined men
should be chosen, _or be permitted,_ to take care of
dangerous animals.
In every zoological garden heroic deeds are common; and the men
take them all as coming in the day's work. Men in positions of
control over zoological parks and gardens should recognize it as a
solemn duty to provide good salaries for all men who take care of
live wild mammals, birds and reptiles. _A man who is in daily
danger of getting hurt should not every waking hour of his life be
harried and worried by poverty in his home._
Let me cite one case of real heroism in our bear dens, which went
in with "the day's work," as many others have done. Keeper Fred
Schlosser thought it would be safe to take our official
photographer, Mr. E. R. Sanborn, into the den of a European brown
bear mother, to get a close-up photograph of her and her cubs.
Schlosser felt sure that Brownie was "all right," and that he
could prevent any accident.
But near the end of the work the mother bear drove her cubs into
their sleeping den and then made a sudden, vicious and most
unexpected attack upon Keeper Schlosser. She rushed him, knocked
him down, seized him by his thigh, bit him severely, and then
actually began _to drag him_ to the door of her sleeping den!
(Just _why_ she did this I cannot explain!)
Heroically ignoring the great risk to himself, and thinking of
nothing but saving Schlosser, Mr. Sanborn seized the club that had
fallen from the keeper's hand when he fell, rushed up to the
enraged bear and beat her over the head so savagely and so
skilfully that she was glad to let go of her victim and retreat
into her den. Then Mr. Sanborn seized Schlosser, dragged him away
from the den, and stood guard over him until help came.
XIII
MENTAL TRAITS OF A FEW RUMINANTS
When we wish to cover with a single word the hoofed and horned
"big game" of the world, we say Ruminants. That easy and
comprehensive name embraces (1) the Bison and Wild Cattle, (2) the
Sheep, Goats, Ibexes and Markhors, (3) the Deer Family and (4) the
Antelope Family. These groups must be considered separately,
because the variations in mind and temperament are quite well
marked; but beyond wisdom in self-preservation, I do not regard
the intelligence of wild ruminants as being really great.
Intellectually the ruminants are not as high as the apes and
monkeys, bears, wolves, foxes and dogs, the domestic horses and
the elephants. They are handicapped by feet that are good for
locomotion and defense, but otherwise are almost as helpless as so
many jointed sticks. This condition closes to the ruminants the
possibility of a long program of activities which the ruminant
brain might otherwise develop. The ruminant hoof and leg is well
designed for swift and rough travel, for battles with distance,
snow, ice, mud and flood, and for a certain amount of fighting,
but they are inept for the higher manifestations of brain power.
Because of this unfortunate condition, the study of ruminants in
captivity does not yield a great crop of results. The free wild
animals are far better subjects, and it is from them that we have
derived our best knowledge of ruminant thoughts and ways. It is
not possible, however, to set forth here any more than a limited
number of representative species.
THE BISON AND WILD CATTLE. The American Bison.--Through the age-
long habit of the American bison to live in large herds, and to
feel, generation after generation, the sense of personal security
that great numbers usually impart, the bison early acquired the
reputation of being a stolid or even a stupid animal. Particularly
was this the case in the days of the greatest bison destruction,
when a still-hunter could get "a stand" on a bunch of buffaloes
quietly grazing at the edge of the great mass, and slowly and
surely shoot down each animal that attempted to lead that group
away from the sound of his rifle.
During that fatal period the state of the buffalo mind was nothing
less than a tragedy. "The bunch" would hear a report two hundred
yards away, they would see a grazing cow suddenly and mysteriously
fall, struggle, kick the air, and presently lie still. The
individuals nearest dully wondered what it was all about. Those
farthest away looked once only, and went on grazing. If an
experienced old cow grew suspicious and wary, and quietly set out
to walk away from those mysterious noises, "bang!" said the
Mystery once more, and she would be the one to fall. On this
murderous plan, a lucky and experienced hunter could kill from
twenty to sixty head of buffaloes, mostly cows, on a space of
three or four acres. The fatal trouble was that each buffalo felt
that the presence of a hundred or a thousand others feeding close
by was an insurance of _security_ to the individual, and so
there was no stampede.
But after all, the bison is not so big a fool as he looks. He can
think; and he can _learn._
In 1886, when we were about to set out for Montana to try to find
a few wild buffaloes for the National Museum, before the reckless
cowboys could find, kill and waste absolutely the last one, a
hilarious friend said:
"Pshaw! You don't need to take any rifles! Just get a rusty old
revolver, mount a good, sensible horse, ride right up alongside
the lumbering old beasts, and shoot them down at arm's length."
We went; but not armed with "a rusty old revolver." We found a few
buffaloes, but ye gods! How changed they were from the old days!
Although only two short years had elapsed since the terminal
slaughter of the hundreds of thousands whose white skeletons then
thickly dotted the Missouri-Yellowstone divide, _they had
learned fear of man,_ and also how to preserve themselves from
that dangerous wild beast. They sought the remotest bad lands,
they hid in low grounds, they watched sharply during every
daylight hour, and whenever a man on horseback was sighted they
were off like a bunch of racers, for a long and frantic run
straight away from the trouble-maker. Even at a distance of two
miles, or as far as they could see a man, they would run from
him,--not one mile, or two, but five miles, or seven or eight
miles, to another wild and rugged hiding-place.
To kill the buffalo specimens that we needed, three cowboys and
the writer worked hard for nearly three months, and it was all
that we could do to outwit those man-scared bison, and to get near
enough to them to kill what we required. Many a time, when weary
from a long chase, I thought with bitter scorn of my friend with
the rusty-old-revolver in his mind. No deer, mountain sheep,
tiger, bears nor elephants,--all of which I have pursued (and
sometimes overtaken!)--were ever more wary or keen in self-
preservation than those bison who _at last_ had broken out
from under the fatal spell of herd security. I am really glad that
this strange turn of Fortune's wheel gave me the knowledge of the
true scope of the buffalo mind before the last chance had passed.
What did a wild buffalo do when he found himself with a broken
leg, and unable to travel, but otherwise sound? Did he go limping
about over the landscape, to attract enemies from afar, and be
quickly shot by a man or torn to pieces by wolves? Not he! With
the keen intelligence of the wounded wild ruminant, he chose the
line of least resistance, and on three legs fled downhill. He went
on down, and kept going, until he reached the bottom of the
biggest and most tortuous coulee in his neighborhood. And then
what? Instead of coming to rest in a reposeful little valley a
hundred feet wide, he chose the most rugged branch he could find,
the one with the steepest and highest banks, and up that dry bed,
with many a twist and turn, he painfully limped his way. At last
he found himself in a snug and safe ditch, precisely like a front
line trench seven feet wide, with perpendicular walls and zig-
zagging so persistently that the de'il himself could not find him
save by following him up to close quarters, and landing upon his
horns. There, without food or water, the wounded animal would
stand for many days,--in fact, until hunger would force him back
to the valley's crop of grass. His wild remedy was to _keep
still,_ and give that broken leg its chance to knit and grow
strong.
I have seen in buffalo skeletons healed bone fractures that filled
us with wonder. One case that we shot was a big and heavy bull
whose hip socket had been utterly smashed, femur head and all, by
a heavy rifle ball; but the bull had escaped in spite of his
wound, and he had nursed it until it had healed in _good working
order._ We can testify that he could run as well as any of the
bisons in his bunch.
Of course young bisons can be tamed, and to a certain extent
educated. "Buffalo" Jones broke a pair of two-year-old bulls to
work under a yoke, and pull a light wagon. He tried them with
bridles and bits, but the buffaloes refused to work with them.
With tight-fitting halters, and the exercise of much-muscle, he
was able for a time to make them "gee" and "haw." But not for
long. When they outgrew his ability in free-hand drawing, he
rigged an upright windlass on each side of his wagon-box, and
firmly attached a line to each. When the team was desired to
"gee," he deftly wound up the right line on its windlass, and vice
versa for "haw."
But even this did not last a great while. The motor control was
more tentative than absolute. Once while driving beside a creek on
a hot and thirsty day, the super-heated buffaloes suddenly espied
the water, twenty feet or so below the road. Without having been
bidden they turned toward it, and the windlass failed to stop
them. Over the cut bank they went, wagon, man and buffalo bulls,
"in one red burial blent." Although they secured their drink,
their reputation as draught oxen was shattered beyond repair, and
they were cashiered the service.
Elsewhere I have spoken of the bison's temper and temperament.
THE WILD SHEEP.--It takes most newly-captured adult mountain sheep
about six months in palatial zoo quarters to get the idea out of
their heads that every man who comes near them, even including the
man who feeds and waters them, is going to kill them, and that
they must rush wildly to and fro before it occurs. But there are
exceptions.
At the same time, wild herds soon learn the large difference
between slaughter and protection, and thereafter accept man's hay
and salt with dignity and persistence. The fine big-horn
photographs that have been taken of _wild_ sheep herds on
public highways just outside of Banff, Alberta, tell their own
story more eloquently than words can do. The photograph of wild
sheep, after only twenty-seven years of protection, feeding in
herds in the main street of Ouray, Colorado, is an object lesson
never to be forgotten by any student of wild animal psychology.
And can any such student look upon such a picture and say that
those animals have not thought to some purpose upon the important
question of danger and safety to sheep?
Is there anyone left who still believes the ancient and bizarre
legend that mountain sheep rams jump off cliffs and alight upon
their horns? I think not. People now know enough about anatomy,
and the mental traits of wild sheep, to know that nothing of that
kind ever occurred save by a dreadful accident, followed by the
death of the sheep. No spinal column was ever made by Nature or
developed by man that could endure without breaking a headforemost
fall from the top of a cliff to the slide-rock bottom thereof.
In Colorado, in May 1907, the late Judge D. C. Beaman of Denver
saw a big-horn ram which was pursued by dogs to the precipitous
end of a mountain ridge, take a leap for life into space from top
to bottom. The distance straight down was "between twenty and
twenty-five feet." The ram went down absolutely upright, with his
head fully erect, and his feet well apart. He landed on the slide
rock on his feet, broke no bones, promptly recovered himself and
dashed away to safety. Judge Beaman declared that "the dogs were
afraid to approach even as near as the edge of the cliff at the
point from which the sheep leaped off."
John Muir held the opinion that the legend of horn-landing sheep
was born of the wild descent of frightened sheep down rocks so
steep that they _seemed_ perpendicular but were not, and the
sheep, after touching here and there in the wild pitch sometimes
landed in a heap at the bottom,--quite against their will. To me
this has always seemed a reasonable explanation.
The big-horn sheep has one mental trait that its host of ardent
admirers little suspect. It does not like pinnacle rocks, nor
narrow ledges across perpendicular cliffs, nor dangerous climbing.
It does not "leap from crag to crag," either up, down or across.
Go where you will in sheep hunting, nine times out of ten you will
find your game on perfectly safe ground, from which there is very
little danger of falling.
In spirit and purpose the big-horns are great pioneers and
explorers. They always want to see what is on the other side of
the range. They will sight a range of far distant desert
mountains, and to see what is there will travel by night across
ten or twenty miles of level desert to find out.
It was in the Pinacate Mountains of northwestern Mexico, on the
eastern shore of the head of the Gulf of California, that we made
our most interesting observations on wild big-horn sheep. On those
black and blasted peaks and plains of lava, where nature was
working hard to replant with desert vegetation a vast volcanic
area, we found herds of short-haired, undersized big-horn sheep,
struggling to hold their own against terrific heat, short food and
long thirst. It is a burning shame that since our discovery of
those sheep hunters of a dozen different kinds have almost
exterminated them.
We saw one band of seventeen sheep, close to Pinacate Peak, all so
utterly ignorant of the ways of men that they practically refused
to be frightened at our presence and our silent guns. We watched
them a long time, forgetful of the flight of time. They were not
shrewdly suspicious of danger. They fed, and frolicked, and dozed,
as much engrossed in their indolence as if the world contained no
dangers for them.
One day Mr. John M. Phillips and I shot two rams, for the Carnegie
Museum; and the next morning I had the most remarkable lesson that
I ever learned in mountain sheep psychology.
Early on that November morning Mr. Jeff Milton and I left our
chilly lair in a lava ravine, and most foolishly left both our
rifles at our camp. Hobbling along on foot we led a pack mule over
half a mile of rough and terrible lava to a dead sheep. There we
quickly skinned the animal, packed the skin and a horned head upon
the upper deck of our mule, and started back to camp, leading our
assistant. Half way back we looked westward across an eighth of a
mile of rough, black lava, and saw standing on a low point a fine
big-horn ram. He stood in a statuesque attitude, facing us, and
fixedly gazing at us. He was trying to make out what we were, and
to determine why a perfectly good pair of sheep horns should grow
out of the back of a sorrel mule! Ethically he had a right to be
puzzled.
Mr. Milton and I were greatly annoyed by the absence of our
rifles; and he proposed that we should leave the mule where he
stood, go back to our camp, get our guns, and kill the sheep. Now,
even then I was quite well up on the subject of curiosity in wild
animals, and I knew to a minute what to count upon as the standing
period of sheep, goat or deer. As gently as possible I informed
Milton that _no_ sheep would ever stand and look at a sorrel
mule for the length of time it would take us to foot it over that
lava to camp, and return.
But my companion was optimistic, and even skeptical.
"Maybe he will, now!" he persisted. "Let's try it. I think he may
wait for us."
Much against my judgment, and feeling secretly rebellious at the
folly of it all, I agreed to his plan,--solely to be "a good
sport," and to play his game. But _I_ knew that the effort
would be futile, as well as exhausting. Jeff tied the mule, for
the sheep to contemplate.
We went and got those rifles. We were gone fully twenty minutes.
When we again reached the habitat of the mule, _that ram was
still there!_ Apparently he had not moved a muscle, nor stirred
a foot, nor even batted an eye. Talk about curiosity in a wild
animal! He was a living statue of it.
He continued to hold his pose on his lava point while we stalked
him under cover of a hillock of lava, and shot him,--almost half
an hour after we first saw him. He had been overwhelmingly puzzled
by the uncanny sight of a pair of curling horns like his own,
growing out of the back of a long-eared sorrel mule which he felt
had no zoological right to wear them. He did his level best to
think it out; he became a museum specimen in consequence, and he
has gone down in history as the Curiosity Ram.
Mental Attitude of Captured Big-Horn Sheep. In 1906 an
enterprising and irrepressible young man named Will Frakes took
the idea into his head that he must catch some mountain sheep
alive, and do it alone and single-handed. Presently he located a
few _Ovis nelsoni_ in the Avawatz Mountains near Death
Valley, California. Finding a water hole to which mountain sheep
occasionally came at night to drink, he set steel traps around it.
One by one he caught five sheep of various ages, but chiefly
adults. The story of this interesting performance is told in
_Outdoor Life_ magazine for March, April and May, 1907.
I am interested in the mental processes of those sheep as they
came in close contact with man, and were compelled by force of
circumstances to accept captivity. Knowing, as all animal men do,
the fierce resistance usually made by adult animals to the
transition from freedom to captivity, I was prepared to read that
those nervous and fearsome adult sheep fought day by day until
they died.
But not so. Those sheep showed clear perceptive faculties and good
judgment. They were quick to learn that they were conquered, and
with amazing resignation they accepted the new life and its
strange conditions. In describing the chase on foot in thick
darkness of a big old male mountain sheep with a steel trap fast
on his foot, Mr. Frakes says:
"A sheep's token of surrender is to lie down and lie still. Once
he 'possums, no matter what you do, or how badly you may hurt him,
he will never flinch. And when this sheep ("Old Stonewall") was
thrown down by the trap, he evidently thought that he was
captured, and lay still for a few minutes before he found out the
difference, which gave me time to come up with him.... So I went
to camp, got a trap clamp and some sacks, made a kind of sled and
dragged him in. It was just midnight when I got him tied down, and
just sun-up when I got to camp with him. I fixed him up the best
I could, stood him up beside the other big-horn and took their
pictures. He looked so "rough and ready" that I named him "Old
Stonewall." But for all his proud, defiant bearing he has always
been a good sheep, _and never tried to fight me._ Still he
can hit quick and hard when he wants to, and I have to keep him
tied up all the time to keep him from killing the other bucks."
Now, I know not what conclusion others will draw from the above
clear and straightforward recital, but to me it established in
_Ovis nelsoni_ a reputation for quick thinking, original
reasoning and sound conclusions. In an incredibly short period
those animals came up to the status of tame animals. The five
sheep caught by Mr. Frakes were suddenly confronted by new
conditions, such as their ancestors had never even dreamed of
meeting; and _all of them reacted in the same way._ That was
more than "animal behavior." It was Thought, and Reason!
THE GOATS. White Mountain Goat.--I never have had any opportunity
to study at length, in the wilds, the mental traits of the
markhors, ibexes, gorals or serows. I have however, enjoyed rare
opportunities with the white Rocky Mountain goat, on the summits
of the Canadian Rockies as well as in captivity.
Where we were, on the Elk River Mountains of East Kootenay, the
goats had little fear of man. They did not know that we were in
the group of the world's most savage predatory animals, and we
puzzled them. Fourteen of them once leisurely looked down upon us
from the edge of a cliff, and silently studied us for a quarter of
an hour. An hour later three of them ran through our camp. One
morning an old billy calmly lay down to rest himself on the
mountain side about 300 feet above our tents. At last, however, he
became uneasy, and moved away.
This goat is not a timid and fearsome soul, ready to go into a
panic in the presence of danger. The old billy believes that the
best defense is a vigorous offense. On the spot where Cranbrook,
B. C., now stands, an old billy was caught unawares on an open
plain and surrounded by Indians, dogs and horses. In the battle
that ensued he so nearly whipped the entire outfit that a squaw
rushed wildly to the rescue with a loaded rifle, to enable the Red
army to win against the one lone goat.
In those mountains the white goat, grizzly bear, mountain sheep,
mule deer and elk all live together, in perfect liaison, and never
but once have I heard of the goat getting into a fight with a
joint-tenant species. A large silver-tip grizzly rashly attacked a
full-grown billy, and managed to inflict upon him mortal injuries.
Before he fell, however, the goat countered by driving his little
skewer-sharp black horns into the vitals of the grizzly with such
judgment and precision that the dead grizzly was found by Mr. A.
B. Fenwick quite near the dead goat.
We know that the mountain goat is a good reasoner in certain life-
or-death matters affecting himself.
He knows no such thing as becoming panic-stricken from surprise or
fear. An animal that looks death in the face every hour from
sunrise until sunset is not to be upset by trifles. We have seen
that if a dog and several men corner a goat on a precipice ledge,
and hem him in so that there is no avenue of escape, he does not
grow frantic, as any deer or most sheep would do, and plunge off
into space to certain death. Not he. He stands quite still, glares
indignantly upon his enemies, shakes his head, occasionally grits
his teeth or stamps a foot, but otherwise waits. His attitude and
his actions say:
"Well, it is your move. What are you going to do next?"
Most captive ruminants struggle frantically when put into crates
for shipment. White goats very rarely do so. They recognize the
inevitable, and accept it with resignation. Captive antelopes and
deer often kill themselves by dashing madly against wire fences,
but I never knew a white goat to injure itself on a fence. Many a
wild animal has died from fighting its shipping crate; but no wild
goat ever did so. A white goat will walk up a forty-five degree
plank to the roof of his house, climb all over it, and joyously
perch on the peak; but no mountain sheep or deer of ours ever did
so. _They are afraid!_ Only the Himalayan tahr equals the
white goat in climbing in captivity, and it will climb into the
lower branches of an oak tree, just for fun.
Of all the ruminant animals I know intimately, the white mountain
goat is the philosopher-in-chief. Were it not so, how would it be
possible for him to live and thrive, and attain happiness, on the
savage and fearsome summits that form his chosen home? We
must bear in mind that the big-horn does not dare to risk
the haunts and trails of his white rivals. Hear the Cragmaster of
the Rockies:
[Illustration with caption: THE STEADY-NERVED AND COURAGEOUS
MOUNTAIN GOAT He refused to be stampeded off his ledge by men or
dog. Photographed at eight feet by John M. Phillips (1905).]
"On dizzy ledge of mountain wall, above the timber-line I
hear the riven slide-rock fall toward the stunted pine. Upon
the paths I tread secure no foot dares follow me, For I am
master of the crags, and march above the scree."
In other chapters I have referred to the temperament and logic of
this animal, the bravest mountaineer of all America.
THE DEER.--In nervous energy the species of the Deer Family vary
all the way from the nervous and hysterical barasingha to the
sensible and steady American elk that can successfully be driven
in harness like a horse. As I look over the deer of all nations I
am bound to award the palm for sound common-sense and reasoning
power to the elk.
A foolishly nervous deer seldom takes time to display high
intelligence. Naturally we dislike men, women, children or wild
animals who are always ready to make fools of themselves,
stampede, and disfigure the landscape.
The Axis Deer is quietly sensible,--so long as there is no
catching to be done. Try to catch one, and the whole herd goes off
like a bomb. Many other species are similar. No wild deer could
act more absurdly than does the axis, the barasingha and fallow,
even after generations have been bred in captivity.
The Malay Sambar Deer of the Zoological Park have one droll trait.
The adult bucks bully and browbeat the does, in a rather mild way,
so long as their own antlers are on their heads. But when those
antlers take their annual drop, "O, times! O, manners! What a
change!" The does do not lose a day in flying at them, and taking
revenge for past tyranny. They strike the hornless bucks with
their front feet, they butt them, and they bite out of them
mouthfuls of hair. The bucks do not seem, to know that they can
fight without their antlers, and so the tables are completely
turned. This continues until the new horns grow out, the velvet
dries and is rubbed off,--and then quickly the tables are turned
again.
No other deer species of my personal acquaintance has ever
equalled the American elk of Wyoming in recognizing man's
protection and accepting his help in evil times. It is not only a
few wise ones, or a few half-domestic bands, but vast wild herds
of thousands that every winter rush to secure man's hay in the
Jackson Hole country, south of the Yellowstone Park. No matter how
shy they _all_ are in the October hunting season, in the bad
days of January and February they know that the annual armistice
is on, and it means hay for them instead of bullets. They swarm in
the level Jackson Valley, around S. N. Leek's famous ranch and
others, until you can see a square mile of solid gray-yellow
living elk bodies. Mr. Leek once caught about 2,500 head in one
photograph, all hungry. They crowd around the hay sleds like
hungry horses. In their greatest hunger they attack the ranchmen's
haystacks, just as far as the stout and high log fences will
permit them to go, and many a kind-hearted ranchman has robbed his
own haystacks to save the lives of starving and despairing elk.
The Yellowstone Park elk know the annual shooting and feeding
seasons just as thoroughly as do the men of Jackson Hole.
Once there was a bold and hardy western man who trained a bunch of
elk to dive from a forty-foot high platform into a pool of water.
I say that he "trained" them, because it really was that. The
animals quickly learned that the plunge did nothing more than to
shock and wet them, and so they submitted to the part they had to
play, with commendable resignation. Some deer would have fought
the program every step of the way, and soon worn themselves out;
but elk, and also horses, learn that the diving performance is all
in the day's work; which to me seems like good logic. A few
persons believe that such performances are cruel to the animals
concerned, but the diving alone is not necessarily so.
Some deer have far too much curiosity, too much desire to know
"What is that?" and "What is it all about?" The startled mule deer
leaps out, jumps a hundred feet or more at a great pace, then
foolishly stops and looks back, to gratify his curiosity. That is
the hunter's chance; and that fatal desire for accurate
information has been an important contributory cause to the
extermination of the mule deer, or Rocky Mountain "black-tail,"
throughout large areas. In the Yellowstone Park the once-wild
herds of mule deer have grown so tame under thirty years of
protection that they completely overrun the parade ground, the
officers' quarters, and even enter porches and kitchens for food.
Several authors have remarked upon the habits of the elephant,
llama and guanaco in returning to the same spot; and this reminds
me of a coincidence in my experience that few persons will believe
when I relate it.
In the wild and weird bad-lands of Hell Creek, Montana, I once
went out deer hunting in company with the original old hermit
wolf-hunter of that region, named Max Sieber. With deep feeling
Max told me of a remarkable miss that he had made the previous
year in firing at a fine mule deer buck from the top of a small
butte; for which I gave him my sympathy.
In the course of our morning's tramp through the very bad-lands
that were once the ancestral home of the giant carnivorous
dinosaur, yclept _Tyrannosaurus rex,_ we won our way to the
foot of a long naked butte. Then Sieber said, very kindly:
"If you will climb with me up to the top of this butte I will show
you where I missed that big buck."
It was not an alluring proposition, and I thought things that I
did not speak. However, being an Easy Mark, I said cheerfully,
"All right, Max. Go ahead and show me."
We toiled up to a much-too-distant point on the rounded summit,
and as Max slowed up and peered down the farther side, he pointed
and began to speak.
"He was standing right down there on that little patch of bare--
why!" he exclaimed. "_There's a dee-er there now!_ But it's a
doe! Get down! Get down!" and he crouched. Then I woke up and
became interested.
"It is _not_ a doe, Max. I see horns!"--Bang!
And in another five seconds a fine buck lay dead on the very spot
where Sieber's loved and lost buck had stood one year previously.
But that was only an unbelievable coincidence,--unbelievable to
all save old Max.
The natural impulse of the mule deer of those bad-lands when
flushed by a hunter is to _run over a ridge,_ and escape over
the top; but that is bad judgement and often proves fatal. It
would be wiser for them to run _down,_ to the bottoms of
those gashed and tortuous gullies, and escape by zig-zagging along
the dry stream beds.
The White-Tailed, or Virginia Deer is the wisest member of the
Deer Family in North America, and it will be our last big-game
species to become extinct. It has reduced self-preservation to an
exact science.
In areas of absolute protection it becomes very bold, and breeds
rapidly. Around our bungalow in the wilds of Putman County, New
York, the deer come and stamp under our windows, tramp through our
garden, feed in broad daylight with our neighbor's cattle, and
jauntily jump across the roads almost anywhere. They are beautiful
objects, in those wild wooded landscapes of lake and hill.
But in the Adirondacks, what a change! If you are keen you may see
a few deer in the closed season, but to see in the hunting season
a buck with good horns you must be a real hunter. As a skulker and
hider, and a detector of hunters, I know no deer equal to the
white-tail. In making a safe get-away when found, I will back a
buck of this species against all other deer on earth. He has no
fatal curiosity. He will not halt and pose for a bullet in order
to have a look at you. What the startled buck wants is more space
and more green bushes between the Man and himself.
The Moose is a weird-looking and uncanny monster, but he knows one
line of strategy that is startling in its logic. Often when a bull
moose is fleeing from a long stern chase,--always through wooded
country,--he will turn aside, swing a wide semicircle backward,
and then lie down for a rest close up to leeward of his trail.
There he lies motionless and waits for man-made noises, or man
scent; and when he senses either sign of his pursuer, he silently
moves away in a new direction.
The Antelopes of the Old World. The antelopes, gazelles, gnus and
hartebeests of Africa and Asia almost without exception live in
herds, some of them very large. Owing to this fact their minds are
as little developed, individually, as the minds of herd animals
generally are. The herd animal, relying as it does upon its
leaders, and the security that large numbers always seem to
afford, is a creature of few independent ideas. It is not like the
deer, elk, sheep or goat that has learned things in the hard
school of solitude, danger and adversity, with no one on whom to
rely for safety save itself. The basic intelligence of the average
herd animal can be summed up in one line:
"Post your sentinels, then follow your leader."
Judging from what hunters in Africa have told me, the hunting of
most kinds of African antelopes is rather easy and quiet long-
range rifle work. In comparison with any sheep, goat, ibex,
markhor and even deer hunting, it must be rather mild sport. A
level grassy plain with more or less bushes and small trees for
use in stalking is a tame scenario beside mountains and heavy
forests, and it seems to me that this sameness and tameness of
habitat naturally fails to stimulate the mental development of the
wild habitants. In captivity, excepting the keen kongoni, or
Coke hartebeest, and a few others, the old-world antelopes are
mentally rather dull animals. They seem to have few thoughts, and
seldom use what they have; but when attacked or wounded the roan
antelope is hard to finish. In captivity their chief exercise
consists in rubbing and wearing down their horns on the iron bars
of their indoor cages, but I must give one of our brindled gnus
extra credit for the enterprise and thoroughness that he displayed
in wrecking a powerfully-built water-trough, composed of concrete
and porcelain. The job was as well done as if it had been the work
of a big-horn ram showing off. But that was the only exhibition of
its kind by an African antelope.
The Alleged "Charge" of the Rhinoceros. For half a century African
hunters wrote of the assaults of African rhinoceroses on caravans
and hunting parties; and those accounts actually established for
that animal a reputation for pugnacity. Of late years, however,
the evil intentions of the rhinoceros have been questioned by
several hunters. Finally Col. Theodore Roosevelt firmly declared
his belief that the usual supposed "charge" of the rhinoceros is
nothing more nor less than a movement to draw nearer to the
strange man-object, on account of naturally poor vision, to see
what men look like. In fact, I think that most American sportsmen
who have hunted in Africa now share that view, and credit the
rhino with very rarely running at a hunter or a party in order to
do damage.
The Okapi, of Central Africa, inhabits dense jungles of arboreal
vegetation and they are so expert in detecting the presence of man
and in escaping from him that thus far, so far as we are aware, no
white man has ever shot one! The native hunters take them only in
pitfalls or in nooses. Mr. Herbert Lang, of the American Museum of
Natural History, diligently hunted the okapi, with native aid, but
in spite of all his skill in woodcraft the cunning of the okapi
was so great, and the brushy woods were so great a handicap to
him, that he never shot even one specimen.
In skill in self-preservation the African bongo antelope seems to
be a strong rival of the okapi, but it has been killed by a few
white men, of whom Captain Kermit Roosevelt is one.
XIV
MENTAL TRAITS OF A FEW RODENTS
Out of the vast mass of the great order of the gnawing animals of
the world it is possible here to consider only half a dozen types.
However, these will serve to blaze a trail into the midst of the
grand army.
The White-Footed Mouse, or Deer Mouse. On the wind-swept divides
and coulees of the short-grass region of what once were the
Buffalo Plains of Montana, only the boldest and most resourceful
wild mice can survive. There in 1886 we found a white-footed mouse
species (_Peromyscus leucopus_), nesting in the brain
cavities of bleaching buffalo skulls, on divides as bare and
smooth as golf links.
In 1902, while hunting mule deer with Laton A. Huffman in the
wildest and most picturesque bad-lands of central Montana, we
pitched our tent near the upper waterhole of Hell Creek.
[Footnote: A few months later, acting upon the information of our
fossil discoveries that we conveyed to Professor Henry Fairfield
Osborn, an expedition from the American Museum of Natural History
ushered into the scientific world the now famous Hell Creek fossil
bed, and found, about five hundred feet from the ashes of our
camp-fire, the remains of _Tyrannosaurus rex._]For the
benefit of our camp-fire, our cook proceeded to hitch his rope
around a dry cottonwood log and snake it close up to our tent.
When it was cut up, we found snugly housed in the hollow, a nest,
made chiefly of feathers, containing five white-footed mice.
Packed close against the nest was a pint and a half of fine, clean
seed, like radish seed, from some weed of the Pulse Family. While
the food-store was being examined, and finally deposited in a pile
upon the bare ground near the tent door, the five mice escaped
into the sage-brush. Near by stood an old-fashioned buggy, which
now becomes a valuable piece of stage property.
The next morning, when Mr. Huffman lifted the cushion of his
buggy-seat, and opened the top of the shallow box underneath, the
five mice, with their heads close together in a droll-looking
group, looked out at him in surprise and curiosity, and at first
without attempting to run away. But very soon it became our turn
to be surprised.
We found that these industrious little creatures had gathered up
every particle of their nest, and every seed of their winter
store, and carried all of it up into the seat of that buggy! The
nest had been carefully re-made, and the seed placed close by, as
before. Considering the number of journeys that must have been
necessary to carry all those materials over the ground, plus a
climb up to the buggy seat, the industry and agility of the mice
were amazing.
By way of experiment, we again removed the nest, and while the
mice once more took to the sage-brush, we collected all the seed,
and poured it in a pile upon the ground, as before. During the
following night, those indomitable little creatures _again_
carried nest and seed back into the buggy seat, just as before!
Then we gathered up the entire family of mice with their nest and
seed, and transported them to New York.
Now, the reasoning of those wonderful little creatures, in the
face of new conditions, was perfectly obvious, (1) Finding
themselves suddenly deprived of their winter home and store of
food, (2) they scattered and fled for personal safety into the
tall grass and sage-brush. (3) At night they assembled for a
council at the ruins of their domicile and granary. (4) They
decided that they must in all haste find a new home, close by,
because (5) at all hazards their store of food must be saved, to
avert starvation. (6) They explored the region around the tent and
camp-fire, and (7) finally, as a last resort, they ventured to
climb up the thills of the buggy. (8) After a full exploration of
it they found that the box under the seat afforded the best winter
shelter they had found. (9) At once they decided that it would do,
and without a moment's delay or hesitation the whole party of five
set to work carrying those seeds up the thills--a fearsome venture
for a mouse--and (10) there before daybreak they deposited the
entire lot of seeds. (11) Finding that a little time remained,
they carried up the whole of their nest materials, made up the
nest anew, and settled down within it for better or for worse.
Now, this is no effort of our imagination. It is a story of actual
facts, all of which can be proven by three competent witnesses.
How many human beings similarly dispossessed and robbed of home
and stores, act with the same cool judgment, celerity and
precision that those five tiny creatures then and there displayed?
The Wood Rat, Pack Rat, or Trading Rat. Although I have met this
wonderful creature (_Neotoma_) in various places on its
native soil, I will quote from another and perfectly reliable
observer a sample narrative of its startling mental traits. At Oak
Lodge, east coast of Florida, we lived for a time in the home of
a pair of pack rats whose eccentric work was described to me by Mrs.
C. F. Latham, as follows:
First they carried a lot of watermelon seeds from the ground floor
upstairs, and hid them under a pillow on a bed. Then they took
from the kitchen a tablespoonful of cucumber seeds and hid them in
the pocket of a vest that hung upstairs on a nail. In one night
they removed from box number one, eighty five pieces of bee-hive
furniture, and hid them in another box. On the following night
they deposited in box number one about two quarts of corn and
oats.
Western frontiersmen and others who live in the land of the pack
rat relate stories innumerable of the absurd but industrious
doings of these eccentric creatures. The ways of the pack rat are
so erratic that I find it impossible to figure out by any rules
known to me the workings of their minds. Strange to say, they are
not fiends and devils of malice and destruction like the brown rat
of civilization, and on the whole it seems that the destruction of
valuable property is not by any means a part of their plan. They
have a passion for moving things. Their vagaries seem to be due
chiefly to caprice, and an overwhelming desire to keep exceedingly
busy. I think that the animal psychologists have lost much by so
completely ignoring these brain-busy animals, and I hope that in
the future they will receive the attention they deserve. Why
experiment with stupid and nerveless white rats when pack rats are
so cheap?
It was in the wonderland that on the map is labeled "Arizona"
that I met some astonishing evidences of the defensive reasoning
power of the pack rat. In the Sonoran Desert, where for arid
reasons the clumps of creosote bushes and salt bushes stand from
four to six feet apart, the bare level ground between clumps
affords smooth and easy hunting-grounds for coyotes, foxes and
badgers, saying nothing of the hawks and owls.
Now, a burrow in sandy ground is often a poor fortress; and the
dropping spine-clad joints of the tree choyas long ago suggested
better defenses. In many places we saw the entrance of pack rat
burrows defended by two bushels of spiny choya joints and sticks
arranged in a compact mound-like mass. In view of the virtue in
those deadly spines, any predatory mammal or bird would hesitate
long before tackling a bushel of solid joints to dig through it to
the mouth of a burrow.
Did those little animals collect and place those joints because of
their defensive stickers,--with deliberate forethought and
intention? Let us see.
In the grounds of the Desert Botanical Laboratory, in November
1907, we found the answer to this question, so plainly spread
before us that even the dullest man can not ignore it, nor the
most skeptical dispute it. We found some pack rat runways and
burrow entrances so elaborately laid out and so well defended by
choya joints that we may well call the ensemble a fortress. On
the spot I made a very good map of it, which is presented on page
164. [Footnote: From "Camp-Fires on Desert and Lava" (Scribner's)
page 304.] The animal that made it was the White-Throated Pack Rat
(_Neotoma albigula_). The fortress consisted of several
burrow entrances, the roads leading to which were defended by
carefully constructed barriers of cactus joints full of spines.
The habitants had chosen to locate their fortress between a large
creosote bush and a tree-choya cactus (_Opuntia fulgida_)
that grew on bare ground, twelve feet apart. When away from home
and in danger, the pack rats evidently fled for safety to one or
the other of those outposts. Between them the four entrance holes,
then in use, went down into the earth; and there were also four
abandoned holes.
Connecting the two outposts,--the creosote bush and the choya,--
with the holes that were in daily use there were some
much-used runways, as shown on the map; and each side of each
runway was barricaded throughout its length with spiny joints of
the choya. A few of the joints were old and dry, but the majority
were fresh and in full vigor. We estimated that about three
hundred cactus joints were in use guarding those runways; and no
coyote or fox of my acquaintance, nor eke a dog of any sense,
would rashly jump upon that spiny pavement to capture a rat.
[Illustration with caption: FORTRESS OF A PACK-RAT, AT TUCSON
DEFENDED BY THE SPINY POINTS OF THE TREE CHOYA (_Opuntia
fulgida_)]
Beyond the cactus outpost the main run led straight to the
sheltering base of a thick mesquite bush and a palo verde that
grew tightly together. This gave an additional ten feet of safe
ground, or about twenty-five feet in all.
On our journey to the Pinacate Mountains, northwestern Mexico, we
saw about twelve cactus-defended burrows of the pack rat, some of
them carefully located in the midst of large stones that rendered
digging by predatory animals almost impossible.
The beautiful little Desert Kangaroo Rat (_Dipodomys
deserti_) has worked out quite a different system of home
protection. It inhabits deserts of loose sand and creosote bushes,
where it digs burrows innumerable, always located amid the roots
of the bushes, and each one provided with three or four
entrances,--or exits, as the occasion may require. Each burrow is
a bewildering labyrinth of galleries and tunnels, and in
attempting to lay bare an interior the loose sand caved in, and
the little sprite that lived there either escaped at a distant
point or was lost in the shuffle of sand.
The Gray Squirrel (_Sciurus carolinensis_).--This beautiful
and sprightly animal quickly recognizes man's protection and
friendship, and meets him half way. Go into the woods, sit still,
make a noise like a nut, and if any grays are there very soon you
will see them. The friendships between our Park visitors and the
Park's wild squirrels are one of the interesting features of our
daily life. We have an excellent picture of Mrs. Russell Sage
sitting on a park bench with a wild gray squirrel in her lap. I
have never seen red or fox squirrels that even approached the
confidence of the gray squirrel in the truce with Man, the
Destroyer, but no doubt generous treatment would produce in the
former the gray squirrel's degree of confidence.
I never knew an observer of the home life of the gray squirrel who
was not profoundly impressed by the habit of that animal in
burying nuts in the autumn, and digging them up for food in the
winter and spring. From my office window I have seen our silver-
gray friends come hopping through eight or ten inches of snow,
carefully select a spot, then quickly bore a hole down through the
snow to Mother Earth, and emerge with a nut. Thousands of people
have seen this remarkable performance and I think that the
majority of them still ask the question: "_How_ does the
squirrel know precisely where to dig?" That question cannot be
answered until we have learned how to read the squirrel mind.
Small city parks easily become overstocked with gray squirrels
that are not adequately fed, and the result is,--complaints of
"depredations." Of course hungry and half-starved squirrels will
depredate,--on birds' nests, fruit and gardens. My answer to all
inquirers for advice in such cases is--_feed the squirrels,
adequately, and constantly, on cracked corn and nuts, and send
away the surplus squirrels._
At this time many persons know that the wild animals and birds now
living upon the earth are here solely because they have had
sufficient sense to devise ways and means by which to survive. The
ignorant, the incompetent, the slothful and the unlucky ones have
passed from earth and joined the grand army of fossils.
Take the case of the Rocky Mountain Pika, or little chief "hare,"
of British Columbia and elsewhere. It is not a hare at all, and it
is so queer that it occupies a family all alone. I am now
concerning myself with _Ochotona princeps,_ of the Canadian
Rockies. It is very small and weak, but by its wits it lives in a
country reeking with hungry bears, wolverines and martens. The
pika is so small and so weak that in the open he could not
possibly dig down below the grizzly bear's ability to dig.
And what does he do to save himself, and insure the survival of
the fittest?
He burrows far down in the slide-rock that falls from the cliffs,
where he is protected by a great bed of broken stone so thick that
no predatory animal can dig through it and catch him. There in
those awful solitudes, enlivened only by the crack and rattle of
falling slide-rock, the harsh cry of Clark's nut-cracker and the
whistling wind sweeping over the storm-threshed summits and
through the stunted cedar, the pika chooses to make his
home. Over the slide-rock that protects him, the snows of the long
and dreary winter pile up from six to ten feet deep, and lie
unbroken for months. And how does the pika survive?
[Illustration
with caption: WILD CHIPMUNKS RESPOND TO MAN'S PROTECTION. J. Alden
Loring and his wild pets]
[Illustration with caption: AN OPOSSUM FEIGNING DEATH]
When he is awake, _he lives on hay, of his own making!_
In September and October, and up to the arrival of the enveloping
snow, he cuts plants of certain kinds to his liking, he places
them in little piles atop of rocks or fallen logs where the sun
will strike them, and he leaves them there until they dry
sufficiently to be stored without mildewing. Mr. Charles L. Smith
declared that the pikas know enough to change their little hay
piles as the day wears on, from shade to sunlight. The plants to
be made into hay are cut at the edge of the slide-rock, usually
about a foot in length, and are carried in and placed on flat-
topped rocks around the mouth of the burrow. The stems are laid
together with fair evenness, and from start to finish the
haymaking of the pika is conducted with admirable system and
precision. When we saw and examined half a dozen of those curing
hay piles, we felt inclined to take off our hats to the thinking
mind of that small animal which was making a perfectly successful
struggle to hold its own against the winter rigors of the summits,
and at the same time escape from its enemies.
The common, every-day Cotton-Tail Rabbit (_Lepus sylvaticus_)
is not credited by anyone with being as wise as a fox, but that
is due to our own careless habits of thought. It has been man's way,
ever since the days of the Cavemen, to underrate all wild animals
except himself. We are not going to cite a long line of individual
instances to exhibit the mental processes or the natural wisdom of
the rabbit. All we need do is to point to its success in
maintaining its existence in spite of the enemies arrayed against
it.
Take the state of Pennsylvania, and consider this list of the
rabbit's mortal enemies:
450,000 well-armed men and boys, regularly licensed and diligently
gunning throughout six weeks of the year, and actually killing
each year about 3,500,000 rabbits!
200,000 farmers hunting on their own farms, without licenses.
Predatory animals, such as dogs, cats, skunks, foxes and weasels.
Predatory birds: hawks, eagles and owls.
Destructive elements: forest fires, rain, snow and sleet.
Now, is it not a wonder that _any_ rabbits remain alive in
Pennsylvania? But they are there. They refuse to be exterminated.
Half of them annually outwit all their enemies--smart as they
are; they avoid death by hunger and cold, and they go on breeding
in defiance of wild men, beasts and birds. Is it not wonderful--
the mentality of the gray rabbit? Again we say--the wild animal
must think or die.
In recognizing man's protection and friendship, the rabbit is as
quick on the draw as the gray squirrel. In our Zoological Park
where we constantly kill hunting cats in order that our little
wild neighbors, the rabbits, squirrels and chipmunks may live, the
rabbits live literally in our midst. They hang around the
Administration Building, rear and front, as if they owned it; and
one evening at sunset I came near stepping out upon a pair that
were roosting on the official door-mat on the porch. There are
times when they seem annoyed by the passage of automobiles over
the service road.
To keep hungry rabbits from barking your young apple trees in
midwinter, spend a dollar or two in buying two or three bushels of
corn expressly for them.
The sentry system of the Prairie-"Dog" in guarding "towns" is very
nearly perfect. A warning chatter quickly sends every "dog"
scurrying to the mouth of its hole, ready for the dive to safety
far below. No! the prairie-"dog," rattlesnake and burrowing owl
emphatically do NOT dwell together in peace and harmony in the
burrow of the "dog." The rodent hates both these interloping
enemies, and carefully avoids them. The pocket gopher does his
migrating and prospecting at night, when his enemies are asleep.
The gray squirrel builds for itself a summer nest of leaves. At
the real beginning of winter the prairie-"dog" tightly plugs up
with moist earth the mouth of his burrow; and he packs it with his
nose. The round-tailed muskrat of Florida (_Neofiber alleni_)
builds a little platform over the water of the marsh in which it
lives, on which it builds its nest high and dry. The Hudsonian red
squirrel will bark and scold at a human intruder for half an hour.
In Chapter IV I have already accorded the beaver a place with the
most intelligent animals of the world. The books that have been
written concerning that species have been amply justified. It is,
however, impossible to refuse this important animal a place in any
chapter devoted to the mental traits of rodents, and I deem it
fitting to record here our latest experience with this remarkable
species.
Our Last Beaver Experiment. In the autumn of 1921 we emptied and
cleaned out our Beaver Pond. The old house originally built by the
beavers in the centre of the pond, was for sanitary reasons
entirely removed. Work on the pond was not finished until about
October 25; and the beavers had no house.
It seemed to me a physical impossibility for the beavers to begin
a new house at that late date and unassisted finish it by the
beginning of winter. One beaver had escaped, and for the remaining
three such a task would be beyond their powers. I decided to give
them a helping hand, provided they would accept it, by providing
them with a wooden house, which they might if they chose, entirely
surround and snugly cover with mud and sticks.
But would they accept it in a grateful spirit, and utilize it? One
cannot always tell what a wild animal will do.
With loose earth a low island with a flat top was built to carry
the house. Its top was six inches above high-water mark, and (that
would, if accepted) be the floor of the permanent house. A good,
practicable tunnel was built to an underwater entrance.
Upon that our men set a square, bottomless house of wood, with
walls two feet high, and a low roof sloping four ways. Over all
this the men piled in a neat mound a lot of tree branches of kinds
suitable for beaver food; and with that we left the situation up
to the beavers. The finish of our work was made on October 28.
For a week there were no developments. The beavers made no sign of
approval or disapproval. And then things began to happen. On
November 5 we saw a beaver carrying a small green branch into the
house for _bedding!_ That meant that our offering was going
to be accepted.
The subsequent chronology of that beaver house is as follows:
Nov. 10. The beavers pulled all our brush away from the house,
back to a distance of six or seven feet. The house stood fully
exposed.
Nov. 11. They began to pile up mud and sticks against the base of
the south wall.
Nov. 15. Mud-building to cover the house was in full progress.
Nov. 17. Much of our brush had been placed in the stock of food
wood being stored for winter use in the pond west of the house.
Nov. 29. The outside of the house was completely covered up to the
edges of the roof. The beavers were working fast and hard. No
freezing weather yet.
Dec. 15. The roof was not yet covered. Ice had formed on the pond,
and house-building operations were at an end until the spring of
1922.
XV
THE MENTAL TRAITS OF BIRDS
In comparison with mammalian mentality, the avian mind is much
more elementary and primitive. It is as far behind the average of
the mammals as the minds of fishes are inferior to those of
reptiles.
Instinct Prominent in Birds. The average bird is more a creature
of instinct than of reason. Primarily it lives and moves by and
through the knowledge that it has inherited, rather than by the
observations it has made and the things it has thought out in its
own head.
But let it not for one moment be supposed that the instinctive
knowledge of the bird is of a mental quality inferior to that of
the mammal. The difference is in kind only, not in degree. As a
factor in self-preservation the keen and correct reasoning of the
farm-land fox is in no sense superior to the wonderful instinct
and prescience of the golden plover that, on a certain calendar
day, or week, bids farewell to its comfortable breeding-grounds in
the cold north beyond the arctic circle, rises high in the air and
launches forth on its long and perilous migration flight of 8,000
miles to its winter resort in Argentina.
The Migrations of Birds. Volumes have been written on the
migrations of birds. The subject is vast, and inexhaustable. It
is perhaps the most wonderful of all the manifestations of avian
intelligence. It is of interest chiefly to the birds of the
temperate zone, whose summer homes and food supplies are for four
months of the year buried under a mantle of snow and ice. All but
a corporal's guard of the birds of the United States and Canada
must go south every winter or perish from starvation and cold. It
is a case of migrate or die. Many of the birds do not mind the
cold of the northern winter--if it is dry; and _if they could be
fed in winter,_ many of them would remain with us throughout
the year.
Consider the migratory habits of our own home favorites,
and see what they reveal. After all else has been said, bird
migration is the one unfathomable wonder of the avian world.
Really, we know of it but little more than we know of the songs of
the morning stars. We have learned when the birds start; we know
that many of them fly far above the earth; we know where some of
them land, and the bird calendars show approximately when they
will return. And is not that really about _all_ that we do
know?
[Illustration with caption: MIGRATION OF THE GOLDEN PLOVER From
"Bird Migration,", by Dr. W. W. Cooke, U. S. Department of
Agriculture, 1915.]
What courage it must take, to start on the long, tiresome and
dangerous journey! How do they know where to go, far into the
heart of the South, to find rest, food and security? When and
where do they stop on the way to feed? Vast areas are passed over
without alighting; for many species never are seen in mid career.
Why is it that the golden plover feels that it is worth while to
fly from the arctic coast to Argentina?
Let any man--if one there be--who is not profoundly impressed by
the combined instinct and the reasoning of migratory birds do
himself the favor to procure and study the 47-page pamphlet by Dr.
Wells W. Cooke, of the U. S. Department of Agriculture, entitled
"Bird Migration." I wish I could reproduce it entire; but since
that is impossible, here are a few facts and figures from it.
The Bobolink summers in the northern United States and southern
Canada, and winters in Paraguay, making 5000 miles of travel each
way.
The Scarlet Tanager summers in the northeastern quarter of the
United States and winters in Colombia, Equador and northern Peru,
a limit to limit flight of 3,880 miles.
The Golden Plover (_Charadrius dominicus_).--"In fall it
flies over the ocean from Nova Scotia to South America, 2,400
miles--the longest known flight of any bird. In spring it returns
by way of the Mississippi Valley. Thus the migration routes form
an enormous ellipse, with a minor axis of 2,000 miles and a major
axis stretching 8,000 miles from arctic America to Argentina."
(Cooke.) The Arctic Tern (_Sterna paradisaea_), is "the
champion long-distance migrant of the world. It breeds as far
north as it can find land on which to build its nest, and winters
as far south as there is open water to furnish it food. The
extreme summer and winter homes are 11,000 miles apart, or a
yearly round trip of 22,000 miles." (Cooke.)
By what do migrating birds guide their courses high in air on a
pitch-dark night,--their busy time for flying? Do they, too, know
about the mariner's Southern Cross, and steer by it on starlit
nights? Equally strange things have happened.
The regular semi-annual migrations of birds may fairly be regarded
as the high-water mark of instinct so profound and far-reaching
that it deserves to rank as high as reason. To me it is one of the
most marvelous things in Nature's Book of Wonders. I never see a
humming-bird poised over a floral tube of a trumpet creeper
without pausing, in wonder that is perpetual, and asking the
eternal question: "Frail and delicate feathered sprite, that any
storm-gust might dash to earth and destroy, and that any enemy
might crush, _how_ do you make your long and perilous
journeys unstarved and unkilled? Is it because you bear a charmed
life? What is the unsolved mystery of your tiny existence in this
rough and cruel world?"
We understand well enough the foundation principles of mammalian
and avian life, and existence under adverse circumstances. The
mammal is tied to his environment. He cannot go far from the
circumpolar regions of his home. A bear chained to a stake is
emblematic of the universal handicap on mammalian life. Survive or
perish, the average land-going quadruped must stay put, and make
the best of the home in which he is born. If he attempts to
migrate fast and far, he is reasonably certain to get into grave
danger, and lose his life.
The bird, however, is a free moral agent. If the purple grackle
does not like the sunflower seeds in my garden, lo! he is up and
away across the Sound to Oyster Bay, Long Island, where his luck
may be better. Failing there, he gives himself a transfer to
Wilmington, or Richmond, via his own Atlantic coast line.
The wonderful migratory instincts of birds have been developed
and intensified through countless generations by the imperative
need for instinctive guidance, and the comparatively small
temptation to inductive reasoning based on known facts. Evidently
the bird is emboldened to migrate by the comfortable belief that
somewhere the world contains food and warmth to its liking, and
that if it flies fast enough and far enough it will find it.
As a weather prophet, the prescience of the bird is strictly
limited. The warm spells of late February deceive the birds just
as they do the flowers of the peach tree and the apple. Often the
bluebirds and robins migrate northward too early, encounter
blizzards, and perish in large numbers from snow, sleet, cold and
hunger.
The Homing Sense of Birds. We can go no farther than to say that
while the homing instinct of certain species of birds is quite
well known, the mental process by which it functions is
practically unknown. The direction instinct of the homing pigeon
is marvelous, but we know that that instinct does not leap full-
fledged from the nest. The homer needs assistance and training.
When it is about three months old, it is taken in a basket to a
point a mile distant from its home and liberated. If it makes good
in returning to the home loft, the distances are increased by easy
stages--two, three, five, ten, twenty, thirty, fifty and seventy-
five miles usually being flown before the bird is sent as far as
100 miles. The official long-distance record for a homing pigeon
is 1689.44 miles, held by an American bird.
The homing instinct, or sense, is present in some mammals, but it
is by no means so phenomenal as in some species of birds. In
mammals it is individual rather than species-wide. Individual
horses, dogs and cats have done wonderful things under the
propulsion of the homing instinct, but that instinct is by no
means general throughout those species. Among wild animals,
exhibitions of the home-finding instinct are rare, but the annals
of the Zoological Park contain one amusing record.
For emergency reasons, a dozen fallow deer once were quartered in
our Bison range, behind a fence only sixty-six inches high.
Presently they leaped out to freedom, disappeared in the thick
northern forests of the Bronx, and we charged them up to profit
and loss. But those deer soon found that life outside our domain
was not the dream of paradise that they had supposed. After about
a week of wandering through a cold, unsympathetic and oatless
world those were sadder and wiser deer, and one night they all
returned and joyously and thankfully jumped back into their range,
where they were happy ever after.
Recognition of Sanctuary Protection. In this field of precise
observation and reasoning, most birds,--if not indeed all of
them,--are quick in discernment and accurate in deduction. The
great gauntlet of guns has taught the birds of the United States
and Canada to recognize the difference between areas of shooting
and no shooting. Dull indeed is the bird mind that does not know
enough to return to the feeding-ground in which it has been safe
from attack. The wild geese and ducks are very keen about
sanctuary waters, and no protected pond or river is too small to
command attention. Our own little Lake Agassiz, in the New York
Zoological Park, each year is the resort of hundreds of mallards
and black ducks. And each year a number of absolutely wild wood
ducks breed there and in spite of all dangers rear their young.
Our wild-fowl pond, surrounded by various installations for birds,
several times has been honored by visiting delegations of wild
geese, seven of which were caught in 1902 for exhibition.
The most astounding example of avian recognition of protection
and human friendship is the spectacle of Mr. Jack Miner's wild
goose sanctuary at Kingsville, Ontario, not far from Detroit. With
his tile works on one side and his home on the other, he scooped
out between them clay for his factory and made a small pond. With
deliberate and praiseworthy intention Mr. Miner planted there a
little flock of pinioned wild Canada geese, as a notice of
sanctuary and an invitation to wild flocks to come down for food,
rest and good society.
Very slowly at first the wild geese began to come; but finally the
word was passed along the line from Hudson Bay to Currituck Sound
that Miner's roadhouse was a good place at which to stop. Year by
year the wild geese came, and saw, and were conquered. So many
thousands came that presently Mr. Miner grew tired of spending out
of his own pocket more than $700 a year for goose corn; and then
the Canadian government most commendably assumed the burden, and
made Mr. Miner's farm a national bird preserve. [Footnote: Mr.
Miner is writing his wild-goose story into a book: and the story
is worth it!]
The annals of wild life protection literature contain many records
and illustrations of the remarkable quickness and thoroughness of
sanctuary recognition by birds. On the other hand I feel greatly
annoyed by the failure of waterfowl to reason equally well
regarding the decoys of duck-shooters. They fail to learn, either
by experience or hearsay, that small flocks of ducks sitting
motionless near a shore are loaded, and liable to go off. They
fail to learn that it is most wise to settle well outside such
flocks of alleged ducks, and that it is a fatal mistake to plump
down on the top of a motionless bunch.
Protective Association of Wasps and Caciques. The colonizing
caciques, of South America, representing four genera, are very
solicitous of the safety of their colonies. In numerous cases,
these colonies are found in association with wasps, one or more
nests invariably being found near the nests of the birds. It is
natural to infer that this strange association is due to the
initiative of the birds. When monkeys attack the birds, the birds
need the stinging insects.
As usual in the study of wild creatures, the first thing that we
encounter in the wild bird is
Temperament. On this hangs the success or failure of a species in
association with man. Temperament in the most intellectual wild
creatures is just as evident and negotiable to the human eye as
colors are in fur or feathers.
A vastly preponderating number of bird species are of sanguine
temperament; and it is this fact alone that renders it possible
for us to exhibit continuously from 700 to 800 species of birds.
Sensible behavior in captivity is the one conspicuous trait of
character in which birds mentally and physically are far better
balanced than mammals. But few birds are foolishly nervous or
hysterical, and when once settled down the great majority of them
are sanguine and philosophical. Birds of a great many species can
be caught in an adult state and settled down in captivity without
difficulty; whereas all save a few species of mammals, when
captured as adults, are irreconcilable fighters and many of them
die far too quickly. In a well-regulated zoological park nearly
every animal that has been caught when adult is a failure and a
nuisance.
To name the species of birds that can be caught fully grown and
settled down for exhibition purposes, would create a list of
formidable length. It is indeed fortunate for us that this is
true; for the rearing of nestlings is a tedious task.
A conspicuous exception to the rule of philosophic sedateness in
newly caught birds is the loon, or great northern diver. That bird
is so exceedingly nervous and foolish, and so persistent in its
evil ways, that never once have we succeeded in inducing a loon to
settle down on exhibition and be good. When caught and placed in
our kind of captivity, the loon goes daft. It dives and dives, and
swims under water until it is completely exhausted; it loses its
appetite, and very soon dies. Of course if one had a whole marine
biological station to place at the disposal of the foolish loon,
it might get on.
There are other odd exceptions to the rule of normal bird conduct.
Some of our upland game birds, particularly the Franklin grouse
and ptarmigan of the Rocky Mountains, display real mental
deficiencies in the very necessary business of self-preservation.
WILDNESS AND TAMENESS OF THE RUFFED GROUSE. The ruffed grouse is
one of the most difficult of all North American game birds to keep
in captivity. This fact is due largely, though not entirely, to
the nervous and often hysterical temperament of this species. Some
birds will within a reasonable time quiet down and accept
captivity, but others throughout long periods,--or forever,--
remain wild as hawks, and perpetually try to dash themselves to
pieces against the wire of their enclosures. Prof. A. A. Allen of
Cornell once kept a bird for an entire year, only to find it at
the end of that time hopelessly wild; so he gave the bird its
liberty.
However, in this species there are numerous exceptions. Some wing-
tipped birds have calmed down and accepted captivity gracefully
and sensibly, and a few of the cases of this kind have been
remarkable. The most astonishing cases, however, have been of the
tameness of free wild birds, in the Catskills, and also near the
city of Schenectady. A great many perfectly truthful stories have
been published of wild birds that actually sought close
acquaintance with people, and took food from their hands.
We have been asked to account for those strange manifestations,
but it is impossible to do so. It seems that in some manner,
certain grouse individuals learned that Man is not always a killer
and a dangerous animal, and so those birds accepted him as a
friend,--until the killers came along and violated the sanctuary
status.
It is both necessary, and highly desirable for the increase of
species, that all wild birds should fly promptly, rapidly and far
from the presence of Man, the Arch Enemy of Wild Life. The species
that persistently neglects to do so, or is unable, soon is utterly
destroyed. The great auk species was massacred and extirpated on
Funk Island because it could not get away from its sordid enemies
who destroyed it for a paltry supply of _oil_.
The Fool Hen and Its Folly. In our own country there exists a
grouse species so foolish in its mind, and so destitute of the
most ordinary instinct of self-preservation that it has been known
for many years as "the Fool Hen." Definitely, it is the Franklin
Grouse (_Conachites franklini_), and its home is in the
foothills of the Rocky Mountains. This famous and pitiable victim
of misplaced confidence will sit only eight feet up on a jack pine
limb, beside a well travelled road, while Mack Norboe dismounts,
finds a suitable stick, and knocks the foolish bird dead from its
perch. I have seen these birds sit still and patiently wait for
their heads to be shot off, one by one, with a .22 calibre
revolver when all points of the compass were open for their
escape.
All this, however, must be set down as an unusual and phenomenal
absence of the most natural instinct of self-protection. The
pinnated grouse, sage grouse, Bob White quail and ptarmigan
exercise but little keen reason in self-protection. They are easy
marks,--the joy of the pot-hunter and the delight of the duffer
"sportsman."
Dullness of Instinct in Grouse and Quail. The pinnated grouse,
which in Iowa and the Dakotas positively is a migratory bird, does
know enough to fly high when it is migrating, but seemingly this
species and the sage grouse never will grow wise enough to save
themselves from hunters when on their feeding grounds. In
detecting the presence of their arch enemy they are hopelessly
dull; and they are slow in taking wing.
The quail is a very good hider, but a mighty poor flyer. When a
covey is flushed by a collection of dogs and armed men, the
lightning-quick and explosive get-away is all right; but the
unshot birds do not fly half far enough! Instead of bowling away
for two or three miles and getting clear out of the danger zone
and hiding in the nearest timber, what do they do? They foolishly
stop on the other side of the field, or in the next acre of brush,
in full view of the hunters and dogs, who find it great fun to
hustle after them and in fifteen minutes put them up again. Thus
it is easy for a hunting party to "follow up" a covey until the
last bird of it has been bagged.
Just before the five-year close season on quail went into effect
in Iowa, this incident occurred:
On a farm of four hundred acres in the southern part of the state,
two gunners killed so nearly up to their bag limit of _fifty
birds per day_ that in ten days they went away with 400 quail.
The foolish birds obstinately refused to leave the farm which had
been their home and shelter. Day after day the chase with dogs and
men, and the fusillade of shots, went briskly on. As a matter of
fact, that outfit easily could have gone on until every quail on
that farm had fallen.
It is indeed strange that the very bird which practices such fine
and successful strategy in leading an intruder away from its
helpless young, by playing wounded, should fail so seriously when
before the guns. A hunted quail covey should learn to post a
sentry to watch for danger and give the alarm in time for a safe
flight.
But I know one quail species that is a glorious exception. It is
Gambel's quail, of southern Arizona. I saw a good wing shot, Mr.
John M. Phillips, hunt that quail (without dogs) until he was hot
and red, and come in with more wrath than birds. He said, with an
injured air:
"The little beggars won't rise! I don't want to shoot them on the
ground, and the minute they rise above the creosote bushes they
drop right down into them again, and go on running."
It was even so. They simply will not rise and fly away, as Bob
White does, giving the sportsmen a chance to kill them, but when
forced to fly up clear of the bushes they at once drop back again.
[Footnote: A very few quail-killers of the East who oppose long
close seasons contend that quail coveys "breed better" when they
are shot to pieces every year and "scattered," but we observed
that the quail of the Sonoran Desert managed to survive and breed
and perpetuate themselves numerously without the benevolent
cooperation of the "pump-gun" and the automatic shotgun.] While
the study of avian mentality is a difficult undertaking, this is
no excuse for the fact that up to this date (1922) that field of
endeavor has been only scratched on its surface. The birds of the
world are by no means so destitute of ideas and inventions that
they merit almost universal neglect. Because of the suggestions
they contain we will point out a few prominent mental traits in
birds, chosen at random.
At the same time, let us all beware of seeing too much, and chary
of recording scientific hallucinations. It is better to see
nothing than to see many things that are not true! In ten octavo
pages that particular rock can split wide open the best reputation
ever grown.
Bird Architecture. The wisdom of birds in the selection of nesting
sites, the designing of the best nest for their respective wants,
and finally the construction of them, indicate instinct, reasoning
power and mechanical skill of a high order. The range from the
wonderful woven homes of the weaver bird and the Baltimore oriole
down to the bare and nestless incubating spot of the penguin is so
great that nothing less than a volume can furnish space in which
to set it forth. But let us at least take a brief glance at a wide
range of home-building activities by birds.
The orioles, caciques and weavers weave wonderful homes of fibrous
material, often in populous communities.
The bower birds erect remarkable bowers, as playhouses.
The brush turkey scratches together a huge mound of sticks and
leaves, four feet by ten or twelve wide at the base.
The vireo and many others turn out beautiful cup-like nests.
The hummingbird builds with the solidity and tenacity of the wasp.
The swallow is a wonderful modeler with mud.
The guacharo builds a solid nest like a cheese with a concave top.
The auklet, the puffin and the kingfishers burrow into the
friendly and solid earth. The eider duck plucks from its own breast
the softest, of feather linings for its nest.
[Illustration with caption: REMARKABLE
VILLAGE NESTS OF THE SOCIABLE WEAVER BIRD (Copied from "The Fauna
of South Africa Birds," by Arthur C. Stark)]
The grebe thoughtfully keeps its nest above high-water mark by
building on a floating island.
The murre and the guillemot do their best to escape their enemies
of the land by building high upon inaccessible rock ledges.
The woodpecker trusts no living species save his own, and drills
high up into a hollow tree-trunk for his home.
The cactus wren and crissal thrasher build in the geographical
centres of tree choyas, so protected by 500,000 spines that no
hawk or owl can reach them.
This catalogue could be extended to a great length; but why pile
evidence upon evidence!
It cannot be correct to assume that the nesting activities of
birds are based upon instinct alone. That theory would be
untenable. New conditions call for independent thought, and
originality of treatment. If the ancestral plans and
specifications could not be varied, then every bird would have to
build a nest just "such as mother used to make," or have no brood.
All bird students know full well how easily the robin, the wren,
the hawk and the owl change locations and materials to meet new
and strange conditions. A robin has been known to build on the
running-board of a switch-engine in a freight yard, and another
robin built on the frame of the iron gate of an elephant yard. A
wren will build in a tin can, a piece of drain tile, a lantern, a
bird house or a coat pocket, just as blithely as its grandmother
built in a grape arbor over a kitchen door. All this is the hall
mark of New Thought.
Whenever children go afield in bird country, they are constantly
on the alert for fresh discoveries and surprises in bird
architecture. Interest in the nest-building ingenuity and
mechanical skill of birds is perpetual. The variety is almost
endless. Dull indeed is the mind to which a cunningly contrived
nest does not appeal. Tell the boys that it is _all right_ to
collect _abandoned_ nests, but the taking of eggs and
occupied nests is unlawful and wicked.
The Play-House of the Bower Bird. Years ago we read of the
wonderful playhouses constructed by the bower birds of Australia
and New Guinea, but nothing ever brought home to us this
remarkable manifestation of bird thought so closely as did the
sight of our own satin bower bird busily at work on his own bower.
He was quartered in the great indoor flying cage of our largest
bird house, and supplied with hard grass stems of the right sort
for bower-making.
With those materials, scattered over the sand floor, the bird
built his bower by taking each stem in his beak, holding it very
firmly and then with a strong sidewise and downward thrust
slicking it upright in the sand, to stand and to point "just
exactly so." The finished bower was a Gothic tunnel with walls of
grass stems, about eighteen inches long and a foot high. In making
it the male bird wrought as busily as a child building a playhouse
of blocks. Our bird would pick up pieces of blue yarn that had
been placed in his cage to test his color sense, but never red,--
which color seemed to displease him. As the bird worked quietly
yet diligently, one could not help longing to know what thoughts
were at work in that busy little brain.
The most elaborate of all the bower bird play-houses is that
constructed by the gardener bower bird, which is thus described by
Pycraft in his "History of Birds":
"This species builds at the foot of a small tree a kind of hut or
cabin, some two feet in height, roofed with orchid stems that
slope to the ground, regularly radiating from the central support,
which is covered with a conical mass of moss sheltering a gallery
round it. One side of this hut is left open, and in front of it is
arranged a bed of verdant moss, bedecked with blossoms and berries
of the brightest color. As the ornaments wither they are removed
to a heap behind the hut and replaced by others that are fresh.
The hut is circular and some three feet in diameter, and the mossy
lawn in front of it is nearly twice that expanse. Each hut and garden
is believed to be the work of a single pair of birds. The use of the
hut, it appears, is solely to serve the purpose of a playing-ground,
or as a place wherein to pay court to the female, since it, like the
bowers built by its near relatives, are built long before the nest
is begun, this, by the way, being placed in a tree."
[Illustration with caption: SPOTTED BOWER-BIRD, AT WORK ON ITS
UNFINISHED BOWER Foreground garnished with the bird's playthings.
(From A. S. Le Souef, Sydney. Photo by F. C. Morse)]
Most Birds Fear Man. With the exception of those that have been
reared in captivity, nearly all species of wild birds, either in
captivity or out of it, fear the touch of man, and shrink from
him. The birds of the lawn, the orchard and the farm are always
suspicious, always on the defensive. But of course there are
exceptions. A naturalist like J. Alden Loring can by patient
effort win the confidence of a chickadee, or a phoebe bird, and
bring it literally to his finger. These exceptions, however, are
rare, but they show conclusively that wild birds can be educated
into new ideas.
The shrinking of wild birds from the hand of man is almost as
pronounced in captivity as it is in the wilderness, and this fact
renders psychological experiments with birds extremely difficult.
It is really strange that the parrots and cockatoos all should
take kindly to man, trust him and even like him, while nearly all
other birds persistently fly, or run, or swim or dive away from
him. A bird keeper may keep for twenty years, feeding daily, but
his hawks, owls and eagles, the perchers, waders, swimmers and
upland game birds all fly from him in nervous fear whenever he
attempts to handle them. The exceptions to this rule, out of the
20,000 species of the birds of the world, are few.
Wild Birds that Voluntarily Associate with Man. The species that
will do so are not numerous, and I will confine myself to some of
those that I have seen.
The Indian adjutant, the mynah, hoopoe, vulture, robin, phoebe
bird, bluebird, swallow, barn owl, flicker, oriole, jay, magpie,
crow, purple grackle, starling, stork, wood pigeon, Canada goose,
mallard, pintail, bob white and a few other species have accepted
man at his face value and endeavored to establish with him a
modus vivendi. The mallard and the graylag goose are the ancestors
of our domestic ducks and geese. The jungle fowls have given us
the domestic chickens. The wild turkey, the pheasants, the guinea
fowl, the ostrich, the emu and the peacock we possess in
domestication unchanged.
Caged Wild Birds Quickly Appreciate Sanctuary. Mr. Crandall
reports that in the Zoological Park there have been many instances
of the voluntary return to their cages of wild birds that have
escaped from them. The following instances are cited, out of many
that are remembered:
A wild hermit thrush, only two weeks in captivity, escaped from an
outdoor cage. But he refused to leave the vicinity of his new
home, and permanent food supply. He lingered around for two or
three days, and finally a wise keeper opened the cage door when he
was near it, and at once he went in.
A magpie escaped from an outside cage, and for a week he lingered
around it unwilling to leave its vicinity. At last the other birds
of the cage were removed, the door was left open, and the magpie
at once went back home.
Bird Memory and Talk. Birds have few ways and means by which to
reveal their powers of memory. The best exhibits are made by the
talking parrots and cockatoos. The feats of some of these birds,
both in memory and expression, are really wonderful. The startling
aptness with which some parrots apply the language they possess
often is quite uncanny. Concerning "sound mimicry" and the
efforts of memory on which they are based, Mr. Lee S. Crandall,
Curator of Birds, has contributed the following statement of his
observations:
"Many birds, including practically all members of the parrot
tribe, many of the crows and jays, as well as mynas and starlings,
learn to repeat sounds, words and sentences. Ability varies with
both species and individuals. Certain species show greater
aptitude as a whole than other species, while there is a great
difference between individuals of the same species. "Gray
parrots are generally considered the most intelligent of their
tribe, and are especially apt at imitating sounds, such as running
water, whistles, etc. I have one at home which always answers a
knock with 'Come in.' Often he furnishes the knock himself by
pounding the perch with his bill, following it with 'Come in.'
Amazon parrots are especially good at tunes, some specimens being
able to whistle complicated airs and sometimes sing several verses
in a high, clear voice. Both grays and Amazons often talk with
great fluency, vocabularies having been reported of as many as one
hundred words. Often there seems to be intelligent association of
certain acts or conditions with corresponding sentences, these
sometimes occurring with singular patness.
"Hill mynahs, of the genus _Eulabes,_ often talk as well as
parrots. The common introduced European starling often says a few
words quite clearly. I once knew a long-tailed glossy starling
(_Lamprotornis caudatus_) which shared an aviary with an
accomplished albino jackdaw. The starling had acquired much of the
jackdaw's repertoire, and the 'conversations' carried on between
the two birds were most amusing."
A raven in the Zoological Park says "Arthur," "Shut up," "All out"
and "Now look what's here" as perfectly as any parrot.
Listed in the order of their ability to learn and remember talk,
the important talking birds are as follows: African gray parrot,
yellow-headed Amazon, other Amazons, the hill mynahs, the
cockatoos, the macaws, and the various others previously
mentioned.
It is safe to assert that all migratory birds display excellent
powers of memory, chiefly by returning to their favorite haunts
after long absences.
Recognition of Persons. Mr. Crandall says there can be no doubt of
the ability of most birds to recognize individual persons. This is
seen in the smallest species as well as in the largest. He once
saw a bullfinch in the last stages of pneumonia and almost
comatose, show an instant reaction to the presence of an owner it
had not seen in weeks. Many birds form dislikes for individual
persons. This is especially noticeable in the parrot tribe. A
large male South American condor was friendly enough with two of
his keepers but would instantly attack any other keeper or other
person entering his enclosure, whether wearing the uniform or not.
With his two approved keepers he was gentleness itself.
Parasitic Nesting Habits. In the bird world there are a few
species whose members are determined to get something for nothing,
and to avoid all labor in the rearing of their offspring. This
bad habit is known of the Old World cuckoos, the American cow-
birds, the South American rice grackle (_Cassidix_), and
suspected in the pin-tail whydah (_Vidua serena_). It seems
to reach its highest point in the cuckoos. It is believed that
individuals lay their eggs only in the nests of species whose eggs
resemble their own. Apparently much skill and intelligence is
required for introducing parasitic eggs at the most favorable
moment. This is equally true of other parasites.
Curator Crandall has taken several eggs and young of the rice
birds from nests of two species of giant caciques in Costa Rica,
but never saw an adult _Cassidix._ It is considered a very
rare species, but probably is more sly than scarce. Young cuckoos
eject unwelcome nestlings shortly after hatching.
Daily contact with a large and varied collection of birds great
and small, gathered from every section of the habitable regions of
the earth, naturally produces in time a long series of interesting
cases of intelligence and behavior. Out of our total occurrences
and observations I will offer two that reveal original thought.
Good Sense of the Wedge-Tailed Eagle. In discussing bird
intelligence with Mr. Herbert D. Atkin, keeper of our Eagles
Aviary and the cranes and water birds in the Flying Cage, he
called to my attention two species of birds which had very much
impressed him. Afterward he showed me all that he described.
Keeper Atkin regards the wedge-tailed eagle, of Australia, as the
wisest species with which he has to deal. In the first place, all
four of the birds in that flock recognize the fact that he is a
good friend, not an enemy, and each day they receive him in their
midst with cheerful confidence and friendship. In the fall when
the time comes to catch them, crate them and wheel them half a
mile to their winter quarters in the Ostrich House, they do not
become frightened, nor fight against being handled, and submit
with commendable sense and appreciation.
The one thing on which the wedge-tailed eagle really insists when
in his summer quarters, is his daily spray bath from a hose. When
his keeper goes in to give the daily morning wash to the cage, the
eagles perch close above his head and screech and scream until the
spray is turned upon them. Then they spread their wings, to get it
thoroughly, and come out thoroughly soaked. When the spray is
merely turned upon their log instead of upon the birds as they
sit higher up, they fly down and get into the current wherever it
may be.
Memory of the Cereopsis Goose. Keeper Atkin also showed me an
instance of the wisdom of the cereopsis geese, from Van Diemens
Land, South Australia. During the winter those birds are kept in
the Wild-Fowl Pond; but in summer they are quartered in a secluded
yard of the Crane's Paddock, nearly half a mile away. Twice a year
these birds go under their own steam between those two enclosures.
When turned out of the Cranes' Paddock last November they at once
set out and walked very briskly southward up the Bird's Valley,
past the Zebra House. On reaching the Service Road, a quarter of a
mile away, they turned to the left and kept on to the Wolf Dens.
There they turned to the right and kept on two hundred yards until
they reached the walk coming down from the Reptile House. There
they turned to the left, crossed the bridge, stopped at the gate
to the Wild-Fowl Pond enclosure, and when the gate was opened they
entered and declared themselves "at home."
Mr. Atkin says that in spring these birds show just as much
interest in going back to their summer home. Falconry. We cannot
do otherwise than regard the ancient sport of falconry as a high
tribute to the mental powers of the genus _Falco._ The
hunting falcons were educated into the sport of hawking, just as a
boy is trained by his big brother to shoot quail on the wing. The
birds were furnished with hoods and jesses, and other garnitures.
They were carried on the hand of the huntsman, and launched at
unlucky herons and bitterns as an _intelligent_ living force.
The hunting falcon entered into the sport like a true sportsman,
and he played the game according to the rules. The sport was
cruel, but it was politely exciting, and it certainly was a fine
exhibition of bird intelligence. Part of that intelligence was
instinctive, but the most of it was acquired, by educational
methods.
Outstanding Traits in a Few Groups of Birds. In creatures as much
lacking in visible expression as most birds are, it is difficult
to detect the emotions and temperaments that prevail in the
various groups. Only a few can be cited with certain confidence.
Vanity Displays in Birds. The males of a few species of birds have
been specially equipped by nature for the display of their natural
vanity. Anyone who has seen a Zoological Park peacock working
overtime on a Sunday afternoon in summer when the crowds of
visitors are greatest, solely to display the ocellated splendor of
his tail plumage, surely must conclude that the bird is well aware
of the glories of his tail, and also that he positively enjoys
showing off to admiring audiences.
These displays are not casual affairs in the ordinary course of
the day's doings. It is a common thing for one of our birds to
choose a particularly conspicuous spot, preferably on an elevated
terrace, from which his display will carry farthest to the eyes of
the crowd. Even if the bird were controlled by the will of a
trainer for the purpose of vanity display, the exhibition could
not possibly be more perfect. Like a good speaker on a rostrum,
the bird faces first in one direction and then in another, and
occasionally with a slow and stately movement it completely
revolves on its axis for the benefit of those in the rear. "Vain
as a peacock" is by no means an unjustifiable comparison.
Plumage displays are indulged in by turkeys, the blue bird of
paradise, the greater and lesser birds of paradise, the sage
grouse and pinnated grouse, ruffed grouse, golden pheasant and
argus pheasant.
On the whole, we may fairly set down vanity as one of the well
defined emotions in certain birds, and probably possessed by the
males in many species which have not been provided by nature with
the means to display it conspicuously.
Materials for Study. In seeking means by which to study the mental
and temperamental traits of wild birds and mammals, the definite
and clearly cut manifestations are so few in kind that we are glad
to seize upon everything available. Of the visible evidences,
pugnacity and the fighting habit are valuable materials, because
they are visible. Much can be learned from the fighting weakness
or strength of animals and men.
In our great collections of birds drawn from all the land areas of
the globe, our bird men see much fighting. Mr. Crandall has
prepared for me in a condensed form an illuminating collection of
facts regarding
PUGNACITY IN CAPTIVE BIRDS
1. Most species do more or less competitive fighting for nesting
sites or mates, especially:
Gallinaceous birds,--many of which fight furiously for mates;
The Ruff, or Fighting Snipe (_Machetes pugnax_),--very
pugnacious for mates;
House Sparrows (_Passer domesticus_) fight for nesting places
and mates; and
Some Waterfowl, especially swans and geese, fight for nesting
places.
2. Most species which do not depend chiefly upon concealment,
fight fiercely in defense of nests or young. Typical examples are:
Geese;
Swans;
The larger Flycatchers;
Birds of prey, especially the more powerful ones, such as Bald
Eagles, Duck Hawks and Horned Owls.
3. Some species fight in competition for food. Conspicuous
examples are:
The fiercer hawks;
Some carrion eaters, as the King Vulture, Black, Sharp-Shinned,
Cooper, Gos and Duck Hawks, which fight in the air over prey.
4. Certain birds show pugnacity in connection with the robber
instinct, as:
Bald Eagle, which robs the Osprey;
Skua and Jaeger, which rob gulls.
5. Some species show general pugnacity. Species to be cited are:
Cassowaries, Emus and Ostriches, all of which are more or less
dangerous;
Saras Cranes, which strike wickedly and without warning;
Some Herons, especially if confined, and
Birds of Paradise, which are unreasonably quarrelsome.
6. In non-social birds, each male will fight for his own breeding
and feeding territory. The struggle for territory is a wide one,
and it is now attracting the attention of bird psychologists.
Birds are no more angelic than human beings are. They have their
faults and their mean traits, just as we have; but their
repertoire is not so great as ours. In every species that we have
seen tried out in captivity, the baser passions are present. This
is equally true of mammals. In _confinement_, in every herd
and in every flock from elephants down to doves, the strong bully
and oppress the weak, and drive them to the wall.
_The most philosophic and companionable birds_ are the
parrots, parakeets, macaws and cockatoos.
_The birds that most quickly recognize protection_
sanctuaries and accept them, are the geese, ducks and swans.
_The game birds most nervous and foolish, and difficult to
maintain in captivity,_ are the grouse, ptarmigan and quail.
_The bird utterly destitute of sense_ in captivity is the
loon.
_The birds that are most domineering_ in captivity are the
cranes.
_The birds that are most treacherous_ in captivity are the
darters (_Anhinga_).
_The birds that go easiest and farthest in training_ are the
parrots, macaws and cockatoos.
_The most beautiful bird species of the world_ are about
fifty in number; and only a few of them are found among the birds
of paradise.
The minds of wild birds are quite as varied and diversified as are
the forms and habits of the different orders and genera. XVI
THE WISDOM OF THE SERPENT
OF all the vertebrates, the serpents live under the greatest
handicaps. They are hated and destroyed by all men, they can
neither run nor fly far away, and they subsist under maximum
difficulties. Those of the temperate zone are ill fitted to
withstand the rigors of winter.
And yet the serpents survive; and we have not heard of any species
having become extinct during our own times.
It is indeed worth while to "consider the wisdom of the serpent."
Without the exercise of keen intelligence all the snakes of the
cultivated lands of the world long ago would have been
exterminated. The success of serpents of all species in meeting
new conditions and maintaining their existence in the face of
enormous difficulties compels us, as reasoning beings, to accord
to them keen intelligence and ratiocination.
The poisonous serpents afford a striking illustration of reason
and folly en masse. The total number of venomous species is really
great, and their distribution embraces practically the whole of
the torrid and temperate zones. They are too numerous for mention
here; and their capacity for mischief to man is very great. Our
own country has at least eighteen species of poisonous snakes,
including the rattlesnakes, the copperhead, moccasin, and coral
snakes. All these, however, are remarkably pacific. Without
exception they are non-aggressive, and they attack only when they
think they are exposed to danger, and must defend themselves or
die. Hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of our people have
tramped through the woods and slept in the sage-brush and creosote
bushes of the rattlesnake, and waded through swamps full of
moccasins, with never a bite. In America only about two persons
per year are bitten by _wild_ rattlesnakes.
Our snakes, and all but a very few of the other poison-snake
species of the world, know that _it pays to keep the peace._
Now, what if all snakes were as foolishly aggressive as the hooded
and spectacled cobras of India? Let us see.
Those cobra species are man-haters. They love to attack and do
damage. They go out of their way to bite people. They crawl into
huts and bungalows, especially during the monsoon rains, and they
infest thatch roofs. But are they wise, and retiring, like the
house-haunting gopher snake of the South?
By no means. The cobra goes around with a chip on his shoulder. In
India they kill from 17,000 to 18,000 people annually! And in
return, about 117,000 cobras are killed annually. It is a mighty
fortunate thing for humanity on the frontier that the other
serpents of the world know that it is a good thing to behave
themselves, and not bite unnecessarily.
Fighting Its Own Kind. The Indian cobra, (_Naia tripudians_),
is an exception to the rule of serpents that forbids fighting in
the family. While cobras in captivity usually do live together in
a state of vicious and fully-armed neutrality, sometimes they do
fight. One of our cobras once attacked a cage-mate two-thirds the
size of itself, vanquished it, seized it by the head and swallowed
two-thirds of it before the tragedy was discovered. The assailant
was compelled to disgorge his prey, but the victim was very dead.
The poison venom of the cobra, rattlesnake, bushmaster and puff
adder is a great handicap on the social standing of the entire
serpent family. Mankind in general abhors snakes, both in general
and particular. The snake not actually known to be venomous
usually is suspected of being so. It is only the strongest mental
constitution that can permit a snake to go unkilled when the
killing opportunity offers. It is just as natural for the lay
brother to kill a chicken snake because it looks like a
copperhead, or a hog-nosed blowing "viper" because it looks like a
rattlesnake, as it is to shy at a gun that "may be loaded."
To American plainsmen, the non-aggressive temper of the
rattlesnake is well known, and it is also a positive asset. I
never knew one who was nervously afraid while sleeping in the open
that snakes would come and crawl into his bed, or mix up with his
camp. Of course all frontiersmen kill rattlers, as a sort of
bounden duty to society, but I once knew an eastern man to turn
loose a rattlesnake that he had photographed, in the observance
of his principle never to kill an animal whose picture he had
taken. Subsequently it was gravely reported that one of the
restive horses of the outfit had "accidentally" killed that
rattler by stepping upon it.
A Summary of Poisonous Snakes. There are about 300,000 poisonous
snakes in the United States, and 110,000,000 people for them to
bite; but more people are bitten by captive snakes than by wild
ones.
A fool and his snake are soon parted.
There are 200,000 rattlesnakes in our country, but all of them
will let you alone if you will let them alone.
If your police record is clear, you can sleep safely in the sage-
brush.
If ever you need to camp in a cave, remember that in warm weather
the rattlesnakes are all out hunting, and will not return until
the approach of winter.
The largest snakes of the world exist only in the human mind.
The rattlesnake is a world-beater at minding his own business.
Men do far more fighting per capita than any snakes yet
discovered.
The road to an understanding of the minds of serpents is long and
difficult. Perhaps the best initial line of approach is through a
well-stocked Reptile House. Having studied somewhat
in that school I have emerged with a fixed belief that of all
vertebrate creatures, snakes are the least understood, and also
the most thoroughly misunderstood.
[Illustration: A
PEACE CONFERENCE WITH AN ARIZONA RATTLESNAKE "You let me alone and
I won't harm you" (From "Camp-Fires on Desert and Lava")]
[Illustration: HAWK-PROOF NEST OF A CACTUS WREN Placed in the
centre of a tree choya cactus of Arizona and defended by 10 000
hostile spines (From "Camp-Fires on Desert and Lava")]
The world at large debits serpents with being far more quarrelsome
and aggressive than they really are, and it credits them with
knowing far less than they do know.
Attitude of Snakes Toward Each Other. Toward each other, the
members of the various serpent species are tolerant, patient and
peaceful to the last degree. You may place together in one cage
twenty big Texas rattlers, or twenty ugly cottonmouth moccasins
from the Carolinas, a hundred garter snakes, twenty boa
constrictors, or six big pythons, and if the various
_species_ are kept separate there will be no fighting. You
may stir them up to any reasonable extent, and make them keen to
strike you, but they do not attack each other.
There are, however, many species that will not mix together in
peace. For example, the king snake of New Jersey hates the
rattlesnake, no matter what his address may be. Being by habit a
constrictor, the king snake at once winds himself tightly around
the neck of the rattler,--and proceeds to choke him to death.
The king cobra devours other snakes, as food, and wishes nothing
else.
The Gopher Snake. Some snakes that feel sure you will not harm
them will permit you to handle them without a protest or a fight.
The most spectacular example is the gopher snake of the
southeastern United States. This handsome, lustrous, blue-black
species is six feet long, shiny, and as clean and smooth as ivory.
Its members are famous rat-killers. You can pick up a wild one
wherever you find it, and it will not bite you. They do not at all
object to being handled, even by timorous lady visitors who never
before have touched a live snake; and in the South they are
tolerated by farmers for the good they do as rat catchers.
The Wisdom of a Big Python. Once I witnessed an example of snake
intelligence on a large scale, which profoundly impressed me.
A reticulated python about twenty-two feet long arrived from
Singapore with its old skin dried down upon its body. The snake
had been many weeks without a bath, and it had been utterly unable
to shed its old skin on schedule time. It was necessary to remove
all that dead epidermis, without delay.
The great serpent, fully coiled, was taken out of its box, sprayed
with warm water, and gently deposited on the gravel floor of our
most spacious python apartment. Later on pails of warm water,
sponges and forceps were procured, and five strong keepers were
assembled for active service.
The first step was to get the snake safely into the hands of the
men, and fully under control. A stream of cold water from a hose
was suddenly shot in a deluge upon the python's head, and while it
was disconcerted and blinded by the flood, it was seized by the
neck, close behind the head. Immediately the waiting keepers
seized it by the body, from neck to tail, and straightened it out,
to prevent coiling. Strong hands subdued its struggles, and
without any violence stretched the writhing wild monster upon the
floor.
Then began the sponging and peeling process. The frightened snake
writhed and resisted, probably feeling sure that its last hour had
come. The men worked quietly, spoke soothingly, and the work
proceeded successfully. With the lapse of time the serpent became
aware of the fact that it was not to be harmed; for it became
quiet, and lay still. At the same time, we all dreaded the crisis
that we thought would come when the jaws and the head would be
reached.
By the time the head was reached, the snake lay perfectly passive.
Beyond all doubt, it understood the game that was being played.
Now, the epidermis of a snake covers the entire head, _including
the eyes!_ And what would that snake do when the time came to
remove the scales from its eyes and lips? It continued to lie
perfectly still! When the pulling off of the old skin hurt the new
skin underneath, the head flinched slightly, just as any hurt
flesh will flinch by reflex action; but that was absolutely all.
For a long hour or more, and even when the men pulled the dead
scales from those eyes and lips, that strange creature made no
resistance or protest. I have seen many people fight their doctors
for less.
That wild, newly-caught jungle snake quickly had recognized the
situation, and acted its part with a degree of sense and
appreciation that was astounding. I do not know of any _adult
wild_ mammal that would have shown that kind and degree of
wisdom under similar circumstances.
Do Snakes "Charm" Birds? Sometimes a wild bird will sit still upon
its nest while a big pilot blacksnake, or some other serpent
equally bad, climbs up and poises its head before the motionless
and terrified bird until at last the serpent seizes the bird to
devour it. The bird victim really seems to be "charmed" by its
enemy. If there were not some kind of a hypnotic spell cast over
the bird, would it not fly away?
I think this strange proceeding is easily explainable by any one
with sufficient imagination to put himself in the bird's place. It
is the rule of a sitting bird to sit tight, not to be scared off
by trifles, and to take great risks rather than expose her eggs to
cold and destruction. The ascent and approach of the serpent is
absolutely noiseless. Not a leaf is stirred. The potential mother
of a brood calmly sits with eyes half closed, at peace with all
the world. Suddenly, and with a horrible shock, she discovers a
deadly serpent's multi-fanged head and glittering eyes staring at
her _within easy striking distance._
The horrified mother bird feels that she is lost. She knows full
well that with any movement to escape the serpent instantly will
launch its attack. _Her one hope,_ and seemingly her only
chance for life, is that _if she remains motionless_ the
serpent will go its way without harming her. (Think of the
thousands of helpless men, women and children who have hoped and
acted similarly in the presence of bandits and hold-up men
presenting loaded revolvers! But they were far from being
"charmed.")
The bird hopes, and sits still, _paralyzed with fear._ At its
leisure the serpent strikes; and after a certain number of
horrible minutes, all is over. I think there is no real "charm"
exercised in the tragedy; but that there is on the part of the
bird a paralysis of fear, which is in my opinion a well defined
emotion, common in animals and in men. I have seen it in many
animals.
Snakes that Feign Death. The common hog-nosed snake, mistakenly
called the "puff-adder" and blowing "viper" (_Heterodon
platyrhinus_) of the New England states, often feigns death
when it is caught in the open, and picked up. It will "play
'possum" while you carry it by its tail, head downward, or hang
its limp body over a fence. Of course it hopes to escape by its
very clever ruse, and no doubt it often does so from the hands of
inexperienced persons.
Do Snakes Swallow Their Young? I _think_ not. A number of
persons solemnly have declared that they have seen snakes do so,
but no _herpetologist_ ever has seen an occurrence of that
kind. I believe that all of the best authorities on serpents
believe that snakes do not swallow their young. The theory of the
pro-swallowists is that the mother snake takes her young into her
interior to provide for their safety, and that they do not go as
far down as the stomach. The anti-swallowists declare that the
powerful digestive juices of the stomach of a snake would quickly
kill any snakelets coming in contact with it; and I believe that
this is true.
At present the snake-swallowing theory must be ticketed "not
proven," and is filed for further reference.
The Hoop Snake Fable. There is no such thing as a "hoop-snake"
save in the vivid imaginations of a very few men.
The Intelligence of the King Cobra. Curator of Reptiles Raymond
L. Ditmars regards the huge king cobra of the Malay Peninsula, the
largest of all poisonous serpents, as quite the wisest serpent
known to him. He says its mind is alert and responsive to a very
unusual degree in serpents, and that it manifests a keen interest
in everything that is going on around it, especially at feeding-
time. This is quite the reverse of the usual sluggish and
apathetic serpent mind in captivity.
Incidentally, I would like very much to know just what our present
twelve-foot cobra thought when, upon its arrival at its present
home, its total blindness was relieved by the thrillingly skilful
removal of the _two layers_ of dead scales that had closed
over and finally adhered to each orbit.
The vision of the king cobra is keen, and its temper is not easily
ruffled. Its temperament seems to be sanguine, which is just the
opposite of the nervous-combative hooded and spectacled cobra
species.
The So-called "Snake Charmers" of India. Herpetologists generally
discredit the idea that a peripatetic Hindu can "charm" a cobra
any farther or more quickly than any snake-keeper. In the first
place, the fangs of the serpent are totally removed,--by a very
savage and painful process. After that, the unfortunate snake is
in no condition to fight or to flee. It seeks only to be let
alone, and the musical-pipe business is to impress the mind of the
observer.
Serpent Psychology an Unplowed Field. At this date (1922) we know
only the rudiments of serpent intelligence and temperament. In the
wilds, serpents are most elusive and difficult to determine. In
captivity they are passive and undemonstrative. We do not know how
much memory they have, they rarely show what they think, and on
most subjects we do not know where they stand. But the future will
change all this. During the past twenty years the number of
herpetologists in the United States has increased about tenfold.
It is fairly impossible that serpent psychology should much longer
remain unstudied, and unrevealed along the lines of plain common-
sense.
The Ways of Crocodiles. The ways of crocodiles are dark and deep;
their thoughts are few and far between. Their wisdom is above that
of the tortoises and turtles, but below that of the serpents. I
have had field experience with four species of crocodilians in the
New World and three in the Old. With but slight exceptions they
all think alike and act alike.
The great salt-water crocodile of the Malay Peninsula and Borneo
is the only real man-eater I ever met. Except under the most
provocative circumstances, all the others I have met are
practically harmless to man. This includes the Florida species,
the Orinoco crocodile, the little one from Cuba, the alligator,
the Indian gavial and the Indian crocodile (_C. palustris_).
The salt-water crocodile, that I have seen swimming out in the
ocean two miles or more from shore, is in Borneo a voracious man-
eater. It skilfully stalks its prey in the murky rivers where
Malay and Dyak women and children come down to the village bathing
place to dip up water and to bathe. There, unseen in the muddy
water, the monster glides up stealthily, seizes his victim by the
leg, and holding it tightly backs off into deep water and
disappears. The victims are drowned, not bitten to death.
I found in Ceylon that the Indian crocodile is a shameless
cannibal, devouring the skinned carcasses of its relatives
whenever an opportunity offered.
The Florida crocodile is the shrewdest species of all those I know
personally. It has the strange habit of digging out deep and
spacious burrows for concealment, in the perpendicular sandy
banks of southern Florida rivers where the deep water comes right
up to the shore. Starting well under low-water mark, the crock
digs in the yielding sand, straight into the bank, a roomy
subterranean chamber. In this snug retreat he once was safe from
all his enemies,--until the fatal day when his secret was
discovered, and revealed to a grasping world. Since that time, the
Alligator Joes of Palm Beach and Miami have made a business of
personally conducting parties of northern visitors, at $50 per
catch, to witness the adventure of catching a nine-foot crocodile
alive. The dens are located by probing the sand with long iron
rods. A rope noose is set over the den's entrance, and when all is
ready, a confederate probes the crocodile out of its den and into
the fatal noose.
Today the Florida crocodile is so nearly extinct that it required
two years of diligent inquiry to produce one live specimen subject
to purchase.
Common Sense in the Common Toad. Last spring, in planting a lot of
trees on our lawn, a round tree-hole that stood for several days
unoccupied finally accumulated about a dozen toads. Its two feet
of straight depth was unscalable, and when finally discovered the
toads were tired of their imprisonment. Partly as a test of their
common-sense, Mr. George T. Fielding placed a six-inch board in
the hole, at an angle of about thirty degrees, but fairly leading
out of the trap.
In very quick time the toads recognized the possibilities of the
inclined plane and hopped upward to liberty. In the use of this
opportunity they showed more wisdom than our mountain sheep
manifest concerning the same kind of an improvement designed to
enable them to reach the roof of their building. XVII
THE TRAINING OF WILD ANIMALS
Before we enter this chapter let us pause a moment on the
threshold, and consider the logic of animal training and
performances.
Logic is only another name for reason. Its reverse side is
fanaticism; and that way madness lies. It is the duty of every
sane man and woman to consider the cold logic of every question
affecting the welfare of man and nature. Fanaticism when carried
to extremes can become a misdemeanor or a crime. The soft-hearted
fanaticism of humanics that saves a brutal murderer, or would-be
murderer like Berkman, from the gallows or the chair, and
eventually turns him loose to commit more crimes against innocent
people, is not only wrong, and wicked, but in aggravated cases it
is a _crime_ against society.
Just now there is a tiny wave of agitation against all
performances of trained wild animals, and the keeping of animals
in captivity, on the ground that all this is "cruel" and inhumane.
The Jacklondon Society of Boston is working hard to get up steam
for this crusade, but thus far with only partial success. Its
influence is confined to a very small area.
Now, what is the truth of this matter? Is it true that trained
wild animals are cruelly abused in the training, or in compelling
them to perform? Is it true that in making animals perform on the
stage, or in the circus ring, their rights are wickedly infringed?
Is it the duty of the American people to stop all performances by
animals? Is it wicked to make wild animals, or cats and dogs,
_work_ for a living, as men and women do? Is it true that
captive animals in zoological parks and gardens are miserable and
unhappy, and that all such institutions should be "abolished?"
What is truth?
In the first place, there is no sound reasoning or logic in
assuming that the persons of animals, tame or wild, are any more
sacred than those of men, women and children. We hold that it is
no more "cruelty" for an ape or a dog to work in training quarters
or on the stage than it is for men, women and young people to work
as acrobats, or actors, or to engage in honest toil eight hours
per day. Who gave to any warm-blooded animal that consumes food
and requires shelter the right to live without work? _No
one!_ I am sure that no trained bear of my acquaintance ever
had to work as hard for his food and shelter as does the average
bear out in the wilds. In order to find enough to eat the latter
is compelled to hustle hard from dawn till dark. I have seen that
the Rocky Mountain grizzly feels forced to dig a big hole three
feet deep in hard, rocky ground, to get one tiny ground squirrel
the size of a chipmunk,--and weighing only eight or nine ounces.
Now, has he anything "on" the performing bear? Decidedly not.
I regard the sentimental Jacklondon idea, that no wild animal
should be made to work on the stage or in the show-ring, as
illogical and absurd. Human beings who sanely work are much
happier per capita than those who do nothing but loaf and grouch.
I have worked, horse-hard, throughout all the adult years of my
life; and it has been good for me. I know that it is no more wrong
or wicked for a horse to work for his living,--of course on a
humane basis,--either on the stage or on the street, than it is
for a coal-carrier, a foundryman, a farmer, a bookkeeper, a school
teacher or a housewife to do the day's work.
The person of a wild animal is no more sacred than is that of a
man or woman. A sound whack for an unruly elephant, bear or horse
is just as helpful as it is for an unruly boy who needs to be
shown that order is heaven's first law.
In the presence of the world's toiling and sweating millions, in
the presence of millions of children in the home sweat-shops and
factories working their little lives out for their daily crust and
a hard bed, what shall we think and say of the good, kind-hearted
people who are spending time and energy in crusading against
trained animal performances?
The vast majority of performing animals are trained by humane men
and women, practicing kindness to the utmost; and they are the
last persons in the world who would be willing to have their
valuable stock roughly handled, neglected or in any manner cruelly
treated.
So far as zoological parks and gardens are concerned, they are no
more in need of defense than the Rocky Mountains.
Every large zoological park is a school of wild-animal education
and training; and it is literally a continuous performance. Let
no one suppose that there is no training of wild beasts save for
the circus ring and the vaudeville stage. Of the total number of
large and important mammals that come into our zoological parks,
the majority of them actually are trained to play becomingly their
respective parts. An intractable and obstinate animal soon becomes
a nuisance.
The following, named in the order of their importance, are the
species whose zoological park training is a matter of necessity:
Elephants, bears, apes, hippopotami, rhinoceroses, giraffes,
bison, musk-ox, wild sheep, goats and deer, African antelopes,
wild swine, and wild horses, asses and zebras. Of large birds the
most conspicuous candidates for training in park life are the
ostriches, emus, cassowaries, cranes, pelicans, swans, egrets and
herons, geese, ducks, pheasants, macaws and cockatoos, curassows,
eagles and vultures. Among the reptiles, the best trained are the
giant tortoises, the pythons, boas, alligators, crocodiles,
iguanas and gopher snakes.
Each one of these species is educated (1) to be peaceful, and not
attack their keepers; (2) to not fear their keepers; (3) to do as
they are bid about going here or there; (4) to accept and eat the
food that is provided for them, and (5) finally, in some cases to
"show off" a little when commanded, for the benefit of visitors.
All this training comes in the regular course of our daily work,
and there are few animals who do not respond to it. The necessity
for training is most imperative with the elephants and bears, for
without it the difficulties in the management of those dangerous
animals is greatly intensified.
In training an animal to do a particular act not in the routine of
his daily life, it is of course necessary to show him clearly and
pointedly what is desired. I think that in quickness of
perception, and ability to adopt a new idea, the elephants and
the great apes are tied for first place. Both are remarkably
quick. It seems to me that it required only half a dozen lessons
to teach our Indian elephant, Gunda, to take a penny in his trunk,
lift the lid of a high-placed box, drop in the coin, then pull a
bell-cord and ring a bell. Of course the reward for the first
successful performances was lumps of sugar. Within three days this
rather interesting special exhibit was working smoothly, and
coining money. As a means of working off on the poor animal great
numbers of foreign copper coins, and spurious issues of all kinds,
it was a great boon to the foreign population of New York. Our
erratic elephant Alice was quickly trained by Keeper Richards to
blow a mouth organ, to ring a telephone by turning the crank, and
to take off the receiver and hold it up to her ear for an
imaginary call.
Another keeper, with no previous experience as a trainer, taught a
male orang-utan called Rajah to go through a series of
performances that are elsewhere described.
Bright and Dull Individuals. Every wild animal species contains
the same range of bright and dull individuals that are found in
the various races of men. Naturally the animal trainer selects for
training only those animals that are of amiable disposition, that
mentally are alert, responsive and possessed of good memories. The
worst mistakes they make are in taking on and forcing ill-natured
and irritable animals, that hate training and performing. Often a
trainer persists in retaining an animal that resolutely should be
thrown out. Captain Bonavita lost his arm solely because of his
fatal persistence in retaining in his group of lions an animal
that hated him, and which the trainer well knew was dangerous.
While nearly every wild animal can be taught a few simple tricks,
the dull mind soon reaches its constitutional limit. Even among
the great apes, conditions are quite the same. One half the orang-
utans are of the thin-headed, pin-headed type that is hopeless for
stage training. The good ones are the stocky, round-headed, round-
faced individuals who have the cephalic index of the statesman or
jurist, and a broad and well-rounded dome of thought.
Training for the Ring and the Stage. During his long and
successful career as a purveyor of wild animals for all purposes,
Carl Hagenbeck had great success in the production of large
animal groups trained for stage performances. I came in close
touch with his methods and their results. His methods were very
simple, and they were founded on kindness and common sense. Mr.
Hagenbeck hated whips and punishments. When an animal could not
get on without them, it was dropped from the cast. His working
theory was that an unwilling animal makes a bad actor.
There is no mystery about the best methods in training animals,
wild or domestic. The first thing is to assemble a suitable number
of _young_ animals, all of which are mentally bright and
physically sound. Most adult animals are impracticable, and often
impossible, because they are set in their ways. The elephants are
monumental exceptions. A large, well-lighted and sunny room is
provided; and around it are the individual cages for the student
animals. The members of the company are fed wisely and well, kept
scrupulously clean, and in all ways made comfortable and
contented. When not at their work they are allowed to romp and
play together until they are tired of the exercise.
The trainer who has been selected to create a specified group
spends practically his entire time with his pupils. He feeds them,
and mixes with them daily and hourly. From the beginning he
teaches them that _they must obey him, and not fight._
The work of training begins with simple things, and goes on
to the complex; and each day the same routine is carried out.
To each animal is assigned a certain place in the circle, with
a certain tub or platform on which to sit at ease when not
acting in the ring. It is exceedingly droll to see a dozen cub
lions, tigers, bears and cheetahs sitting decorously on their
respective tubs and gravely watching the thirteenth cub who
is being labored with by the keeper to bring its ideas and acts
into line. The stage properties are many; and they all assist in
helping the actors to remember the sequence of their acts, as well
as the things to be done. The key that controls the mind of a good
animal is the reward idea. Many a really bad animal goes through
its share of the performance solely to secure the bit of meat, the
lump of sugar or the prized biscuit that never fails to show up at
the proper moment.
[Illustration with caption: WORK ELEPHANT DRAGGING A HEWN TIMBER
The most primitive form of elephant harness. The end of the drag
rope is held between the teeth of the wise and patient animal
(From A. G. R. Theobald, Mysore)]
The acts to be performed are gone over in the training quarters,
innumerable times; and this continues so long that by the time the
"group" is ready for the stage, behold! the cubs with which the
patient and tireless trainer began have grown so large that to the
audience they now seem like adult and savage animals. Those who
scoff at the wild animal mind, and say that all this displays
nothing but "machines in fur" need to be reminded that this very
same line of effort in training and rehearsal is absolutely
necessary in the production of every military company, every
ballet, and every mass performance on the stage. There is
_no_ successful performance without training. Boys and girls
require the very same sort of handling that the wild animals
receive, but the humans do with a little less of it.
The man who flouts a good stage performance by wild animals on the
ground that it reveals "no thought," and is only "imitation," is,
in my judgment, a very short-sighted student. Maniacs and
imbeciles cannot be trained to perform any program fit to be seen.
I saw that tried fifty years ago, in "the wild Australian
children," who were idiots. _The performer must think, and
reason._
Of the many groups of trained animals that I have seen in
performances, my mind goes back first to the one which contained
a genuine bear comedian, of the Charlie Chaplin type. It was a
Himalayan black bear, with fine side whiskers, and it really
seemed to me absolutely certain that the other animals in the
group appreciated and enjoyed the fun that comedian made. He
pretended to be awkward, and frequently fell off his tub. He was
purposely dilatory, and was often the last one to finish. The
other animals seemed to be fascinated by his mishaps, and they sat
on their tubs and watched him with what looked like genuine
amusement. I remember another circle of seated animals who calmly
and patiently sat and watched while the trainer labored with a
cross and refractory leopard, to overcome its stubbornness, and to
make it do its part.
Carl Hagenbeck loved to produce mixed groups of dangerous
animals,--lions, tigers, leopards, bears and wolves. One trainer
whom I knew was assisted in a highly dangerous group by a noble
stag-hound who habitually kept close to his master, and was said
to be ready to attack instantly any animal that might attack the
trainer. I never saw a finer bodyguard than that dog.
In 1908 the most astounding animal group ever turned out of the
Hagenbeck establishment, or shown on any stage, appeared in
London. It consisted of _75 full-grown polar bears!_ Now,
polar bears, either for the cage or the stage, are bad citizens.
Instinctively I always suspect their mental reservations, and for
twenty-one years have carefully kept our keepers out of their
reach. But Mr. William Hagenbeck, brother of the great Carl,
actually trained and performed with a huge _herd_ of
dangerous polars to the number stated.
In the _Strand_ magazine for April, 1908, there is a fine
article by Arthur Harold about this group and its production. It
says that the bears were obtained when seven or eight months old,
in large lots, and all thrown in together. It took a keeper
between seven and eight months to educate them out of their savage
state,--by contact, kindness, sugar and fruit,--and then they were
turned over to the trainer, Mr. Hagenbeck. They were taught to
form pyramids, climb ladders, shoot the chutes, ride in pony
carriages, draw and ride in sleds, drink from bottles, and work a
see-saw. Various individuals did individual tricks. The star
performer was Monk, the wrestling bear, who went with his trainer
through a fearsome wrestling performance.
Concerning the temperament of that polar bear group Mr. William
Hagenbeck said:
"Although I know every animal in the company, have taught each one
to recognize me, and have been among many of them for _fifteen
years,_ I can not now tell by their expressions the moods of
the animals. This is one of the characteristics of the polar bear.
Their expression remains the same, and it is impossible to detect
by watching their faces whether they are pleased or cross. Now in
most wild animals, such as the lion, you can tell by the
expression of the beast's face and by its actions whether it is in
a good temper or not.... The truth is, the polar bear is a most
awkward beast to train. In the first place its character is
difficult to understand. He is by nature very suspicious, and
without the least warning is apt to turn upon his trainer. Among
the seventy bears that have been taught to do tricks, _only
two_ of them are really fond of their work."
In the end, Mr. William Hagenbeck was very nearly killed by one of
these polar bears. I was with Carl Hagenbeck a few hours after he
received telegraphic news of the tragedy, and his bitterness
against those polar bears was boundless. I understood that Monk,
the wrestling bear, was the assailant,--which was small cause for
wonder. When I saw Mr. Hagenbeck's polar bear show, it gave me
shivers of fear. The first two big male polars that we installed
at our Park came from that very group, and one of them led us into
a dreadful tragedy, with a female bear as the victim.
The So-Called "Trick" Performances. Some psychologists make light
of what they call "trick performances," in which the performing
animals are guided by signs, or signals, or spoken commands from
their trainers. I have never been able to account for this. It is
incontestably true that dull and stupid animals can learn little,
and perform less. For example, all the training in the world could
not suffice to put a pig through a performance that a chimpanzee
or orang could master in two weeks. The reason is that the pig has
not the brain power that is indispensable. A woodchuck never could
become the mental equal of a wood rat (_Neotoma_). A sheep
could not hope to rival a horse, either in training or in
execution.
Really, _the brain, the memory and reason must enter into every
animal performance that amounts to anything worth while._ It is
just as sensible to flout soldiers on the drill-ground as to wave
aside as of no account a troup of trained lions or sea-lions on
the stage. Any animal that can be taught to perform difficult
feats, and that delivers the goods in the blinding glare and riot
of the circus ring or the stage footlights, is entitled to my
profound respect for its powers of mind and nerve.
The Sea-Lion's Repertoire. Long ago trainers recognized in the
California sea-lion (_Zalophus_) a good subject for the ring
and stage. Its long, supple neck, its lithe body and brilliant
nervous energy seemed good for difficult acts. The sea-lion takes
very kindly to training, and really delights in its performances.
In fact, it enters into its performance with a keen vigor and zest
that is pleasing to behold. Let this veracious record of a
performance of Treat's five sea-lions and two harbor seals, that I
witnessed October 15, 1910, tell the whole story, in order that
the reader may judge for himself:
1. Each sea-lion balanced upright on its nose a wooden staff 3
feet long, with a round knob on its upper end.
2. Each sea-lion caught in its mouth a three-foot stick with a
ball on each end, tossed it up, whirled it in the air, and caught
it again. This was repeated, without a miss.
3. Each sea-lion balanced on the tip of its nose, first a ball
like a baseball, then a large ball two feet in diameter.
4. Each sea-lion climbed a double ladder of eight steps, and went
down on the other side, _balancing a large ball on the end of
its nose, without a miss._
5. The trainer handed a ball to the sea-lion nearest him, who
balanced it on his nose, walked with it to his box and climbed up.
6. Then another sea-lion walked over to him, and waited
expectantly until sea-lion No. 1 tossed the ball to No. 2, who
caught it on his nose, walked over to his box, climbed up, and
presently tossed it to No. 3.
7. A silk hat was balanced on its rim.
8. A seal carrying a balanced ball scrambled upon a cylindrical
basket and rolled it across the arena, after which other seals
repeated the performance.
9. In the last act a flaming torch was balanced, tossed about,
caught and whirled, and finally returned to the trainer, still
blazing.
Trained Horses. By carefully selecting the brightest and most
intelligent horses that can be found, it is possible for a trainer
to bring together and educate a group that will go through a fine
performance in public. However, some exhibitions of trained
horses are halting, ragged and poor. I have seen only one that
stands out in my records as superlatively fine,--for horses. That
was known to the public when I saw it as Bartholomew's "Equine
Paradox," and it contained twelve wonderfully trained horses. My
record of this fine performance fills seven pages of a good-sized
notebook. While it is too long to reproduce here entire, it can at
least be briefly described. The trainer called his group a
"school," and of it he said:
"While I do not say that any one horse knows the meaning of from
300 to 400 words, I claim that _as a whole_ the school does
know that number."
The performance was fairly bewildering; but by diligent work I
recorded the whole of it. Various horses did various things. They
fetched chairs, papers, hats and coats; opened desks, rang bells,
came when called, bowed, knelt, and erased figures from a
blackboard. They danced a waltz, a clog dance, a figure-8; they
marched, halted, paced, trotted, galloped, backed, jumped, leaped
over each other, performed with a barrel, a see-saw and a double
see-saw. Their marching and drilling would have been creditable to
a platoon of rookies.
In performing, every horse is handicapped by his lack of hands and
plant grade feet; and the horse memory is not very sure or
certain. More than any other animal, the horse depends upon the
trainer's command, and in poor performances the command often
requires to be repeated, two or three times, or more. The memory
of the horse is not nearly so quick nor so certain as that of the
chimpanzee or elephant.
Dr. Martin J. Potter, of New York, famous trainer of stage and
movie animals, states that of all animals, wild or domestic, the
horse is the most intelligent; but I doubt whether he ever trained
any chimpanzees. Speaking from out of the abundance of his
training experience with many species of animals except the great
apes, Dr. Potter says that "the seal [i. e. California sea-lion]
learns its stage cues more easily than any other mute performer.
The horse, however, is the most intelligent of all animals in its
grasp and understanding of the work it has learned to perform, and
in its reliable faithfulness and memory." Dr. Potter holds that
of wild animals the tiger, owing to its treachery and ferocity, is
the most difficult wild animal to train; the lion is the most
reliable, and the most stupid of all animals is the pig.
The Taming of Boma. A keeper for a short time in our place, named
D'Osta, once did a very neat piece of work in taming a savage and
intractable chimpanzee. When Boma came to us, fresh from the
French Congo, he was savage and afraid. He retreated to the
highest resting-place of his cage, came down only at night for his
meals, and would make no compromise. We believed that he had been
fearfully abused by his former owners, and through mistreatment
had acquired both fear and hatred of all men.
After the lapse of several months with Boma on that basis, the
situation grew tiresome and intolerable. So D'Osta said:
"I must tame that animal, and teach him not to be afraid of us."
He introduced a roomy shifting cage into Boma's compartment,
fixed the drop door, and for many days served Boma's food and
water in that cage only. For two weeks the ape eluded capture, but
eventually the keeper caught him. At first Boma's rage and fear
were boundless; but presently the idea dawned upon his mind that
he was not to be killed immediately. D'Osta handed him excellent
food and water, twice a day, spoke to him soothingly, and
otherwise let him alone. Slowly Boma's manner changed. He learned
that he was not to be hurt, nor even annoyed. Confidence in the
men about him began to come to him. His first signs of
friendliness were promptly met and cultivated.
At the end of ten days, D'Osta opened the sliding door, and Boma
walked out, a wiser and better ape. His bad temper and his fears
were gone. He trusted his keeper, and cheerfully obeyed him.
Strangest of all, he even suffered D'Osta to put a collar upon
him, and chain him to the front bars to curb his too great
playfulness while his cage was being cleaned.
Boma's fear of man has never returned. Now, although he is big and
dangerous, he is a perfectly normal ape.
The Training of an Over-Age Bear. A bear-trainer-athlete and
"bear-wrestler" named Jacob Glass once taught me a lesson that
astounded me. It related to the training of a bear that I thought
was too old to be trained.
We had an Alaskan cinnamon bear, three years old, that had been
christened "Christian," at Skagway, because it stood so much
pestering without flying into rages, as the grizzly did. After a
short time with us, the concrete floors of our bear dens reacted
upon the soles of its feet so strangely and so seriously that we
were forced to transfer the animal to a temporary cage that had a
wooden floor. While I was wondering what to do with that bear,
along came Mr. Glass, anxious and unhappy.
"My wrestling bear has died on me," he said, "and I've got to get
another. You have got one that I would like to buy from you. It's
the one you call Christian."
Very kindly I said, "That is a mighty fine bear, as to temper; but
now he is entirely too old to train, and you couldn't do anything
with him. He would be a loss to you."
"I've looked him over, and I like his looks. I think I can train
him all right. You let me have him, and I'll make a fine performer
of him."
"I know that you never can do it; but you may try him, and send
him back when you fail."
Thus ended the first lesson; and I was sure that in a month Mr.
Glass would beg me to take back the untrainable animal.
About one year later Glass appeared again, jubilant. At once he
broke forth into eulogies of Christian; but one chapter would not
be large enough to contain them. He had trained that bear, with
outrageous ease and celerity, and hadimmediately taken him upon
the stage as a professional jiu-jitsu wrestler. And really, the
act was admirable. As a wrestler, the bear seemed almost as
intelligent as the man. He knew the "left-hand half-nelson" as well
as Glass, and he knew the following words, perfectly: "Right,
left, half-nelson, strangle, head up, nose under arm, and
hammer-lock."
[Illustration with caption: THE WRESTLING BEAR "CHRISTIAN" AND HIS
PARTNER]
Glass declared that this bear was more intelligent than any lion,
or any other trained animal ever seen by him. He was wise in many
ways besides wrestling,--in his friendship with Glass, with other
bears, with other men, and with a dog. _He obeyed all orders
willingly,_ even permitting Glass to take his food away when he
was eating; but he would not stand being punished with a whip or
a stick! In response to that he would bite. However, he generously
permitted himself to be _held down and choked, as a
punishment,_ after which he would be very repentant, and would
insist upon getting into his partner's lap,--to show his good
will.
Glass was enthusiastically certain that Christian could reason
independently from cause to effect. He declared that his alertness
of mind was so pronounced it was very rarely necessary to show him
a second time how to do a given thing.
Training an Adult Savage Monkey. Once we had a number of Japanese
red-faced monkeys, and one of the surplus adult males had a temper
as red as his face. Mr. Wormwood, an exhibitor of performing
monkeys, wished to buy that animal; but I declined to sell it, on
the ground that it would be impossible to train it.
At that implied challenge the trainer perked up and insisted upon
having that particular bad animal; so we yielded. He wished him
for the special business of turning somersaults, because he had no
tail to interfere with that performance.
Two months later Mr. Wormwood appeared again. "Yes," he said, but
not boastfully, "_I trained him;_ but I came mighty near to
giving him up as a bad job. He was the hardest subject I ever
tackled; but I conquered him at last, and now he is working all
right."
A really great number of different kinds of animals have been
trained for stage performances, running the scale all the way up
from fleas to elephants. It is easy to recall mice, rats, rabbits,
squirrels, parrots, macaws, cockatoos, crows, chickens, geese,
cats, pigs, dogs, monkeys, baboons, apes, bears, seals, sea-lions,
walruses, kangaroos, horses, hippopotami and elephants. It is a
large subject, and its many details are full of interest. It is
impossible to discuss here all these species and breeds.
In concluding these notes I leave off as I began,--with the
statement that any student of animal psychology who for any reason
whatever ignores or undervalues the intelligence of trained
animals puts a handicap upon himself.
III. THE HIGHER PASSIONS
XVIII
THE MORALS OF WILD ANIMALS
The ethics and morals of men and animals are thoroughly
comparative, and it is only by direct comparisons that they can be
analyzed and classified. It is quite possible that there are quite
a number of intelligent men and women who are not yet aware of the
fact that wild animals _have_ moral codes, and that on an
average they live up to them better than men do to theirs.
It is a painful operation to expose the grinning skeletons in the
closets of the human family, but in no other way is it possible
to hold a mirror up to nature. With all our brightness and all our
talents,--real and imitation,--few men ever stop to ask what our
horses, dogs and cats think of our follies and our wickedness.
By the end of the year 1921 the annual total of human wickedness
had reached staggering proportions. From August 1914 to November
1918 the moral standing of the human race reached the lowest depth
it ever sounded since the days of the cave-dwellers. This we know
to be true, because of the increase in man's capacity for
wickedness, and its crop of results. After what we recently have
seen in Europe and Asia, and on the high seas, let no man speak of
a monster in human form as "a brute;" for so far as moral standing
is concerned, some of the animals allegedly "below man" now are in
a position to look down upon him.
It is a cold and horrid fact that today, all around us, and
sometimes close at hand, men are committing a long list of
revolting crimes such as even the most debased and cruel beasts of
the field _never_ commit. I refer to wanton wholesale murder,
often with torture; assault with violence, robbery in a hundred
cruel forms, and a dozen unmentionable crimes invented by
degenerate man and widely practiced. If anyone feels that this
indictment is too strong, I can cite a few titles that will be
quite sufficient for my case.
Let us make a few comparisons between the human species (_Homo
sapiens_) and the so-called "lower" wild animals; and let it be
understood that the author testifies, in courtroom phrase, only
"to the best of his information and belief."
Only two wild animal species known to me,--wolves and crocodiles,
--devour their own kind; but many of the races of men have been
cannibals, and some are so today.
Among free wild animals, the cruel abuse or murder of children by
their parents, or by other adults of the tribe, is unknown; but in
all the "civilized" races of men infanticide and child murder are
frightfully common crimes. In 1921 a six-year-old Eskimo girl,
whose father and mother had been murdered, was strangled by her
relatives, because she had no visible means of support.
The murder of the aged and helpless among wild animals is almost
unknown; but among both the savage and the civilized races of men
it is quite common. Our old acquaintance, Shack-Nasty Jim, the
Modoc Indian, tomahawked his own mother because she hindered his
progress; but many persons in and around New York have done worse
than that.
Civil war between the members of a wild animal species is a thing
unknown in the annals of wild-animal history; but among men it is
an every-day occurrence.
Among _free_ animals it is against the moral and ethical
codes of all species of vertebrates for the strong to bully and
oppress the weak; but it is almost everywhere a common rule of
action with about ten per cent of the human race.
The members of a wild animal species are in honor bound not to rob
one another, but with 25 per cent of the men of all civilized
races, robbery, and the desire to get something for nothing, are
ruling passions. No wild animals thus far known and described
practice sex crimes; but the less said of the races of men on this
subject, the better for our feelings.
Among animals, save in the warfare of carnivorous animals for
their daily food, there are no exterminatory wars between species,
and even local wars over territory are of very rare occurrence.
Among men, the territorial wars of tribes and nations are
innumerable, they have been from the earliest historic times, and
they are certain to continue as long as this earth is inhabited by
man. The "end of war" between the grasping nations of this earth
is an iridescent dream, because of the inextinguishable jealousy
and meanness of nations; but it is well to reduce them to a
minimum. Nations like Germany, Bulgaria, Turkey and Russia will
never stand hitched for any long periods. Their peace-loving
neighbors need to keep their weapons well oiled and polished, and
indulge in no hallucinations of a millenium upon this wicked
earth.
In the mating season, there is fighting in many wild animal
species between the largest and finest male individuals for the
honor of overlordship in increasing and diffusing the species.
These encounters are most noticeable in the various species of the
deer family, because the fatal interlocking of antlers
occasionally causes the death of both contestants. We have in our
National Collection of Heads and Horns sets of interlocked antlers
of moose, caribou, mule deer and white-tailed deer.
Otherwise than from the accidental interlocking of antlers,--due
to the fact that an animal can push forward with far greater force
than it can pull back,--I have never seen, heard or read of a wild
animal having been _killed_ outright in a fight over the
possession of females. Fur seal and Stellar sea-lion bulls, and
big male orang-utans, frequently are found badly scarified by
wounds received in fighting during the breeding season, but of
actual deaths we have not heard.
The first law of the jungle is: "Live, and let live."
Leaving out of account the carnivorous animals who must kill or
die, _all the wild vertebrate species of the earth have learned
the logic that peace promotes happiness, prosperity and long
life._ This fundamentally useful knowledge governs not only the
wild animal individual, but also the tribe, the species, and
contiguous species.
Do the brown bears and grizzlies of Alaska wage war upon each
other, species against species? By no means. It seems reasonably
certain that those species occasionally intermarry. Do the big
sea-lions and the walruses seek to drive away or exterminate the
neighboring fur seals or the helpless hair seals? Such warfare is
absolutely unknown. Do the moose and caribou of Alaska and Yukon
Territory attack the mountain sheep and goats? Never. Does the
Indian elephant attack the gaur, the sambar, the axis deer or the
muntjac? The idea is preposterous. Does any species of giraffe,
zebra, antelope or buffalo attack any other species on the same
crowded plains of British East Africa? If so, we have yet to learn
of it.
If the races and nations of men were as peace-loving, honest and
sensible in avoiding wars as all the wild animal species are, then
would we indeed have a social heaven upon earth.
Now, tell me, ye winged winds that blow from the four corners of
the earth and over the seven seas, whence came the Philosophy of
Peace to the world's wild animals? Did they learn it by observing
the ways of man? "It is to laugh," says the innkeeper. Man has not
yet learned it himself; and therefore do we find the beasts of
the field a lap ahead of the quarrelsome biped who has assumed
dominion over them.
Day by day we read in our newspapers of men and women who are
moral lepers and utterly unfit to associate with horses, dogs,
cats, deer and elephants. Our big male chimpanzee, Father Boma,
who knows no wife but Suzette, and firmly repels the blandishments
of his neighbor Fanny, is a more moral individual than many a
pretty gentleman whose name we see heading columns of divorce
proceedings in the newspapers.
Said the Count to Julia in "The Hunchback," "Dost thou like the
picture, dearest?" As a natural historian, it is our task to hew
to the line, and let the chips fall where they will.
Among the wild animals there are but few degenerate and unmoral
species. In some very upright species there are occasionally
individual lapses from virtue. A famous case in point is the rogue
elephant, who goes from meanness to meanness until he becomes
unbearable. Then he is driven out of the herd; he becomes an
outcast and a bandit, and he upsets carts, maims bullocks, tears
down huts and finally murders natives until the nearest local
sahib gets after him, and ends his career with a bullet through
his wicked brain.
In my opinion the gray wolf of North America (like his congener in
the Old World) is the most degenerate and unmoral mammal species
on earth. He murders his wounded packmates, he is a greedy
cannibal, he will attack his wife and chew her unmercifully. On
the other hand, his one redeeming trait is that he helps to rear
the pups,--when they are successfully defended from him by their
mother!
The wolverine makes a specialty of devilish and uncanny cunning
and energy in destroying the property of man. Trappers have told
us that when a wolverine invades a trapper's cabin in his absence,
he destroys very nearly its entire contents. The food that he can
neither eat nor carry away he defiles in such a manner that the
hungriest man is unable to eat it. This seems to be a trait of
this species only,--among wild animals; but during the recent war
it was asserted that similar acts were committed by soldiers in
the captured and occupied villas of northern France.
The domestication of the dog has developed a new type of animal
criminal. The sheep-killing dog is in a class by himself. The wild
dog hunts in the broad light of day, often running down game by
the relay system. The sheep-killing dog is a cunning night
assassin, a deceiver of his master, a shrewd hider of criminal
evidence, a sanctimonious hypocrite by day but a bloody-minded
murderer under cover of darkness. Sometimes his cunning is almost
beyond belief. Now, can anyone tell us how much of this particular
evolution is due to the influence of Man upon Dog through a
hundred generations of captivity and association? Has the dog
learned from man the science of moral banditry, the best methods
for the concealment of evidence, and how to dissemble?
Elsewhere a chapter is devoted to the crimes of wild animals; but
the great majority of the cases cited were found among _captive_
animals, where abnormal conditions produced exceptional results.
The crimes of captive animals are many, but the crimes of free wild
animals are comparatively few. Whenever we disturb the delicate
and precise balance of nature we may expect abnormal results.
XIX
THE LAWS OF THE FLOCKS AND THE HERDS
Through a thousand generations of breeding and living under
natural conditions, and of self-maintenance against enemies and
evil conditions, the wild flocks and herds of beasts and birds
have evolved a short code of community laws that make for their
own continued existence.
And they do more than that. When free from the evil influences of
man, those flock-and-herd laws promote, and actually produce,
peace, prosperity and happiness. This is no fantastic theory of
the friends of animals. It is a fact, just as evident to the
thinking mind as the presence of the sun at high noon.
The first wild birds and quadrupeds found themselves beset by
climatic conditions of various degrees and kinds of rigor and
destructive power. In the torrid zone it took the form of
excessive rain and humidity, excessive heat, or excessive dryness
and aridity. In the temperate and frigid zones, life was a
seasonal battle with bitter cold, torrents of cold rain in early
winter or spring, devastating sleet, and deep snow and ice that
left no room for argument.
At the same time, the species that were not predatory found
themselves surrounded by fangs and claws, and the never-ending
hunger of their owners. The air, the earth and the waters swarmed
with predatory animals, great and small, ever seeking for the
herbivorous and traitorous species, and preferably those that
were least able to fight or to flee. The La Brea fossil beds at
Los Angeles, wherein a hospitable lake of warm asphalt conserved
skeletal remains of vertebrates to an extent and perfection quite
unparalleled, have revealed some very remarkable conditions. The
enormous output, up to date, of skulls of huge lions, wolves,
sabre-toothed tigers, bears and other predatory animals, shows,
for once, just what the camels, llamas, deer, bison and mammoths
of those days had to do, to be, and to suffer in order to survive.
With the aid of a little serious study, it is by no means
difficult to recognize the hard laws that have enabled the
elephant, bison, sheep, goats, deer, antelope, gazelles, fur-seal,
walrus and others to survive and increase. From the wild animal
herds and bird flocks that we have seen and personally known,
_we know what their laws are,_ and can set them down in the
order of their evolution and importance.
The First Law. _There shall be no fighting in the family, the
herd or the species, at any other time than in the mating season;
and then only between adult males who fight for herd
leadership._
The destructiveness of intertribal warfare, either organized or
desultory, must have been recognized in Jurassic times, millions
of years ago, by the reptiles of that period. Throughout the
animal kingdom below man the blessings of peace now are thoroughly
known. This first law is obeyed by all species save man. We doubt
whether all the testimony of the rocks added together can show
that one wild species of vertebrate life ever really was
exterminated by another species, not even excepting the predatory
species which lived by killing.
No one (so far as we know) has charged that the lions, or the
tigers, the bears, the orcas, the eagles or the owls have ever
obliterated a species during historic times. It was the swine of
civilization, transplanted by human agencies, that exterminated
the dodo on the Island of Mauritius; and it was men, not birds of
prey, who swept off the earth the great auk, the passenger pigeon
and a dozen other bird species.
The Second Law. _The strong members of a flock or herd shall not
bully nor oppress the weak._
This law, constantly broken by degenerate and vicious men, women
and children, very rarely is broken in a free wild herd or flock.
In the observance of this fundamental law, born of ethics and
expediency, mankind is far behind the wild animals. It would serve
a good purpose if the criminologists and the alienists would
figure out the approximate proportion of the human species now
living that bullies and maltreats and oppresses the weak and the
defenseless. At this moment "society" in the United States is in a
state of thoroughly imbecilic defenselessness against the new
type of predatory savages known as "bandits."
The Third Law. _During the annual period of motherhood, both
prospective and actual, mothers must be held safe from all forms
of molestation; and their young shall in no manner be interfered
with._
For the perpetuation of a family, a clan or a species, the
protection of the mothers, and their weak and helpless offspring
is a necessity recognized by even the dullest vertebrate animals.
As birth-time or nesting-time approaches the wild flocks and herds
universally permit the potential mothers to seek seclusion, and to
work out their respective problems according to their own judgment
and the means at their command. The coming mother looks for a spot
that will afford (1) a secure hiding-place, (2) the best
available shelter from inclement weather, (3) accessible food and
water, and (4) cover or other protection for her young.
During this period the males often herd together, and they serve a
protective function by attracting to themselves the attacks of
their enemies. For the mothers, the bearing time is a truce time.
There are fox-hunters who roundly assert that in spring fox hounds
have been known to refuse to attack and kill foxes about to become
mothers.
The Fourth Law. _In union there is strength; in separation
there is weakness; and the solitary animal is in the greatest
danger._
It was the wild species of mammals and birds who learned and most
diligently observed this law who became individually the most
numerous. A hundred pairs of eyes, a hundred noses and a hundred
pairs of listening ears increase about ten times the protection of
the single individual against surprise attacks. The solitary
elephant, bison, sheep or goat is far easier to stalk and approach
than a herd, or a herd member. A wolf pack can attack and kill
even the strongest solitary musk-ox, bison or caribou, but the
horned herd is invincible. A lynx can pull down and kill a single
mountain sheep ram, but even the mountain lion does not care to
attack a herd of sheep. It is due solely to the beneficent results
of this clear precept, and the law of defensive union, that any
baboons are today alive in Africa.
The grizzly bear loves mountain-goat meat; but he does not love to
have his inner tube punctured by the deadly little black skewers
on the head of a billy. It is the Mountain Goats' Protective Union
that condemns the silvertip grizzly to laborious digging for
humble little ground-squirrels, instead of killing goats for a
living. The rogue elephant who will not behave himself in the
herd, and will not live up to the herd law, is expelled; and after
that takes place his wicked race is very soon ended by a high-
power bullet, about calibre .26. The last one brought to my notice
was overtaken by Charles Theobald, State Shikaree of Mysore, in a
Ford automobile; and the car outlived the elephant.
The Fifth Law. _Absolute obedience to herd leaders and parents
is essential to the safety of the herd and of the individual; and
this obedience must be prompt and thorough._
Whenever the affairs of grown men and women are dominated by
ignorant, inexperienced and rash juniors, look out for trouble;
for as surely as the sun continues to shine, it will come. With an
acquaintance that comprehends many species of wild quadrupeds and
birds, I do not recall even one herd or flock that I have seen led
by its young members. There are no young spendthrifts among the
wild animals. For them, youthful folly is too expensive to be
tolerated. The older members of the clan are responsible for its
safety, and therefore do they demand obedience to their orders.
They have their commands, and they have a sign language by which
they convey them in terms that are silent but unmistakable. They
order "Halt," and the herd stops, at once. At the command
"Attention," each herd member "freezes" where he stands, and
intently looks, listens and scents the air. At the order "Feed at
will," the tension slowly relaxes; but if the order is "Fly!" the
whole herd is off in a body, as if propelled by one mind and one
power.
My first knowledge of this law of the flock came down to me from
the blue ether when I first saw, in my boyhood, a V-shaped flock
of Canada geese cleaving the sky with straight and steady flight,
and perfect alignment. Even in my boyish mind I realized that the
well-ordered progress of the wild geese was in obedience to
Intelligence and Flock Law. Later on, I saw on the Jersey sands
the mechanical sweeps and curves and doubles of flying flocks of
sandpipers and sanderlings, as absolutely perfect in obedience to
their leaders as the slats of a Venetian blind.
A herd of about thirty elephants, under the influence of a still
alarm and sign signals, once vanished from the brush in front of
me so quickly and so silently that it seemed uncanny. One single
note of command from a gibbon troop leader is sufficient to set
the whole company in instant motion, fleeing at speed and in good
order, with not a sound save the swish of the small branches that
serve as the rungs of their ladder of flight.
In the actual practice of herd leadership in species of ruminant
animals, the largest and most spectacular bull elk or bison is not
always the leader. Frequently it has been observed that a wise old
cow is the actual leader and director of the herd, and that "what
she says, goes." This was particularly remarked to me by James
McNaney during the course of our "last buffalo hunt" in Montana,
in 1886. From 1880 to 1884 he had been a mighty buffalo-hunter,
for hides. He stated that whenever as a still-hunter he got "a
stand on a bunch," and began to shoot, slowly and patiently, so as
not to alarm the stand, whenever a buffalo took alarm and
attempted to lead away the bunch, usually it proved to be a wise
old cow. The bulls seemed too careless to take notice of the
firing and try to lead away from it.
The Sixth Law. _Of food and territory, the weak shall have their
share._
While this law is binding upon all the members of a wild flock, a
herd, a clan or a species, outside of species limits it may become
null and void; though in actual practice I think that this rarely
occurs. Among the hoofed animals; the seals and sea-lions; the
apes, baboons and monkeys, and the kangaroos, the food that is
available to a herd is common to all its members. We can not
recall an instance of a species attempting to dispossess and
evict another species, though it must be that many such have
occurred. In the game-laden plains of eastern Africa, half a dozen
species, such as kongonis, sable antelopes, gazelles and zebras,
often have been observed in one landscape, with no fighting
visible.
With all but the predatory wild animals and man, the prevailing
disposition is to _live, and let live._ One of the few
recorded murders of young animals by an old one of the same
species concerned the wanton killing of two polar bear cubs in
northern Franz Joseph Land, as observed by Nansen.
The Seventh Law. _Man is the deadliest enemy of all the wild
creatures; and the instant a man appears the whole herd must fly
from him, fast and far._
In some of the regions to which man and his death-dealing
influence have not penetrated, this law is not yet on the statute
books of the jungle and the wilderness. Sir Ernest Shackleton and
Captain Scott found it unknown to the giant penguins and sea
leopards of the Antarctic Continent, I have seen a few flocks and
herds by whom the law was either unknown or forgotten; but the
total number is a small one. There was a herd of mountain sheep on
Pinacate Peak, a big flock of sage grouse in Montana, various
flocks of ptarmigan on the summits of the Elk River Mountains,
British Columbia,--and out of a long list of occurrences that is
all I will now recall.
It is fairly common for the members of a vast assemblage of
animals, like the bison, barren-ground caribou, fur seal, and sea
birds on their nesting cliffs, to assume such security from their
numbers as to ignore man; and all such cases are highly
interesting manifestations of the influence of the fourth law when
carried out to six decimal places.
The Eighth and Last Law. _Whenever in a given spot all men cease
to kill us, there may we accept sanctuary and dwell in peace._
This law comes as Amendment 1 to the original Constitution of the
Animal Kingdom. The quick intelligence of wild animals in
recognizing a new sanctuary, and in adopting it unreservedly and
thankfully as their own territory, is to all friends of wild life
a source of wonder and delight. With their own eyes Americans have
seen the effects of sanctuary-making upon bison, elk, mule deer,
white-tailed deer, mountain sheep, mountain goat, prong-horned
antelope, grizzly and black bears, beavers, squirrels, chipmunks,
rabbits, sage grouse, quail, wild ducks and geese, swans, pelicans
brown and white, and literally hundreds of species of smaller
birds of half a dozen orders.
In view of this magnificent and continent-wide manifestation of
discovery, new thought and original conclusion, let no man tell us
that the wild birds and quadrupeds "do not think" and "can not
reason."
The Exceptions of Captivity. When wild animals come into
captivity, a few individuals develop and reveal their worst traits
of character, and much latent wickedness comes to the surface. A
small percentage of individuals become mean and lawless, and a
still smaller number show criminal instincts. These Bolshevistic
individuals commit misdemeanors and crimes such as are unknown in
the wild state. One male ruminant out of perhaps fifty will turn
murderer, and kill a female or a fawn, entirely contrary to the
herd law; and at long intervals a male predatory animal kills his
mate or young.
Occasionally captivity warps wild animal or wild bird character
quite out of shape, though it is a satisfaction to know that the
total proportion of those so affected is very small. Long and
close confinement in a prison-like home, filled with more daily
cares and worries than any animal cage has of iron bars, has sent
many a human wife and mother to an insane asylum; but the super-
humanitarians who rail out at the existence of zoological parks
and zoos are troubled by that not at all.
XX
PLAYS AND PASTIMES OF ANIMALS
I approach this subject with a
feeling of satisfaction; but I would not like to state the
number of hours that I have spent in watching the play of our
wild animals.
Out in the wilds, where the bears, sheep and goats live and
thrive, the outdoorsmen see comparatively few wild animals at
play. No matter what the season, the dangers of the wilderness and
mountain summit remain the same. When kids and lambs are young,
the eaglets are hungriest, and their mothers are most determined
in their hunting. After September 1, the deadly still-hunters are
out, and strained watchfulness is the unvarying rule, from dawn
until dark.
Out in the wilds, it is the _moving_ animal that instantly
catches every hostile eye within visual range. A white goat kid
vigorously gamboling on the bare rocks would attract all the
golden eagles, hunters, trappers and Indians within a radius of
two miles. It is the rule that kids, fawns and lambs must _lie
low and keep still,_ to avoid attracting deadly enemies. On the
bare summits, play can be indulged in only at great risk.
Generations of persecution have implanted in the brain of the
ruminant baby the commanding instinct to fold up its long legs,
neatly and compactly, furl its ears along its neck, and closely
lie for hours against a rock or a log. During daylight hours they
must literally hug the ground. Silence and inactivity is the first
price that all young animals in the wilds pay for their lives. It
is only in the safe shelter of captivity, or man-made sanctuaries,
that they are free to play.
In the comfortable security of the "zoo" all the wild conditions
are changed. The restraints of fear are off, and every animal is
free to act as joyous as it feels. Here we see things that men
_never see in the wilds!_ If any Rocky Mountain bear hunter
should ever see bear cubs or full-grown bears wrestling and
carrying on as they do here, he would say that they were plumb
crazy!
Of all our wild animals, not even excepting the apes and monkeys,
our young bears are the most persistently playful. In fact, I
believe that when _properly caged and tended,_ bears under
eight years of age are the most joyous and playful of all wild
animals. We have given our bears smooth and spacious yards floored
with concrete, with a deep pool in the centre of each, and great
possibilities in climbing upon rocks high and low. The top of each
sleeping den is a spacious balcony with a smooth floor. The
facilities for bear wrestling and skylarking are perfect, and
there are no offensive uneven floors nor dead stone walls to annoy
or discourage any bear. They can look at each other through the
entire series of cages and there is no chance whatever for a bear
to feel lonesome. We put just as many individuals into each cage
as we think the traffic will stand; and sometimes as many as six
young bears are reared together.
Now, all these conditions promote good spirits, playfulness, and
the general enjoyment of life. Any one who thinks that our bears
are not far happier than those that are in the wilds and exposed
to enemies, hunger and cold, should pause and consider.
Our bear cubs begin to play just as soon as they emerge from their
natal den, in March or April, and they keep it up until they are
six or seven years of age,--or longer! Our visitors take the
playfulness of small cubs as a matter of course, but the clumsy
and ridiculous postures and antics of fat-paunched full-grown
bears are irresistibly funny. Really, there are times when it
seems as if the roars of laughter from the watching crowd
stimulates wrestling bears to further efforts. On October 28,
1921, about seventy boys stood in front of and alongside the
den of two Kluane grizzly cubs and shouted for nearly half an hour
in approval and admiration of the rapid and rough play of those
cubs.
[Illustration with caption: ADULT BEARS AT PLAY]
The play of bears, young or middle-aged, consists in boxing,
catch-as-catch-can wrestling, and chasing each other to and fro.
Cubs begin to spar as soon as they are old enough to stand erect
on their hind feet. They take their distance as naturally as
prize-fighters, and they strike, parry and dodge just as men do.
They handle their front feet with far more dexterity and precision
than boys six years of age.
Boxing bears always strike for the head, and bite to seize the
cheek of the opponent. In biting, mouth meets mouth, in defense as
well as attack. When a biting bear makes a successful pass and
finally succeeds in getting a firm toothhold on the cheek of his
opponent, the party of the second part promptly throws himself
prone upon the ground, and with four free feet concentrated upon
the head of the other bear forces him to let go. This movement,
and the four big, flat foot soles coming up into action is, in
large bears, a very laughable spectacle, and generally produces a
roar.
Wrestling bears roll over and over on the ground, clawing and
biting, until one scrambles up, and either makes a new attack or
rushes away.
Bears love to chase one another, _and be chased;_ and in this
form of skylarking they raise a whirlwind of activity which leads
all around the floor, up to the balcony and along the length of
it, and plunges down at the other end. Often a bear that is chased
will fling himself into the bathing pool, with a tremendous
splash, quickly scramble out again and rush off anew in a swirl of
flying water.
The two big male polar bears that came to us from the William
Hagenbeck group were very fond of playing and wrestling in the
water of their swimming pool. Often they kept up that aquatic
skylarking for two hours at a stretch, and by this constant claw
work upon each other's pelts they kept their coats of hair so
thinned down that we had to explain them. One bear had a very
spectacular swimming trick. He would swim across the pool until
his front feet touched the side, then he would throw himself over
backwards, put his hind feet against the rock wall, and with a
final shove send himself floating gracefully on his back across to
the other side.
Playful bears are much given to playing tricks, and teasing each
other. A bear sleeping out in the open den is regarded as a proper
subject for hectoring, by a sudden bite or cuff, or a general
assault. It is natural to expect that wrestling bears will
frequently become angry and fight; but such is not the case. This
often happens with boys and men, but bears play the game
consistently to the end. I can not recall a single instance of a
real bear fight as the result of a wrestling or boxing match; and
may all boys take note of this good example from the bear dens.
Next to the bears, the apes and monkeys are our most playful
animals. Here, also, it is the young and the half grown members of
the company that are most active in play. Fully mature animals are
too sedate, or too heavy, for the frivolities of youth. A well-
matched pair of young chimpanzees will wrestle and play longer and
harder than the young of any other primate species known to me. It
is important to cage together only young apes of equal size and
strength, for if there is any marked disparity in size, the larger
and stronger animal will wear out the strength of its smaller
cage-mate, and impair its health.
In playing, young chimps, orangs or monkeys seize each other and
wrestle, fall, and roll over and over, indefinitely. They make
great pretenses of biting each other, but it is all make-believe.
My favorite orang-utan pet in Borneo loved to play at biting me,
but whenever the pressure became too strong I would say chidingly,
"Ah! Ah!" and his jaws would instantly relax. He loved to butt me
in the chest with his head, make wry faces, and make funny noises
with his lips. I tried to teach him "cat's cradle" but it was too
much for him. His clumsy fingers could not manage it.
One of our brightest chimpanzees, named Baldy, was much given to
hectoring his female cage-mate, for sport. What he regarded as his
best joke was destroying her bed. Many times over, after she had
laboriously carried straw up to the balcony, carefully made up a
nice, soft, circular bed for herself, and settled down upon it for
a well-earned rest, Baldy would silently climb up to her level,
suddenly fling himself upon her as she lay, and with all four of
his arms and legs violently working, the nest would be torn to
pieces and scattered and the lady orang rudely pulled about. Then
Baldy would joyously swing down to the lower level, settle himself
demurely at the front of the cage, and with a placid face and
innocent, far-away expression in his eyes gaze at the crowd. There
was nothing lacking but a mischievous wink of one eye.
Whenever his cage-mate selected a particularly long and perfect
straw and placed it crosswise in her mouth, Baldy would steal up
behind her and gleefully snatch it away.
Baldy was a born comedian. He loved to amuse a crowd and make
people laugh. He would go through a great trapeze performance of
clownish and absurd gymnastics, and often end it with three or
four loud smacks of his big black feet against the wall. This was
accomplished by violent kicking backwards. His dancing and up-and-
down jumping always made visitors laugh, after which he would
joyously give his piercing "_Wah-hoo_" shout of triumph. A
Sioux Indian squaw dances by jumping up and down, but her
performance is lifeless in comparison.
No vaudeville burlesque dancer ever cut a funnier monkey shine
than the up-and-down high-jump dance and floor-slapping act of our
Boma chimpanzee (1921). Boma offers this whenever he becomes
especially desirous of entertaining a party of distinguished
visitors. In stiff dancing posture, he leaps high in the air,
precisely like a great black jumping-jack straight from Dante's
Inferno. Orangs love to turn somersaults, and some individuals
are so persistent about it as to wear the hair off their backs,
disfigure their beauty, and disgust their keepers.
In the chapter on "Mental Traits of the Gorilla" a descriptionis
given of the play of Major Penny's wonderful John Gorilla.
When many captive monkeys are kept together in one large cage
containing gymnastic properties, many species develop humor, and
indulge in play of many kinds. They remind me of a group of well-
fed and boisterous small boys who must skylark or "bust." From
morning until night they pull each other's tails, wrestle and
roll, steal each other's playthings, and wildly chase each other
to and fro. There is no end of chattering, and screeching, and
funny facial grimaces. A writer in _Life_ once said that the
sexes of monkeys can be distinguished by the fact that "the
females chatter twice as fast as the males," but I am sure that
many ladies will dispute that statement.
In a company of mixed monkeys, or a mixed company of monkeys, a
timid and fearsome individual is often made the butt of practical
jokes by other monkeys who recognize its weakness. And who has not
seen the same trait revealed in crowds of boys?
But we can linger no longer with the Primates.
Who has not seen squirrels at play? Once seen, such an incident is
not soon forgotten. I have seen gray, fox and red squirrels engage
in highly interesting performances. The gray squirrel is stately
and beautiful in its play, but the red squirrel is amazing in its
elaborateness of method. I have seen a pair of those mischief-
makers perform low down on the trunk of a huge old virgin white
oak tree, where the holding was good, and work out a program
almost beyond belief. They raced and chased to and fro, up, down
and across, in circles, triangles, parabolas and rectangles, until
it was fairly bewildering. Really, they seemed to move just as
freely and certainly on the tree-trunk as if they were on the
ground, with no such thing in sight as the law of gravitation.
It seems to me that the gray squirrel barks and the red squirrel
chatters, scolds, and at times swears, chiefly for the fun of
hearing himself make a noise. In the red squirrel it is impudent
and defiant; and usually you hear it near your camp, or in your
own grounds, where the rascals know that they will not be shot.
The playful spirit seems to be inherent in the young of all the
Felidae. The playfulness of lion, tiger, leopard and puma cubs is
irresistibly pleasing; and it is worth while to rear domestic
kittens in order to watch their playful antics.
I have been assured by men who seemed to know, that wolf and fox
cubs silently play in front of their home dens, when well screened
from view, just as domestic dog puppies do; and what on earth can
beat the playfulness of puppies of the right kind, whose parents
have given them red blood instead of fat as their inheritance.
Interesting books might be written about the play of dogs alone.
The play of the otter, in sliding down a long and steep toboggan
slide of wet and slippery earth to a water plunge at the bottom,
is well known to trappers, hunters, and a few naturalists. It is
quite celebrated, and is on record in many places. I have seen
otter slides, but never had the good luck to see one in use. The
otters indulge in this very genuine sport with just as much
interest and zest as boys develop in coasting over ice and snow
with their sleds.
Here at the Zoological Park, young animals of a number of species
amuse themselves in the few ways that are open to them. It is a
common thing for fawns and calves of various kinds to butt their
mothers, just for fun. A more common form of infantile ruminant
sport is racing and jumping. Now and then we see a red buffalo
calf three or four months old suddenly begin a spell of running
for amusement, in the pure exuberance of health and good living. A
calf will choose a long open course, usually up and down a gentle
slope, and for two hundred feet or more race madly to and fro for
a dozen laps, with tail stiffly and very absurdly held aloft. Of
course men and beasts all pause to look at such performances, and
at the finish the panting and perspiring calf halts and gazes
about with a conscious air of pride. All this is deliberate
"showing off," just such as small boys frequently engage in.
Elk fawns, and more rarely deer fawns, also occasionally indulge
in similar performances. Often an adult female deer develops the
same trait. One of our female Eld's deer annually engages in a
series of spring runs. We have seen her race the full length of
her corral, up and down, over a two hundred foot course, at really
break-neck speed, and keep it up until her tongue hung out.
Years ago, in the golden days, I was so lucky as to see several
times wonderful dances of flocks of saras cranes on the low sandy
islets in the River Jumna, northern India, just below Etawah. It
was like this: While the birds are idly stepping about, apropos of
nothing at all, one suddenly flaps his long wings several times in
succession, another jumps straight up in the air for a yard or so,
and presto! with one accord the whole flock is galvanized into
action. They throw aside their dignity, and real fun begins. Some
stand still, heads high up, and flap their wings many times.
Others leap in the air, straight up and down, one jump after
another, as high as they can go. Others run about bobbing and
bowing, and elaborately courtesying to each other with half opened
wings, breasts low down and their tails high in the air, cutting
very ridiculous figures.
In springtime in the Zoological Park we often see similar
exhibitions of crane play in our large crane paddock. A
particularly joyous bird takes a fit of running with spread wings,
to and fro, many times over, and usually one bird thus performing
inspires another, probably of his own kind, to join in the game.
The other cranes look on admiringly and sometimes a spectator
shrilly trumpets his approval.
In his new book, "The Friendly Arctic," Mr. Vilhjalmur Stefansson
records an interesting example of play indulged in jointly by a
frivolous arctic fox and eight yearling barren-ground caribou. It
was a game of tag, or its wild equivalent. The fox ran into and
through the group of caribou fawns, which gave chase and tried to
catch the fox, but in vain. At last the fawns gave up the chase,
returned to their original position, and came to parade rest. Then
back came the fox. Again it scurried through the group in a most
tantalizing manner, which soon provoked the fawns to chase the fox
anew. At the end of this inning the caribou again abandoned the
chase, whereupon the fox went off to attend to other affairs.
On the whole, the play of wild animals is a large field and no
writer will exhaust it with one chapter. Very sincerely do we wish
that at least one of the many romance writers who are so
industriously inventing wild-animal blood-and-thunder stories
would do more work with his eyes and less with his imagination.
XXI
COURAGE IN WILD ANIMALS
Either in wild animals or tame men, courage is the moral impulse
that impels an individual to fight or to venture at the risk of
bodily harm. Like Theodore Roosevelt, the truly courageous
individual engages his adversary without stopping to consider the
possible consequences to himself. The timid man shrinks from the
onset while he takes counsel of his fears, and reflects that "It
may injure me in my business," or that "It may hurt my standing;"
and in the end he becomes a slacker.
Among the mental traits and passions of wild creatures, a
quantitative and qualitative analysis of courage becomes a highly
interesting study. We can easily fall into the error of
considering that fighting is the all-in-all measure of courage;
which very often is far from being true. The mother quail that
pretends to be wounded and feigns helplessness in order to draw
hostile attention unto herself and away from her young, thereby
displays courage of a high order. No quail unburdened by a
helpless brood requiring her protection ever dreams of taking such
risks. The gray gibbons of Borneo, who quite successfully made
their escape from us, but promptly returned close up to my party
in response to the S. O. S. cries of a captured baby gibbon,
displayed the sublime courage of parental affection, and of
desperation. Wary, timid and fearfully afraid of man, at the first
sight of a biped they swing away. At the first roar of a gun they
literally fly down hill through the treetops, and vanish in a wild
panic. And yet, the leading members of that troop halted and
swiftly came back, piercing the gloom and silence of the forest
with their shrill cries of mingled encouragement and protest. It
was quite as courageous and heroic as the act of a father who
rushes into a burning building to save his child, at the imminent
risk of his own life.
The animal world has its full share of heroes. Also, it has its
complement of pugilists and bullies, its cowards and its
assassins.
Few indeed are the wild creatures that fight gratuitously, or
attack other animals without cause. If a fight occurs, look for
the motive. The wild creatures know that peace promotes happiness
and long life. Now, of all wild quadrupeds, it is probable that
the African baboons are pound for pound the most pugnacious, and
the quickest on the draw. The old male baboon in his prime will
fight anything that threatens his troop, literally at the drop of
a hat. But there is method in his madness. He and his wives and
children dwell on the ground in lands literally reeking with fangs
and claws. He has to confront the lion, leopard, wild dog and
hyena, and make good his right to live. No wonder, then, that his
temper is hot, his voice raucous and blood-curdling; his canines
fearfully long and sharp, and his savage yell of warning
sufficient to keep even the king of beasts off his grass.
Once I saw two baboons fight. We had two huge and splendid adult
male gelada baboons, from Abyssinia. They were kept separate, but
in adjoining cages; and the time came when we needed one of those
cages for another distinguished arrival. We decided to try the
rather hazardous experiment of herding those two geladas together.
Accordingly, we first opened the doors to both outside cages, to
afford for the moment a free circulation of baboons, and then we
opened the partition door. Instantly the two animals rushed
together in raging combat. With a fierce grip each seized the
other by the left cheek; and then began a baboon cyclone. They
spun around on their axis, they rolled over and over on the floor,
and they waltzed in speechless rage over every foot of those two
cages. Strange to say, beyond coughing and gasping they made no
sounds. Never before had we witnessed such a fearsome exhibition
of insane hatred and rage.
As soon as the horrified spectators could bring it about, the wild
fighters were separated; and strange to say, neither of them was
seriously injured. It was a drawn battle.
It is quite difficult to weigh and measure the independent and
abstract courage inherent in any wild animal species. All that can
be done is to grope after the truth. On this subject there can be
almost as many different opinions as there are species of wild
animals.
What animal will go farthest in daring and defying man, even the
man with a gun, in foraging for food?
Unquestionably and indisputably, the lion. This is no idle
repetition of an old belief, or tradition. It is a fact; and we
say this quite mindful of the records made by the grizzly bear,
the Alaskan brown bear, the tiger, the leopard and the jaguar.
"The Man-Eaters of Tsavo" opened up a strange and new chapter in
the life history of the savage lion. That truthful record of an
astounding series of events showed the lion in an attitude of
permanent aggression, backed by amazing and persistent courage.
For several months in that rude construction camp on the arid
bank of the Tsavo River, where a railway bridge was being
constructed on the famous Uganda Railway line of British East
Africa, lions and men struggled mightily and fought with each
other, with living men as the stakes of victory. The book written
by Col. J.H. Patterson, under the title mentioned above, tells a
plain and simple story of the nightly onslaughts of the lions, the
tragedies suffered from them, the constant, the desperate though
often ill-consideredefforts of the white engineers to protect
the terrorized black laborers, and finally the death of the man-
eaters. During a series of battles lasting four long months the
two lions _killed and carried of a total of twenty-eight
men!_ How many natives were killed and not reported never will
be known. The most hair-raising episode of all had a comedy touch,
and fortunately it did not quite end in a tragedy. This is what
happened:
Col. Patterson and his staff decided to try to catch the boldest
of the lions in a trap baited with _a living man._
Accordingly a two-room trap was built, one room to hold and
protect the man-bait, the other to catch and hold the lion. A very
courageous native consented to be "it," and he was put in place
and fastened up. The lion came on schedule time, he found the
live bait, boldly entered the trap to seize it, and the dropping
door fell as advertised. When the lion found himself caught, did
his capture trouble him? Not in the least. Instead of starting in
to tear his way out he decided to postpone his escape until he
had torn down the partition and eaten the man! So at the
partition he went, with teeth and claws.
In mortal terror the live bait yelled for succor. In "the last
analysis" the man was saved from the lion, but the lion joyously
tore his way out and escaped without a scratch. So far from being
daunted by this divertisement he continued his man-killing
industry, quite as usual.
Now, the salient points of the man-eaters of Tsavo consist of the
unquenchable courage of the two lions, and their persistent
defiance of white men armed with rifles. I am sure that there is
nowhere in existence another record of wild-animal courage equal
to this, and the truthfulness of it is quite beyond question.
The annals of African travel and exploration contain instances
innumerable of the unparalleled courage of the lion in taking what
he wants when he wants it.
THE GRIZZLY BEAR'S COURAGE. As a subject, this is a
hazardous risk, because so many men are able to tell all about it.
Judging from reliable records of the ways and means of the grizzly
bear, I think we must award the second prize for courage to "Old
Ephraim." The list of his exploits in scaring pioneers, in
attacking hunters, in robbing camps, and finally in bear-
handling and almost killing two guides in the Yellowstone Park, is
long and thrilling. The record reaches back to the days of Lewis
and Clark, who related many wild adventures with bears. The
grizzlies of their day were very courageous, but even then they
were _not_ greatly given to attacking men quite unprovoked!
In those days of bow-and-arrow Indians, and of white men armed
only with ineffective muzzle-loading pea rifles, using only weak
black powder, the grizzlies had an even chance with their human
adversaries, and sometimes they took first money. In those days
the courage of the grizzly was at its highest peak; and it was
then conceded by all frontiersmen that the grizzly was thoroughly
courageous, and always ready to fight. In the light of subsequent
history, and in order to be just to the grizzly, we claim that his
fighting was _in self defense,_ for even in those days the
unwounded bear preferred to run rather than to fight
unnecessarily.
The rise of the high-power, long-range repeating rifle has made
the grizzly bear a different animal from what he was in the days
of Lewis and Clark. He has learned, _thoroughly,_ the supreme
deadliness of man's new weapons, and he knows that he is no longer
able to meet men on even terms. Consequently, he runs, he hides,
he avoids man, everywhere save in the Yellowstone Park, where he
has found out that firearms are prohibited. There he has broken
the truce so often that his offenses have had to be met with stern
disciplinary measures that have made for the safety of tourists
and guides.
Once I saw an amusing small incident. Be it known that when a new
black bear cub is introduced to a den of its peers, the newcomer
shrinks in fright, and cowers, and takes its place right humbly.
But species alter cases. Once when we received an eight-months-
old grizzly cub we turned it loose in a big den that contained
five black bear cubs a year older than itself. But did the grizzly
cub cower and shrink? By no manner of means. With head fully
erect, it marched calmly to the centre of the den, and with serene
confidence gave the other cubs the once-over with an air that
plainly said: "_I'm_ a grizzly! I'm here, and I've come to
stay. Do I hear any objections?"
Quite as if in answer to the challenge, an eighteen-months-old
black bear presently sidled up and made a trial blow at the
grizzly's head. Instantly the grizzly cub's right arm shot out a
well-delivered blow that sent the black one scurrying away in a
panic, and perceptibly cleared the atmosphere. That cub had
grizzly-bear _courage_ and _confidence;_ that was all.
There are a number of American sportsmen who esteem the Cape
buffalo as the most aggressive and dangerous wild animal in
eastern Africa. He is so courageous and so persistently bold that
he is much given to lying in wait for hunters and attacking with
real fury. The high grass of his swamps is very helpful to him as
a means of defense. In our National Collection of Heads and Horns
there is a huge buffalo head (for years the world's highest
record) that tells the story of a near tragedy. The brother of Mr.
F.H. Barber, of South Africa, fired at the animal, but failed to
stop it. His gun jammed, and the charging beast was almost in the
act of killing him when F.H. Barber fired without pausing to take
aim. His lucky bullet knocked a piece out of the buffalo's left
horn, dazed the animal for a moment, and afforded time for the
shot that killed the mighty bull.
The leopard is usually a vicious beast. When brought to bay it
fights with great fury and success. The black leopard is supremely
vicious and intractable. Nearly all leopards hate training, and I
have seen two or three leopard "acts" that were nerve-racking to
witness because of the clear determination of all the animals to
kill their trainer at the first opportunity.
The status of the big Alaskan brown bear has already been referred
to in terms that may stand as an estimate of its courage. Really,
it is now in the same mental state as the grizzly bears of the
days of Lewis and Clark, and the surplus must be shot to admonish
the survivors and protect the rights of man.
THE RAGE OF A WILD BULL ELK. One of the most remarkable
cases of rage, resentment and fighting courage in a newly
captured wild animal occurred near Buttonwillow, California, in
November 1904, and is very graphically described by Dr. C. Hart
Merriam in the _Scientific Monthly_ for November 1921. The
story concerns the leader of a band of the small California Valley
Elk (_Cervus nannodes_) which it was desired to transport to
Sequoia Park, for permanent preservation.
The bull refused to be driven to the corral for capture, so he was
roped, thrown, hog-tied and hauled six miles on a wagon. This
indignity greatly enraged the animal. At the corral he was
liberated for the purpose of driving him through a chute and into
a car.
From his capture and the jolting ride the bull was furious, and he
refused to be driven. His first act was to gore and mortally wound
a young elk that unfortunately found itself in the corral with
him. Then he was roped again and his horns were sawn off. At first
no horseman dared to ride into the corral to attempt to drive the
animal. Finally the leader of the cowboys, Bill Woodruff, mounted
on a wise and powerful horse who knew the game quite as well as
his rider, rode into the corral with the raging elk, and attempted
to drive it.
The story of the fight that followed, of raging elk vs. horse and
man, makes stories of Spanish bullfights seem tame and
commonplace, and the adventure of St. George and the dragon a dull
affair. With the stubs of his antlers the bull charged the horse
again and again, inflicting upon the splendid animal heart-rending
punishment. Finally, after a fearful conflict, the wise and brave
horse conquered, and the elk devil was forced into the car.
After a short railway journey the elk was forced into a crate,--
fighting at every step,--and hauled a two days' journey to the
Park. Reduced to kicking as its sole expression of resentment, the
animal kicked continuously for forty-eight hours, almost
demolishing the crate.
The final scene of this unparalleled drama of wild-animal rage is
thus described by Dr. Merriam: "Then the other gates were
raised, giving the bull an opportunity to step out. For the
first, time since his capture he did what was wanted; he
voluntarily crept to the rear of the wagon and hobbled out on the
ground. Looking around for an enemy to attack and not seeing any,
--some of the men having stationed themselves outside the park
fence, the others on top of the crate,--he set out for the river,
only a few rods away.
"His courage had not forsaken him, but his strength had. He was no
longer the proudly aggressive wild beast he had been. He had
reached his limit. The terrible ordeal he had been through; the
struggle incident to his capture; the rough, hot ride to the
corral, hog-tied, on the hard floor of the dead-ax wagon; the
outbursts of passion in the corral; the fighting and second roping
in connection with the sawing off of his horns; the battle with
the big horse; the ceaseless violence of his destructive
assaults, first in the car, then in the crate, continued for three
days and nights, had finally undermined even his iron frame; so
when at last he found himself free on the ground, he presented a
truly pitiful picture.
"With his head bent to one side and back curved, with one ear up
and the other down, and with a dejected, helpless expression on
his face, he hobbled wearily away, barely able to step without
falling. Slowly he made his way to the river, waded in, drank,
crossed to the far side, staggered laboriously up the low bank,
and lay down. The next day he was found in the same spot,--dead."
THE DEFENSE OF THE HOME AND FAMILY. Any man who is too
cowardly to fight for his home and country deserves to live and
die homeless and without a country.
With this subject of courage the parental and fraternal affections
of wild animals are inseparably linked. The defense of the home
and family unit is the foundation of all courage, and of all
fighting qualities in man or animals. The gospel of self-defense
is the first plank in the platform of the home defenders.
Obviously, the head of a family cannot permit himself to be
knocked out, because as the chief fighter in the Home Defense
League it is his bounden duty to preserve his strength and his
weapons, and remain fit.
In the days of the club, the stone axe and the flint arrow-head,
men were few and feeble, and the wild beasts had no cause to fear
extermination. Tooth, claw and horn were about as formidable as
the clumsy and inadequate weapons of man. The wild species went on
developing naturally, and some mighty hosts were the result.
But gunpowder changed all that. In the chase it gave weak men
their innings beside the strong. Man could kill at long range,
with little danger to himself, or even with none at all. And then
in the wild beast world the great final struggle for existence
began. Man's flippant phrase,--"the survival of the fittest,"--
became charged with sinister and deadly meaning.
But for Mother Love among wild creatures, species would not
multiply, and the earth soon would become depopulated. In the
entire Deer Family of the world, the annual shedding of all horns
is Nature's tribute to motherhood in the herd. A buck deer or a
bull moose is a domineering master--so long as his antlers remain
upon his head. But with the approach of fawn-bearing time in the
herd, down they go. I have seen a bull elk stand with humbly
lowered head, and gaze reproachfully upon his fallen antlers. The
dehorned buck not only no longer hectors and drives the females,
but in fear of hurting his tender new velvet stubs he keeps well
away from the front hoofs of the cows. The calves grow up quite
safe from molestation within the herd.
It may be set down as a basic truth that all vertebrate animals
are ready to defend their homes and their young against all
enemies that do not utterly outclass them in size and strength. Of
course we do not expect the pygmy to try conclusions with the
giant, but at the same time, wild creatures have their own queer
ways of defense and counter-attack, and of matching superior
cunning against superior force. But now, throughout the animal
world, the fear of man is paramount. Nearly all the wild ones have
learned it. It is only the enraged, the frightened or the cornered
bear, lion, tiger or elephant that charges the Man with a Gun, and
seeks to counter upon him with fang and claw before it drops. The
deadly supremacy of the repeating rifle that kills big game at
half a mile, and the pump shotgun that gets five geese out of a
flock, are well recognized by the terrorized big game and small
game that flies before the sweeping pestilence of machine guns and
automobiles.
THE FIGHTING CANADA GOOSE. In essaying to illustrate the
home defense spirit, my memory goes out to one truculent and
fearless Canada goose whose mate elected to nest in a horribly
exposed spot on the east bank of our Wild-Fowl Pond. The location
was an error in judgment. As soon as the nest was finished and the
eggs laid therein, the goose took her place upon the collection,
and the gander mounted guard.
There were so many hostiles on the warpath that he was kept on the
qui vive during all daylight hours. At a radius of about twenty
feet he drew an imaginary dead-line around the family nest, and no
bird, beast or man could pass that line without a fight. If any
other goose, or a swan or duck, attempted to pass, the guardian
gander would rush forward with blazing eyes, open beak, wings open
for action, and with distended neck hiss out his challenge. If
the intruder failed to register respect, and came on, the gander
would seize the offender with his beak, and furiously wing-beat
him into flight. That gander was afraid of nothing, and his
courage and readiness to fight all comers, all day long, caused
visitors to accord him full recognition as a belligerent power.
THE CASE OF THE LAUGHING GULL. About that same time, a pair
of laughing gulls had the temerity to build a nest on the ground
in the very storm centre of the great Flying Cage. Daily and
hourly they were surrounded by a truculent mob of pelicans,
herons, ibises, storks, egrets and ducks, the most of whom
delighted in wrecking households. The keepers sided with the
gulls by throwing around their nest a wire entanglement, with a
sally-port at one side for the use of the beleaguered pair.
The voice of an angry or frightened laughing gull is it [sic]
owner's chief defense. The female sat on her nest and shrieked out
her shrill and defiant war cry of "Kah! kah, kah, kah!" The male
took post just outside the sally-port, where he postured and
screamed and threatened until we wondered why he did not burst
with superheated emotion. I am sure that never before did two
small gulls ever raise so much racket in so short a time and their
cage-mates must have found it rather trying.
The gulls hatched their eggs, they reared their young
successfully, and at last peace was restored.
A Mother Antelope Fights Off an Eagle. Mr. Howard Eaton, of Wolf,
Wyoming, once saw a female prong-horned antelope put up a strong
and successful fight in defense of her newly-born fawn. A golden
eagle, whose spring specialty is for fawns, kids and lambs, was
seen to swoop swiftly down toward a solitary antelope that had
been noticed on a treeless range beside the Little Missouri. It
quickly became evident that the eagle was after an antelope fawn.
As the bird swooped down toward the mother, and endeavored to
seize her fawn in its talons, the doe rose high on her hind legs,
and with her forelegs flying like flails struck with her sharp-
pointed hoofs again and again. Her blows went home, and feathers
were seen to fly from the body of the marauder.
The doe made good her defense. The eagle was glad to escape, and
as quickly as possible pulled himself together and flew away.
The Defensive Circle of the Musk-Ox. Several arctic explorers have
described the wonderful living-ring defense, previously mentioned,
of musk-ox herds against wolves. Mr. Paul Rainey's moving pictures
have shown it to us in thrilling detail, with Eskimo dogs instead
of wolves. When a musk-ox herd is attacked by the big and deadly
arctic white wolves, the bulls and adult cows herd the calves and
young stock into a compact group, then take their places shoulder
to shoulder around them in a perfect circle, and with lowered
heads await the onset. The sharp down-and-up curved horn of the
musk-ox is a deadly weapon against all the dangerous animals of
the North, except man.
When a wolf approaches near and endeavors to make a breach in the
circle, the musk-ox nearest him tries to get him, and will even
rush out of the line for a short and brief pursuit. But the bull
does not pursue more than twenty yards or so, for fear of being
surrounded alone and cut off. At the end of his usually futile
run, back he goes and carefully backs into his place in the first
line of defense. A charging bull does not rush out far enough that
the wolves can cut him off and kill him. He is much too wise for
that.
Mr. Stefansson says that the impregnability of the musk-ox defense
is so well recognized by the wolves of the North that often a pack
will march past a herd in close proximity without offering to
attack it, and without even troubling the herd to form the hollow
circle.
A Savage Wild Boar. I once had a "fight" with a captive Japanese
wild boar, under conditions both absurd and tragic, and from it I
learned the courage and fury of such animals. The animal was
large, powerful, fearfully savage toward every living thing, and
insanely courageous. It was confined in a yard enclosed by a
strong wire fence, and while we were all very sure that the fence
would hold it, I became uneasy. In mid-afternoon I went alone to
the spot, passing hundreds of school children on the way, to study
the situation. When I reached the front of the corral and stood
still to look at the fence, the boar immediately rushed for me. He
came straight on, angry and terrible, and charged the wire like a
living battering-ram. He repeated these charges until I became
fearful of an outbreak, and decided to try to make him afraid to
repeat them. Procuring from the bear dens, a pike pole with a
stout spike in the end, I received the next charge with a return
thrust meant to puncture both the boar's hide and his
understanding. He backed off and charged more furiously than ever,
with white foam flying from his jaws.
He cared nothing for his punishment. He charged until his snout
bled freely, and the fence bulged at the strain.
Then I became regularly scared! I feared that the savage beast
would break through the fence in spite of its strength, and run
amuck among those helpless children. I "beat it" back to my
office, hurried back with one of my loaded rifles, and without
losing a second put a bullet through that raging brain and ended
that danger forever.
The Overrated Peccary. This reminds me that the collared peccary
has been credited with a degree of courage that has been much
exaggerated. While a hunted and cornered peccary will fight dogs
or men, and put up a savage and dangerous defense, men whom I
know in the peccary belt of Mexico have assured me that a drove of
peccaries will _not_ attack a hunter who has killed one of
their mates, nor keep him up a tree for hours while they swarm
underneath him waiting for his blood. I have been assured by
competent witnesses that in peccary hunting there is no danger
whatever of mass attack through a desire for revenge, and that
peccaries fired at will run like deer.
A Black Bear Killed a Man for Food. There is on record at least
one well-authenticated case of a black bear deliberately going out
of his way to cross a river, attack a man and kill him.
On May 17, 1907, at a lumber camp of the Red Deer Lumber Company,
thirty miles south of Etiomami on the Canadian Northern Railway,
Northwest Territory, a cook named T. Wilson was chased by a large
black bear, without provocation, struck once on the head, and
instantly killed. The bear then picked him up, carried him a short
distance, and proceeded to _eat_ him. Ten shots from a .32
calibre revolver had no effect. Later a rifle ball drove the bear
away, but only after it had eaten the left thigh and part of the
body. (Forest and Stream, Feb. 8, 1908.)
The Status of the Gray Wolf. In America wolves rarely succeed in
killing men, although they often follow men's trails in the hope
of spoil of some kind. But there are exceptions.
In 1912, around Lake Nipigon, Province of Ontario, Canada, there
existed a reign of terror from wolves. The first man killed was a
half-breed mail-carrier. Then, in December, another mail-carrier,
who was working the lumber camps north of Lake Nipigon, was killed
by wolves and completely devoured. The snow showed a terrible
struggle, in which four large wolves had been killed by the
carrier.
In Russia and in France in the days preceding the use of modern
breech-loading firearms, the gray wolves of Europe were very bold,
and a great many people were killed by them.
Killings by Wild Beasts in India. The killing by wild beasts of
unarmed and defenseless native men, women and children in India is
a very different matter from man-killing in resourceful and
dangerous North America. The annual slaughter by wild beasts in
Hindustan and British Burma is a fairly good index of the courage
and aggressiveness of the parties of the first part. In India
during the year 1878, in which we were specially interested, the
totals were as follows:
Persons killed by elephants, 33; tigers, 816; leopards, 300;
bears, 94; wolves, 845; hyenas, 33; snakes, 16,812.
Of course such slaughter as this by the ridiculous hyenas and the
absurd sloth bears of India is possible only in a country wherein
the swarming millions of people are universally defenseless, and
children are superabundant.
As a corollary to the above figures, a comparison of them with the
roster of wild animals killed and paid for is of some interest.
The dangerous beasts destroyed were as follows:
Elephants, 1; tigers, 1,493; leopards, 3,387; bears, 1,283;
wolves, 5,067; hyenas, 1,202; serpents, 117,782.
The Fighting Spirit in Baboons. In the first analysis, we find
that courage is an individual trait, and that so far as we know,
it never characterizes all the individuals of any one species. The
strongest and the best armed of men and beasts usually are
accounted the bravest ones of earth. The defenseless ones do well
to be timid, to avoid hostilities and to flee from conflict to
avoid being destroyed. It is just as much the duty of a
professional mother to flee and to hide, in order to save her own
life, as it is for "the old he-one" to threaten and to fight.
At the same time, there are many species which are concededly
courageous, as species. In making up this list I would place first
of all the baboons of eastern Africa, whom I regard collectively
as the most bold and reckless fighters per pound avoirdupois to be
found in the whole Order Primates. They have weapons, agility,
strength and cyclonic courage. On no other basis could they have
so long survived _on land_ in a country full of lions,
leopards, cheetahs, hyenas and wild dogs.
In order to appreciate the fighting spirit of a male baboon, the
observer need only come just once in actual touch with one. A
dozen times I have been seized by a powerful baboon hand shot out
with lightning quickness between or under his cage bars. The
combined strength and ferocity of the grab, and the grip on the
human hand or arm, is unbelievable until felt, and this with an
accompaniment of glaring eyes, snarling lips and nerve-ripping
voice is quite sufficient to intimidate any ordinary man.
But even in the courage and belligerency of baboons, there are
some marked differences between species. I rank them as follows:
The most fierce and dangerous species is the East African baboon.
The next for courage is the Rhodesian species.
The spectacular hamadryas baboon is a very good citizen. The
long-armed yellow species makes very little trouble, and
The small golden baboon is the best-behaved of them all.
Courage in the Great Apes. After forty years of ape study, with
many kinds of evidence, I am convinced that the courage and the
alleged ferocity of the gorilla has been much over-rated. I
believe this is due to the influence upon the human mind of the
great size and terrifying aspect of the animal.
Of all the men whom I have known or read, the late R. L. Garner
knew by far the most of gorilla habits and character by personal
observation in the gorilla jungles of equatorial Africa. And
never, in several years of intimate contact with Mr, Garner did he
so much as once put forth a statement or an estimate that seemed
to me exaggerated or overcolored.
In our many discussions of gorilla character Mr. Garner always
represented that animal as very shy, wary of observation by man,
profoundly cunning in raiding _in darkness_ the banana
plantations of man's villages, and most carefully avoiding
exposures by daylight. He described the gorilla as practically
never attacking men unless first attacked by them, and fleeing
unless forcibly brought to bay. He told me of are doubtable
African tribesman who once captured a baby gorilla on the ground
by suddenly attacking the mother with his club and beating her so
successfully that she fled from him and abandoned her young.
"But," said Mr. Garner, "there is only one tribe in Africa that
could turn out a man who would attempt a feat like that."
That the gorilla can and will fight furiously and effectively when
brought to bay is well known, and never denied.
Of the apes I have known in captivity, the chimpanzees are by far
the most aggressive, courageous and dangerous. A vigorous male
specimen over eight years of age is more dangerous than a lion,
or tiger, or grizzly bear, and _far more anxious_ to fight
something. I think that even if our Boma were muzzled, no five men
of my acquaintance could catch him and tie his hands and feet.
The orang-utan is only half the fighter that the chimpanzee is.
Even the adult males are not persistently aggressive, or inflamed
by savage desires to hurt somebody.
Courage in Elephants as an Asset. In all portions of India wherein
tiger hunting with elephants is practiced, elephants with good
courage are at a premium. No elephant is fit to carry a howdah in
a line of beaters, with a valuable sahib on board, unless its
courage can stand the acid test of a wounded tiger's charge. When
an elephant can endure without panic an infuriated tiger climbing
up its frontispiece to get at the unhappy mahout and the hunter,
that elephant belongs in the courageous class. The cowardly
elephant screams in terror, bolts for the rear, and if there is a
tree in the landscape promptly wrecks the howdah and the sportsman
against its lower branches.
A "rogue" elephant always reminds me of my Barbados boatman's
description of a pugnacious friend: "De trouble is, he am too
brave!" A rogue elephant will attack anything from a wheelbarrow
to a hut, and destroy it. The peak of rogue ambition was reached
on a railway in Burma, near Ban Klap, in March 1908, when a rogue
elephant "on hearing the locomotive whistle, trumpeted loudly and
then, lowering his head, charged the oncoming train. The impact
was tremendous. Such was the impetus of the great pachyderm that
the engine was partially derailed, the front of the smoke-box
shattered as far as the tubes, the cow-catcher was crushed into a
shapeless piece of iron, and other damages of minor importance
were sustained. The train was going thirty-four miles per hour,
and the engine alone weighed between forty and fifty tons.
"Of course the elephant was killed by the shock, its head being
completely smashed.... It is believed that this particular rogue
had been responsible for considerable damage to villages in the
vicinity of Lopbusi. A number of houses have been pulled down
recently and havoc wrought in other ways."
On another occasion a vicious rogue elephant elected to try
conclusions with a railway train. In 1906, on the Korat branch of
the Siamese State Railway, a bull elephant attacked a freight
train running at full speed. He charged the rushing locomotive,
with the result that the locomotive and several cars were derailed
and sent down the side of the grade, and two persons were killed.
The elephant was killed outright and buried under the wreck of the
train. This occurred in open country, where there was no excuse
for an elephant on the track, and therefore the charge of the
rogue was wholly gratuitous.
Captive elephants whose managers are too humane to punish them for
manifestations of meanness become spoiled by their immunity, just
as mean children are spoiled when fond and foolish parents feel
that their little jackets are too sacred ever to be tanned. Such
complete immunity is as bad for bad elephants as for bad
children, but in practice the severe punishment of an elephant
with real benefit to the animal is next door to an impossibility,
and so we never attempt it. We do, however, inflict mild
punishments, of the fourth order of efficiency.
Animals and Men. Among the animals that are most courageous
against man are the species and individuals that are most familiar
with him, and feel for him both contempt and hatred. The cat
scratches, the bad dog bites, the vicious horse kicks or bites,
and the mean pet bear, tiger, ape, leopard, bison or deer will
attempt injury or murder whenever they think the chance has
arrived. I know a lady whose pet monkey is a savage and mean
little beast, and because she never thrashes it as it deserves,
both of her arms from wrist to elbow have been scarified by its
teeth.
Mr. E. R. Sanborn, official photographer of the Zoological Park,
once made an ingenious and also terrifying experiment. He made an
excellent dummy keeper, stood it up, and tied it fast against the
fence inside the yard of our very large and savage male Grevy
Zebra. Then he posed his moving picture camera in a safe place,
and the keeper turned the zebra into the yard. The moment the
bad zebra caught sight of the presumptive keeper,--at last within
his power,--he rushed at the dummy with glaring eyes and open
mouth, and seized his victim by the head. With furious efforts he
tore the dummy loose from its moorings, whirled it into the middle
of the yard, where in a towering rage he knelt upon it, bit and
tore its heart out. Of course the unfortunate dummy perished. The
zebra reveled in his triumph, and altogether it was a fearsome
sight.
CAUTION. A thoroughly cowardly horse _never_ should be
ridden, nor driven to anything so light that a runaway is
possible. Such animals are too expensive both to human life and to
property. A dangerous horse can be just as great a risk as a bad
lion or bear.
IV.--THE BASER PASSIONS
XXII
FEAR AS A RULING PASSION
If we were asked, "Which one may be called the ruling passion of
the wild animal?" we would without hesitation answer,--it is fear.
From the cradle to the grave, every strictly wild animal lives,
day and night, in a state of fear of bodily harm, and dread of
hunger and famine.
"Now the 'free, wild life' is a round of strife, And of
ceaseless hunger and fear; And the life in the wild of the
animal child Is not all skittles and beer."
The first thing that the wild baby learns, both by precept and
example, is safety first! When the squalling and toddling bear cub
first goes abroad, the mother bear is worried and nervous for fear
that in a sudden and dangerous emergency the half-helpless little
one will not be able to make a successful get-away when the alarm-
signal snort is given. During the first, and most dangerous, days
in the life of the elk, deer and antelope fawn, the first care of
the mother is to hide her offspring in a spot cunningly chosen
beside a rock, beside a log, or in thick bushes. In the absence of
all those she looks for a depression in the earth wherein the fawn
can lie without making a hump in the landscape. The first impulse
of the fawn,--even before nursing if the birth occurs in
daylight,--is to fold its long legs, short body and reptilian neck
into a very small package, hug the earth tightly, close its eyes
and lie absolutely motionless until its mother gives the signal to
arise and sup. Such infants may lie for long and weary hours
without so much as moving an ear; and the anxious mother strolls
away to some distance to avoid disclosing her helpless offspring.
Now, suppose you discover and touch an elk or a deer fawn while
thus hiding. What will it do? Nine times out of ten it will bound
up as if propelled by steel springs, and go off like an arrow from
a bow, dashing in any direction that is open and leads straight
away. The horrified mother will rush into view in dangerously near
proximity, and I have seen a wild white-tailed deer doe tear
madly up and down in full view and near by, to attract the danger
to herself.
Thousands of men and boys have seen a mother quail flop and
flutter and play wounded, to lead the dangerous boy away from her
brood of little quail mites, and work the ruse so daringly and
successfully as to save both her babies and herself. I well
remember my surprise and admiration when a mother quail first
played that trick upon me. I expected to pick her up,--and forgot
all about the chicks,--until they were every one safely in hiding,
and then Mrs. Quail gave me the laugh and flew away.
Was it strategy? Was it the result of quail thought and reason? Or
did it come by heredity, just like walking? To deny the cold facts
in the quail case is to discredit our own ability to reason and be
honest.
Fear is the ruling emotion alike of the most timid creatures, and
also the boldest. Of course each wild animal keeps a mental list
of the other animals of which he is not afraid; and the predatory
animal also keeps a card catalogue of those which he may safely
attack when in need of food.
But, with all due consideration to mighty forearm, to deadly claws
and stabbing fangs, there is (I think) absolutely no land animal
that is not afraid of something. Let us progressively consider a
few famous species near at hand.
The savage and merciless weasel fears the fox, the skunk, the wolf
and the owl. The skunk fears the coyote which joyously kills him
and devours all of him save his jaws and his tail. The marten,
mink and fisher have mighty good reason to fear the wolverine, who
in his turn cheerfully gives the road to the gray wolf. The wolf
and the lynx carefully avoid the mountain lion and the black bear,
and the black bear is careful not to get too close to a grizzly.
Today a cotton-tail rabbit is not more afraid of a hound than a
grizzly bear is of a man. The polar bear once was bold in the
presence of man; but somebody has told him about breech-loading
high power rifles; and now he, too, runs in terror from every man
that he sees. The lion, the tiger, the leopard and the jaguar all
live in wholesome fear of man, and flee from him at sight. The
lordly elephant does likewise, and so does the rhinoceros, save
when he is in doubt about the identity of the biped animal and
trots up to get certainty out of a nearer view. Col. Roosevelt
became convinced, that most of the alleged "charging" of
rhinoceroses was due to curiosity and poor vision, and the desire
of rhinos to investigate at close range.
Today the giant brown bears of Alaska exhibit less fear of man
than any other land animals that we know, and many individuals
have put themselves on record as dangerous fighters. And this
opens the door to the great Alaskan controversy that for a year
raged,--chiefly upon one side,--in certain Alaskan newspapers and
letters.
Early in 1920, certain parties in Alaska publicly asked people to
believe that W. T. Hornaday in his "published works" had set up
the Alaskan brown bear as "a harmless animal." All these
statements and insinuations were notoriously false, but the
repetition of them went on right merrily, even while the author's
article portraying the savage and dangerous character of the brown
bear was being widely circulated in the United States through
_Boys' Life_ magazine.
The indisputable facts regarding the temper of the great Alaskan
brown bears are as follows: Usually, unless fired at, these big
brown bears flee from man at sight of him, and by many experienced
Alaskan bear hunters who can shoot they are not regarded as
particularly dangerous, save when they are attacked by man, or
think that they are to be attacked.
They are just now the boldest of all bears, and the most
dangerous.
They often attack men who are hunting them, and have killed
several.
They have attacked a few persons who were not hunting.
Where they are really numerous they are a menace and a nuisance to
frontiersmen who need to traverse their haunts.
In all places where Alaskan brown bears are quite too numerous for
public safety, their numbers should thoroughly be reduced; and
everywhere the bears of Alaska should be pursued and shot until
the survivors acquire the wholesome respect for man that now is
felt everywhere by the polar and the grizzly. Then the Alaskans
will have peace, and our Alaskan enemies possibly will cease to
try to discredit our intelligence.
The most impressive exhibition of wild-animal fear that Americans
ever have seen was furnished by the African motion pictures of
Paul J. Rainey. They were taken from a blind constructed within
close range of a dry river bed in northern British East Africa,
where a supply of water was held, by a stratum of waterproof clay
or rock, about four feet below the surface of the dry river bed.
By industrious pawing the zebras had dug a hole down to the water,
and to this one life-saving well wild animals of many species
flocked from miles around. The camera faithfully recorded the
doings of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hartebeests, gnus,
antelopes of several species, wart-hogs and baboons.
The personnel of the daily assemblage was fairly astounding, and
to a certain extent the observer of those wonderful pictures can
from them read many of the thoughts of the animals.
Next to the plainly expressed desire to quench their thirst, the
dominant thought in the minds of those animals, one and all, was
the _fear of being attacked._ In some species this ever-
present and harassing dread was a pitiful spectacle. I wish it
might be witnessed by all those ultra-humane persons who think and
say that the free wild animals are the only happy ones!
With the possible exception of the sanguine-tempered elephants,
all those animals were afraid of being seized or attacked while
drinking. One and all did the same thing. An animal would approach
the water-hole, nervously looking about for enemies. The fore feet
cautiously stepped down, the head disappeared to reach the water,
--but quickly shot upward again, to look for the enemies. It was
alternately drink, look, drink, look, for a dozen quick
repetitions, then a scurry for safety.
Even the stilt-legged and long-necked giraffes went through that
same process,--a mouthful of water greedily seized, and a fling of
the head upward to stare about for danger. Group by group the
animals of each species took their turns. The baboons drifted down
over the steep rocky slope like a flock of skimming birds, and
watched and drank by turn. Having finished, they paused not for
idle gossip or play, but as swiftly as they came drifted up the
slope and sought safety elsewhere.
And yet, it was noticeable that during the whole of that
astounding panorama of ferae naturae unalloyed by man's baleful
influence, no species attacked another, there was no fighting, nor
even any threatening of any kind. Had there been a white flag
waving over that water-hole, the truce of the wild could not have
been more perfect.
Effect of Fear in Captive Animals. Among captive wild animals, by
far the most troublesome are those that are obsessed by slavish
fear of being harmed. The courageous and supremely confident
grizzly or Alaskan brown bear is in his den a good-natured and
reliable animal, who obeys orders when the keepers enter the den
to do the daily housework and order him to "Get up out of here."
The fear-possessed Japanese black bear, Malay sun bear and Indian
sloth bear are the ones that are most dangerous, and that
sometimes charge the keepers.
Our famous "picture lion," Sultan, was serenely confident of his
own powers, his nerves were steady and reliable, and he never
cared to attack man or beast. Once when by the error of a fellow
keeper the wrong chain was pulled, and the wrong partition door
was opened, the working keeper bent his head, and broom in hand
walked into what he thought was an empty cage. To his horror, he
found himself face to face with Sultan, with only the length of
the broom handle between them.
The startled and helpless keeper stood still, and said in a calm
voice, without batting an eye.
"Hello, Sultan."
Sultan calmly looked at him, wonderingly and inquiringly, but
without even a trace of excitement; and feeling sure that the
keeper did not mean to harm him, he seemed to have no thought of
attacking.
The keeper quietly backed through the low doorway, and gently
closed the door. Had the keeper lost his nerve, _and shown
it,_ there might have been a tragedy.
Lions are the best of all carnivorous performing animals, because
of their courage, serenity, self-confidence and absence of jumpy
nerves. Leopards are the worst, and polar bears stand next, with
big chimpanzees as a sure third. Beware of all three.
Exceptions to the Rule of Fear. Fortunately for the wild animal
world, there are some exceptions to the rule of fear. I will
indicate the kinds of them, and students can supply the individual
cases.
Whenever a wild animal species inhabits a spot so remote and
inaccessible that man's blighting hand never has fallen upon it,
nor in any way influenced its life or its fortunes, that species
knows no fear save from the warring elements, and from predatory
animals. The wonderful giant penguins found and photographed
near the south pole by Sir Ernest Shackleton never had seen nor
heard of men, never had been attacked by predatory animals or birds.
You may search this wide world over, and you will not find a more
striking example of sublime isolation. Those penguins had been
living in a penguin's paradise. The sea-leopard seals harmed them
not, and until the arrival of the irrepressible British explorer the
spell of that antarctic elysium was unbroken.
[Illustration
with caption: PRIMITIVE PENGUINS ON THE ANTARCTIC CONTINENT,
UNAFRAID OF MAN (From Sir Ernest Shackleton's "Heart of the
Antarctic," by permission of William Heinemann and the J. B.
Lippincott Company, publishers)]
Those astounding birds knew no such emotion as fear. Under the
impulse of the icy waves dashing straight up to the edge of the
ice floes, those giant penguins shot out of the water, sped like
catapulted birds curving through the air, and landed on their
cushioned breasts high and dry, fully ten feet back from the edge
of the floe. They flocked together, they waddled about erect and
serene, heads high in air, and marched close up to the ice-bound
ship to see what it was all about. Men and horses freely walked
among them without exciting fear, and when the birds gathered in a
vast assemblage the naturalists and photographers were welcomed
everywhere.
And indeed those birds were well-nigh the most fortunate birds in
all the world. The men who found them were not low-browed
butchers thinking only of "oil" or "fertilizer"; and they did not
go to work at once to club all those helpless birds into masses of
death and corruption. Those men wondered at them, laughed at them,
photographed them, studied them,--and _left them in peace!_
What a thundering contrast that was with the usual course of Man,
the bloody savage, under such circumstances! The coast of Lower
California once swarmed with seals, sea-lions and birds, and the
waters of the Gulf were alive with whales. Now the Gulf and the
shores of the Peninsula are as barren of wild life as Death
Valley.
The history of the whaling industry contains many sickening
records of the wholesale slaughter by savage whalers of newly
discovered herds of walrus, seals and sea birds that through
isolation knew no fear, and were easily clubbed to death en masse.
Wild creatures generally subscribe to the political principle that
in union there is strength. In the minds of wild animals, birds
and reptiles, great numbers of individuals massed together make
for general security from predatory attacks. The herd with its
many eyes and ears feels far greater security, and less harrowing
fear, than the solitary individual who must depend upon his own
two pair. The herd members relax and enjoy life; but the solitary
bear, deer, sheep, goat or elephant does not. His nerves always
are strung up to concert pitch, and while he feeds or drinks, or
travels, he watches his step. A moving object, a strange-looking
object, a strange sound or a queer scent in the air instantly
fixes his attention, and demands analysis.
On the North American continent the paramount fear of the wild
animal is aroused to its highest pitch by what is called "man
scent." And really, from the Battery to the North Pole, there is
good reason for this feeling of terror, and high wisdom in fleeing
fast and far.
Said a wise old Ojibway Indian to Arthur Heming:
"My son, when I smell some men, and especially some white men, I
never blame the animals of the Strong Woods for taking fright and
running away!"
And civilization also has its terrors, as much as the wilderness.
The fox, no matter what is the color of his coat, or his given
name, is the incarnation of timidity and hourly fear. The
nocturnal animals go abroad and work at night solely because they
are afraid to work in the daytime. The beaver will cheerfully work
in daytime if there is no prospect of observation or interference
by man. The eagle builds in the top of the tallest tree, and the
California condor high up on the precipitous side of a frightful
canyon wall, because they are afraid of the things on the ground
below. In the great and beautiful Animallai Forest (of Southern
India), in 1877 the tiger walked abroad in the daytime, because
men were few and weak, but in the populous and dangerous plains he
did his traveling and killing at night, and lay closely hidden by
day.
Judging by the records of those who have hunted lions, I think
that naturally the lion has more courage and less fear of bodily
harm than any other wild animal of equal intelligence. By reason
of his courage and self-confidence, as well as his majesty of
physique, the lion is indeed well worthy to be called the King of
Beasts.
Among the few animals that seem naturally bold and ready to take
risks, a notable species is the gray wolf. But is it really free
from fear? Far from it. When in touch with civilization, from dawn
until dark the wolf never forgets to look out for his own safety.
He fears man, he fears the claws of every bear, he fears traps,
poison and the sharp horns of the musk-ox. Individually the wolf
is a contemptible coward. Rarely does he attack all alone an
animal of his own size, unless it is a defenseless colt, calf or
sheep. No animal is more safe from another than an able-bodied
bull from the largest wolf. The wolf believes in mass action, not
in single combat.
But there is hope for the harassed and nerve-racked children of
the wild. _The Game Sanctuary has come!_ Its area of safety,
and its magic boundary, are quickly recognized by the harried
deer, elk, sheep, goat and antelope, and right quickly do these
and all other wild animals set up housekeeping on a basis of
absolute safety. Talk about wild animals not "reasoning!" For
shame. What else than REASON convinced the wild mountain sheep in
the rocky fastnesses they once inhabited in terror that now they
are SAFE, even in the streets of Ouray, and that "Ouray" rhymes
with "your hay"?
On account of his crimes against wild life, man (both civilized
and savage) has much to answer for; but each wild life sanctuary
that he now creates wipes out one chapter. From the Cape to Cairo,
from the Aru Islands to Tasmania and from Banks Land to the
Mexican boundary, they are growing and spreading. In them, save
for the misdoings of the few uncaught and unkilled predatory
animals, fear can die out, and the peace of paradise regained take
its place.
HYSTERIA OF FEAR IN A BEAR. Among wild animals in captivity
hysteria, of the type produced by fear, is fairly common. A case
noticed particularly on October 16, 1909, in a young female Kadiak
bear, may well be cited as an example.
The subject was then about two and one-half years old, and was
caged in a large open den with four other bears of the same age.
Of a European brown bear male, only a trifle larger than herself,
she elected to be terror-stricken, as much so as ever a human
child was in terror of every move of a brutal adult tormentor.
Strangely enough, the cause of all this terror was wholly
unconscious of it, and in the course of an observation lasting at
least twenty minutes he made not one hostile movement. The greater
portion of the time he idly moved about in the central space of
the den, wholly oblivious of the alarm he was causing.
The young Kadiak, in full flesh and vigor, first attracted my
attention by her angry and terrified snorting, three quick snorts
to the series. On the top of the rocks she raced to and fro,
constantly eyeing the bear in the centre of the den. If he moved
toward the rocks, she wildly plunged down, snorting and glaring,
and raced to the front end of the den. If the bogey stopped to
lick up a fallen leaf, she took it as a hostile act and wildly
rushed past him and scrambled up the rocks at the farther end of
the den. This was repeated about fifteen times in twenty minutes,
accompanied by a continuous series of terrified snorts. She panted
from exhaustion, frothed at the mouth, and acted like an animal
half crazed by terror.
Not once, however, did the bogey bear pay the slightest attention
to her, and his sleepy manner was anything but terrifying.
These spells of hysteria (without real cause) at last became so
frequent that they seemed likely to injure the growth of a
valuable animal, and finally the bogey bear was removed to another
den.
XXIII
FIGHTING AMONG WILD ANIMALS
Quarrels and combats between wild animals in a state of nature are
almost invariably due to one of two causes--attack and defense in
a struggle for prey, or the jealousy of males during the mating
season. With rare exceptions, battles of the former class occur
between animals of different Orders,--teeth and claws against
horns and hoofs, for instance; and it is a fight to the death.
Hunger forces the aggressor to attack something, and the intended
victim fights because it is attacked. The question of good or ill
temper does not enter in. On both sides it is a case of "must,"
and neither party has any option. Such combats are tests of
agility, strength, and staying powers, and, in a few cases, of
thickness of bone and hide.
How Orang-Utans Fight. Of the comparatively few animals which do
draw blood of their own kind through ill temper or jealousy, I
have never encountered any more given to internecine strife than
orang-utans. Their fighting methods, and their love of fighting,
are highly suggestive of the temper and actions of the human
tough. They fight by biting, and usually it is the fingers and
toes that suffer. Of twenty-seven orang-utans I shot in Borneo,
and twelve more that were shot for me by native hunters, five were
fighters, and had had one or more fingers or toes bitten off in
battle. Those specimens were taken in the days when the museums of
America were one and all destitute of anthropoid apes.
A gorilla, chimpanzee, or orang-utan, being heavy of body, short
of neck, and by no means nimble footed, cannot spring upon an
adversary, choose a vulnerable spot, and bite to kill; but what it
lacks in agility it makes up in length and strength of arm and
hand. It seizes its antagonist's hand, carries it to its own
mouth, and bites at the fingers. Usually, the bitten finger is
severed as evenly as by a surgeon's amputation, and heals quite as
successfully.
I never saw two big orang-utans fighting, but I have had several
captive ones seize my arm and try to bring my fingers within
biting distance. The canine teeth of a full grown male orang,
standing four feet four inches in height, and weighing a hundred
and fifty pounds or more, are just as large and dangerous as the
teeth of a bear of the same size, and the powerful incisors have
one quality which the teeth of a bear do not possess. A bear
pierces or tears an antagonist with his canines, but very rarely
bites off anything. An orang-utan bites off a finger as evenly as
a boy nips off the end of a stick of candy.
When orang-utans fight, they also attack each other's faces, and
often their broad and expansive lips suffer severely. My eleventh
orang bore the scars of many a fierce duel in the tree-tops. A
piece had been bitten out of the middle of both his lips, leaving
in each a large, ragged notch. Both his middle fingers had been
taken off at the second joint, and his feet had lost the third
right toe, the fourth left toe, and the end of one hallux. His
back, also, had sustained a severe injury, which had retarded his
growth. This animal we called "The Desperado."
Orang No. 34 had lost the entire edge of his upper lip. It had
been bitten across diagonally, but adhered at one corner, and
healed without sloughing off, so that during the last years of his
life a piece of lip two inches long hung dangling at the corner of
his mouth. He had also suffered the loss of an entire finger. No.
36 had lost a good sized piece out of his upper lip, and the first
toe had been bitten off his left foot.
All these combats must have taken place in the tree-tops, for an
adult orang-utan has never been known to descend to the earth
except for water. In some manner it has become a prevalent
belief that in their native jungles all three of the great apes--
gorilla, orang, and chimpanzee--are dangerous to human beings, and
often attack them with clubs. Nothing could be farther from the
truth. According to the natives of West Africa, a gorilla or
chimpanzee fights a hunter by biting his face and fingers, just as
an orang-utan does. I believe that no sane orang ever voluntarily
left the safety of a tree top to fight at a serious disadvantage
on the ground; and I am sure an orang never struck a blow with a
club, unless carefully taught to do so.
WILD ANIMALS ARE NOT QUARRELSOME. As a species, man appears to be
the most quarrelsome animal on the earth; and the same quality is
strongly reflected in his most impressionable servant and
companion, the domestic dog. Nearly all species of wild animals
have learned the two foundation facts of the philosophy of life--
that peace is better than war, and that if one must fight, it is
better to fight outside one's own species. To this rule, however,
wolves are a notable exception; for wherever wolves are abundant a
wounded wolf is a subject for attack, and usually it is killed and
eaten by the other members of the pack.
I have observed the daily habits of many kinds of wild animals in
their wild haunts, but in the field I never yet have seen either a
fight between animals of the same species, or between two of
different species. This may seem a very humiliating admission for
a hunter to make, but it happens to be true. In the matter of
finding big snakes, having exciting adventures, and witnessing
combats between wild animals, there are some men who never are in
luck.
Now there was the "Old Shekarry,"--whose elephants, tigers, bison,
bears, and sambar always were so much larger than mine. In his
book, "Sport in Many Lands," he describes an affair of honor
between a tiger and a bull bison, which was a truly ideal combat.
The champions met by appointment,--by the light of the moon, in
order to be safe from interference by the jungle police,--and they
fought round after round, in the most orthodox prize ring style,
under the Queensberry rules. So fairly did they fight that neither
claimed a foul, and at the finish the two combatants retired to
their respective corners and died simultaneously, "to the musical
twitter of the night bird."
Another writer has given a vivid description of a battle to the
death between a wild bull and a grizzly bear; and we have read of
several awful combats between black bears and alligators, in
Florida; but some of us have yet to find either a black bear or an
alligator that will stop to fight when he has an option on a line
of retreat. When he has lived long,--say to the length of twelve
feet,--the alligator is a hideous and terrorizing beast; but, for
all that, he knows a thing or two; and a full grown, healthy black
bear of active habit is about the last creature on earth that a
'gator would care to meddle with. Pigs and calves, fawns, stray
dogs, ducks and mud hens are antagonists more to his liking.
The Fighting Tactics of Bears. In captivity, bears quarrel and
scold one another freely, at feeding time, but seldom draw blood.
I have questioned many old hunters, and read many books by bear
hunters, but Ira Dodge, of Wyoming, is the only man I know who has
witnessed a real fight between wild bears. He once saw a battle
between a cinnamon and a grizzly over the carcass of an elk.
In attacking, a bear does three things, and usually in the same
order. First, he delivers a sweeping sidewise blow on the head of
his antagonist; then he seizes him by the cheek, with the
intention of shifting to the throat as quickly as it is safe to do
so. His third move consists in throwing his weight upon his foe
and bearing him to the earth, where he will have a better chance
at his throat. If the fighters are fairly matched, the struggle is
head to head and mouth to mouth. After the first onset, the paws
do little or no damage, and the attacks of the teeth rarely go as
far down as the shoulders. Often the assailant will seize his
opponent's cheek and hold on so firmly that for a full minute the
other can do nothing; but this means little.
In combats between bears, the one that is getting mauled, or that
feels outclassed, will throw himself upon the ground, flat upon
his back, and proceed to fight with all four sets of claws in
addition to his teeth. This attitude is purely defensive, and
often is maintained until an opportunity occurs to attack with
good advantage, or to escape. It is very difficult for a standing
bear to make a serious impression upon an antagonist who lies upon
his back, clawing vigorously with all four feet at the head of his
assailant.
Tiger Versus Grizzly Bear. Often is the question asked, "If a
grizzly bear and a tiger should fight, which would whip the
other?" One can answer only with opinions and deductions, not by
reference to the records of the ring; for it seems that the
terrors of the occident and the orient have never yet been matched
in a fight to a finish.
One of the heaviest tigers ever weighed, prior to 1878, scaled
four hundred and ninety five pounds, and was as free from surplus
flesh and fat as a prizefighter in the ring. He stood three feet
seven inches at the shoulder, measured thirty-six inches around
the jaws, and twenty inches around the forearm. Very few lions
have ever exceeded his weight or dimensions. So far as I know, a
wild grizzly bear of the largest size has never been scaled, but
it is not at all certain that any California grizzly has weighed
more than twelve hundred pounds. The silvertip of the Rocky
Mountain region is a totally different animal, being smaller, as
well as different in color.
In a match between a grizzly and a tiger of equal weights, the
activity of the latter, combined with the greater spread of his
jaws and length of his canine teeth, would insure him the victory.
The superior attack of the tiger would give him an advantage which
it would probably be impossible to overcome. The blow of a
tiger's paw is as powerful as that of a grizzly of the same size,
though I doubt if it is any quicker in delivery. The quickness
with which a seemingly clumsy bear can deliver a smashing blow is
astonishing. Moreover, nature has given the grizzly a coat of fur
which as a protection in fighting is almost equal to chain mail.
Its length, combined with its density, makes it difficult for
teeth or claws to cut through it, and in a struggle with a tiger,
protective fur is only a fair compensation for a serious lack of
leaping power in the hinder limbs. Though the tiger would win at
equal weights, it is extremely probable that an adult California
grizzly would vanquish a tiger of the largest size, for his
greater bulk would far outweigh the latter's agility.
The Great Cats as Fighters. Tigers, when well matched, fight head
to head and mouth to mouth, as do nearly all other carnivora, and
at the same time they strike with their front paws. One of the
finest spectacles I ever witnessed was a pitched battle between
two splendid tigers, in a cage which afforded them ample room.
With loud, roaring coughs, they sprang together, ears laid tight
to their heads, eyes closed until only sparks of green and yellow
fire flashed through four narrow slits, and their upper lips
snarling high up to clear the glittering fangs beneath. Coughing,
snarling, and often roaring furiously, each sprang for the
other's throat, but jaw met jaw until their teeth almost cracked
together. They rose fully erect on their hind legs, with their
heads seven feet high, stood there, and smashed away with their
paws, while tufts of hair flew through the air, and the cage
seemed full of sparks. Neither gave the other a chance to get the
throat hold, nor indeed to do aught else than ward off calamity;
and each face was a picture of fury.
This startling combat lasted a surprisingly long time, without
noticeable advantage to either side. Finally the tigers backed
away from each other, and when at a safe distance apart dropped
their front feet to the floor, growling savagely and licking their
lips wherever a claw had drawn blood.
Of all the wild animals that are preyed upon by lions, tigers,
leopards, jaguars, and pumas, only half a dozen species do
anything more than struggle to escape. The gaur and the wild
buffalo of India are sufficiently vindictive in dealing with a
human hunter whose aim is not straight, but both fly before the
tiger, and count themselves lucky when they can escape with
nothing worse to show than a collection of long slits on their
sides and hind quarters made by his knife-like claws. They do not
care to return to do battle for the sake of revenge, and seek to
put the widest possible stretch of jungle between themselves and
their dreaded enemy.
The same is true of the African buffalo and the lion. As to the
antelopes of Africa and the deer of India, what can they do but
make a desperate effort to escape, and fly like the wind whenever
they succeed? Of course many of these defenseless animals make a
gallant struggle for their lives, and not a few succeed in
throwing off their assailants and escaping. Even domestic cattle
sometimes return to the hill country villages of southern India
bearing claw marks on their sides--usually the work of young
tigers, or of rheumatic old ones.
Here is a deer and puma story. In the picturesque bad-lands of
Hell Creek, Montana, I saw my comrade, Laton A. Huffman, kill a
large mule deer buck that three months previously had been
attacked by a puma. From above it, the great cat had leaped upon
the back of the deer, and laid hold with teeth and claws. In its
struggle for life the buck either leaped or fell off the edge of a
perpendicular "cut bank," and landed upon its back, with the puma
underneath. Evidently the puma was so seriously injured that it
could not continue the struggle; but it surely left its ear-marks.
One ear of the buck was fearfully torn. There was a big wound on
the top of the neck, where the puma jaws had lacerated the skin
and flesh; and both hind legs had been badly clawed by the
assailant's hind feet. The main beam of the right antler had been,
broken off half-way up, while the antlers were still in the
velvet, which enabled us to fix the probable date of the
encounter.
In the great Wynaad forest I once got lost, and in toiling through
a five acre patch of grass higher than my head, and so dense that
it was not negotiable except by following the game trails, my
simple old Kuramber and I came suddenly upon the scene of a great
struggle. In the center of a space about twenty feet in diameter,
on which the tall grass had been trampled flat, lay the remains of
a sambar stag which had very recently been killed and eaten by a
tiger. The neck had not been dislocated, and the sambar had fought
long and hard. Evidently the tiger had lain in wait on the runway,
and had failed to subdue the sambar by his first fierce onslaught.
Now an angry stag with good antlers is no mean antagonist, and it
is strange if the tiger in the case went through that struggle
without a puncture in his tawny skin.
In South Africa, Vaughan Kirby once found the dead bodies of a
"patriarchal bull" sable antelope and a lion, "which had evidently
been a fine specimen," lying close together, where the two
animals had fallen after a great struggle. The sable antelope must
have killed its antagonist by a lucky backward thrust of its long,
curved horns as the lion fastened upon its back to pull it down.
Mr. Kirby's dogs once disturbed a sanguinary struggle between a
leopard and a wild boar, or "bush pig," which had well-nigh
reached a finish. The old boar, when bayed by the dogs, was found
to be most terribly mauled. Its tough skin hung literally in
shreds from its neck and shoulders, presenting ghastly open
wounds. The entrails protruded from a deep claw gash in the side,
and the head was a mass of blood and dirt. "On searching around,"
says Mr. Kirby, "we found unmistakable evidence of a life and
death struggle. The ground was covered with gouts of blood and
yellow hair, to some of which the skin (of the leopard) was still
attached. Blood was splashed plentifully on the tree stems and the
low brushwood, which for a space of a dozen yards around was
trampled flat." The leopard had fled upon the approach of the
dogs, leaving a trail of blood, which, though followed quickly,
was finally lost in bad ground. It is no wonder that from the
above and many other evidences equally good, Mr. Kirby considers
the bush pig a remarkably courageous animal. He says that it was
"never yet known to show the white feather," and declares that "a
pig is never defeated until he is dead."
The Combats of Male Deer. The sable antelope is one of the few
exceptions to the well-nigh universal rule against fighting
between wild animals of the same species. Of this species, Mr.
Kirby says: "Sable antelope bulls fight most fiercely amongst
themselves, and though I have never actually witnessed an
encounter between them, I have often seen the results of such,
evidenced by great gaping wounds that could have been made by
nothing else than the horns of an opponent. I once killed a large
bull with a piece of another's horn tip, fully three inches long,
buried in its neck. In 1889 I shot an old bull on the Swinya with
a terrible wound in its off shoulder, caused by a horn thrust."
During the jealous flashes of the mating season, the males of
several species of deer fight savagely. After a long period of
inaction while the new antlers are developing--from April to
September--the beginning of October finds the male deer, elk, or
moose of North America with a new suit of hair, new horns, a
swollen neck, and all his usual assertiveness. The crisp autumn
air promotes a disposition to fight something, precisely as it
inspires a sportsman to "kill something." During October and
November, particularly, it is well for an unarmed man to give
every antlered deer a wide berth.
At this period, fights between the males of herds of mule deer,
white-tailed deer and elk are of frequent occurrence, but in a
wild state they rarely end in bloodshed or death, save from locked
antlers. Many times, however, two bucks will come together, and
playfully push each other about without being angry. Many pairs of
bucks have been found with their antlers fast locked in death--and
I never see a death lock without a feeling of grim satisfaction
that neither of the quarrelsome brutes had had an opportunity to
attack some defenseless man, and spear him to death.
The antlers of the common white-tailed deer seem peculiarly
liable to become interlocked so tightly that it is well-nigh
impossible to separate them. And whenever this happens, the doom
of both deer is sealed. Unless found speedily and killed, they
must die of starvation. While it is quite true that two deer
playing with their antlers may become locked fast, it is safe to
say that the great majority meet their fate by charging each other
with force sufficient to spring the beams of their antlers, and
make the lock so perfect that no force they can exert will release
it. A deer cannot pull back with the same power it exerts in
plunging forward.
All members of the deer family that I know follow the same natural
law in regard to supremacy. Indeed, this is true of nearly all
animals. Leadership is not always maintained by the largest and
strongest member of a herd, but very often by the most pugnacious.
Sometimes a herd of elk is completely tyrannized by an old doe,
who makes the young bucks fly from her in terror, when one prod of
their sharp antlers would quickly send her to the rear.
When bucks in a state of freedom fight for supremacy, the weaker
does not stay to be overthrown and speared to death by the victor.
As soon as he feels that he is mastered he releases his antlers at
the first opportunity, flings himself to one side, and either
remains in the herd as an acknowledged subject of the victor, or
else seeks fresh fields and pastures new.
Battles in Zoological Parks. In captivity, where escape is
impossible, it is no uncommon thing for elk to kill each other.
In fact, with several adult males in a small enclosure, tragedies
may always be expected in the autumn and early winter. The process
is very simple. So long as the two elk can stand up and fight head
to head, there are no casualties; but when one wearies and weakens
before the other, its guard is broken. Then one strong thrust in
its side or shoulder sends it to the earth, badly wounded; and
before it can rise, it is generally stabbed to death with horn
thrusts into its lungs and liver. But, as I said before, I have
never known of a fatal duel between elk outside of a zoological
garden or park.
One of the most novel and interesting fights that has yet taken
place in the New York Zoological Park was a pitched battle between
two cow elk--May Queen and the Dowager. A bunch of black fungus
suddenly appeared on the trunk of a tree, about twelve feet from
the ground. My attention was first called to this by seeing May
Queen, a fine young cow, standing erect on her hind legs in order
to reach the tempting morsel with her mouth. A little later the
Dowager, the oldest and largest cow elk in the herd, met her under
the tree, whereupon the two made wry faces at each other, and
champed their teeth together threateningly. Suddenly both cows
rose on their hind legs, struck out viciously with their sharp
pointed front hoofs, and, after a lively sparring bout, they
actually clinched. The young cow got both front legs of the old
cow between her own, where they were held practically helpless,
and then with her own front hoofs she fiercely rained blows upon
the ribs of her assailant. The Dowager backed away and fled,
completely vanquished, with May Queen close upon her heels; and
thus was the tyrannical rule of the senior cow overthrown forever.
During the breeding season, our wild buffaloes of the great
vanished herds were much given to fighting, and always through
jealousy. The bulls bellowed until they could be heard for miles,
tore up earth and threw it into the air, rolled their eyes, and
often rushed together in a terrifying manner; but beyond butting
their heads, pushing and straining until the weaker turned and
ran, nothing came of it all. I have yet to find a man who ever saw
a wild buffalo that had been wounded to the shedding of blood by
another wild buffalo. It is probable that no other species ever
fought so fiercely and did so little damage as the American bison.
Elephants, Wolves, and Others. In ordinary life the Indian
elephant is one of the most even-tempered of all animals. I have
spent hours in watching wild herds in southern India, sometimes
finding the huge beasts all around me, and in dangerously close
proximity. Several times I could have touched a wild elephant with
a carriage whip, had I possessed one. So far from fighting, I
never saw an elephant threaten or even annoy another.
Elephants, being the most intelligent of all animals in the matter
of training, have been educated to fight in the arena, usually by
pushing each other head to head. A fighting tusker can lord it
over almost any number of tuskless elephants, because he can
pierce their vitals, and they cannot pierce his. A female fights
by hitting with her head, striking her antagonist amidships, if
possible. Once when the late G. P. Sanderson was in a keddah,
noosing wild elephants, and was assulted [sic] by a vicious
tusker, his life was saved by a tame female elephant, whose boy
driver caused her to attack the tusker with her head, and nearly
bowl him over by the force of her blows upon his ribs.
In captivity, wolves are the meanest brutes on earth, and in a
wild state they are no better. As a rule, the stronger ones are
ever ready to kill the weaker ones, and eat them, too. One night,
our male Russian wolf killed his mate, and ate nearly half of her
before morning. A fox or a wolf cub which thrusts one of its legs
between the partition bars and into a wolf's den almost invariably
gets it bitten off as close to the body as the biter can go. In
the arctic regions, north of the Great Slave Lake, "Buffalo" Jones
and George Rea fought wolves incessantly for several days, and
every wolf they wounded was immediately killed and devoured by its
pack mates.
In captivity, a large proportion of mammals fight, more or less;
and the closer the confinement, the greater their nervousness and
irritability, and the more fighting. Monkeys fight freely and
frequently. Serpents, lizards, and alligators rarely do, although
large alligators are prone to bite off the tails or legs of their
small companions, or even to devour them whole. Storks, trumpeter
swans, darters, jays, and some herons are so quarrelsome and
dangerous that they must be kept well separated from other
species, to prevent mutilation and murder. In 1900, when a pair of
trumpeter swans were put upon a lake in Prospect Park, Brooklyn,
with three brown pelicans for associates, they promptly assailed
the pelicans, dug holes in their backs, and killed all three. The
common red squirrel is a persistent fighter of the gray species,
and, although inferior in size, nearly always wins.
A Fight Between a Whale and a Swordfish. One of the strangest wild
animal combats on record was thus described in the Proceedings of
the Zoological Society of London, for 1909.
"Mr. Malcolm Maclaren, through Mr. C. Davies Sherborn, F. Z. S.,
called the attention of the Fellows to an account of a fight
between a whale and a swordfish observed by the crew of the
fishing-boat 'Daisy' in the Hauraki Gulf, between Ponui Island and
Coromandel, as reported in the 'Auckland Weekly News,' 19th Nov.,
1908. A cow whale and her calf were attacked by a 12 ft. 6 in.
swordfish, the object of the fish being the calf. The whale
plunged about and struck in all directions with her flukes.
Occasionally the fins of the swordfish were seen as he rose from a
dive, his object apparently being to strike from below. For over
a quarter of an hour the whale circled round her calf, lashing
furiously and churning up the water so that the assailant was
unable to secure a good opportunity for a thrust. At last, after
a fruitless dive, the swordfish came close up and made a thrust at
the calf, but received a blow from the whale's flukes across the
back, which apparently paralyzed it. It was killed and hauled on
board the boat without difficulty, while the whale and calf went
off towards Coromandel with splashings and plungings. The whale's
blow had almost knocked off the back fin of the swordfish, and
heavily bruised the flesh around it. No threshers accompanied the
swordfish."
Beyond question, as firearms and hunters multiply, all wild
animals become more timid, less inclined to attack man, and also
less inclined to attack one another. The higher creatures are the
most affected by man's destructiveness of animal life, and the
struggle for existence has become so keen that fighting for the
glory of supremacy, or as a pastime, will soon have no important
place in the lives of wild animals.
XXIV
WILD ANIMAL CRIMINALS AND CRIME
Many human beings are "good" because they never have been under
the harrow of circumstances, nor sufficiently tempted to do wrong.
It is only under the strain of strong temptation that human
character is put through the thirty-third degree and tried out. No
doubt a great many of us could be provoked to join a mob for
murder, or forced to steal, or tortured into homicidal insanity.
It is only under the artificial conditions of captivity, with loss
of freedom, exemption from the daily fear of death, abundant food
without compensating labor, and with every want supplied, that the
latent wickedness of wild creatures comes to the surface. A
captive animal often reveals traits never recognized in the free
individual.
"Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."
These manifestations are of many kinds; but we propose to consider
the criminal tendencies of wild animals both free and captive.
The persistence of the mental and moral parallelism between men
and wild animals is a source of constant surprise. In a state of
freedom, untrammeled by anything save the fear of death by
violence, the deer or the mountain sheep works out in his own way
his chosen scheme for the survival of the fittest,--himself. In
the wilds we see very few manifestations of the criminal instinct.
A fight between wild elk bulls for the supremacy of a herd is not
a manifestation of murder lust, but of obedience to the
fundamental law of evolution that the largest, the strongest
and the most courageous males of every herd shall do the breeding.
The killing of natural prey for daily food is not murder. A
starving wolf on the desolate barren grounds may even kill and
devour a wounded pack-mate without becoming a criminal by that act
alone. True, such a manifestation of hard-heartedness and bad
taste is very reprehensible; but its cause is hunger, not sheer
blackness of heart. Among wild animals, the wanton killing of a
member of the killer's own species would constitute murder in the
first degree, and so is all unnecessary and wanton killing outside
the killer's own species.
To many a wild animal there comes at tunes the murder lust which
under the spur of opportunity leads to genuine crime. In some of
the many cases that have come under my notice, the desire to
commit murder for the sake of murder has been as sharply defined
as the fangs or horns of the criminal. Of the many emotions of
wild animals which are revealed more sharply in captivity than in
a state of nature, the crime-producing passions, of jealousy,
hatred, desire for revenge, and devilish lust for innocent blood,
are most prominent. In the management of large animals in
captivity, the criminal instinct is quite as great a trouble-
breeder and source of anxiety as are wild-animal diseases, and the
constant struggle with the elements.
In many cases there is not the slightest premonitory manifestation
of murderous intent on the part of a potential criminal. Indeed,
with most cunning wisdom, a wild-animal murderer will often
conceal his purpose until outside interference is an
impossibility, and the victim is entirely helpless. These
manifestations of fiendish cunning and premeditation are very
exasperating to those responsible for the care of animals in
captivity.
In every well regulated zoological park, solitary confinement is
regarded as an unhappy or intolerable condition. Animals that live
in herds and groups in large enclosures always exercise more, have
better appetites, and are much more contented and happy than
individuals that are singly confined.
To visitors, a happy and contented community of deer, antelopes,
bears, wolves, or birds is a source of far more mental
satisfaction than could be found in any number of solitary
animals. A small pen with a solitary animal in it at once suggests
the prison-and-prisoner idea, and sometimes arouses pity and
compassion rather than pleased admiration. The peaceful herd or
flock is the thing to strive for as the highest ideal attainable
in an exhibition of wild animals. But mark well the difficulties.
_All the obstacles encountered in carrying out the community
idea are created by the evil propensities of the animals
themselves._ Among the hoofed animals generally, every pair of
horns and front hoofs is a possible storm-center. No keeper knows
whether the members of his herd of deer will live together in
peace and contentment until tomorrow, or whether, on any autumn or
winter night, a buck will suddenly develop in his antlered head
the thought that it is a good time to "kill something."
In the pairing season we always watch for trouble, and the danger
signal always is up. In October a male elk may become ever so
savage, and finally develop into a raging demon, dangerous to man
and beast; but when he first manifests his new temper openly and
in the broad light of day, we feel that he is treating fairly both
his herd-mates and his keepers. If he gives fair warning to the
world about him, we must not class him as a mean criminal, no
matter what he may do later on. It is our duty to corral him at
night according to the violence of his rage. If we separate him
from the herd, and he tears a fence in pieces and kills his rival,
that is honest, open warfare, not foul murder. But take the
following case.
In October, 1905, the New York Zoological Park received from the
state of Washington a young mule deer buck and two does. Being
conspicuous members of the worst species of "difficult" deer to
keep alive at Atlantic tidewater, and being also very thin and
weak, it required the combined efforts of several persons to keep
them alive. For six months they moped about their corral, but at
last they began to improve. The oldest doe gave birth to two fawns
which actually survived. But, even when the next mating season
began, the buck continued to be lanquid and blase. At no time did
he exhibit signs of temper, of even suspicious vigor.
In the middle of the night of November 6, 1906, without the
slightest warning, he decided to commit a murder, and the mother
of the two nursing fawns was selected as the victim. Being weak
from the rearing of her offspring, she was at his mercy. He gored
her most savagely, about twenty times, and killed her.
That was deliberate, fiendish and cowardly murder. The killing of
any female animal by her male consort is murder; but there are
circumstances wherein the plea of temporary insanity is an
admissible defense. In the autumn, male members of the deer
family _often become temporarily insane and irresponsible,_
and should be judged accordingly. With us, sexual insanity is a
recognized disease.
Such distressing cases as the above are so common that whenever I
go deer-hunting and kill a lusty buck, the thought occurs to me,--
"another undeveloped murderer, perhaps!"
The most exasperating thing about these corral murders is the
cunning treachery of the murderers. Here is another typical case:
For three years a dainty little male Osceola deer from Florida was
as gentle as a fawn and as harmless as a dove. But one crisp
morning Keeper Quinn, to whom every doe in his charge is like a
foster-daughter, was horrified at finding blood on the absurd
little antlers of the Osceola pet. One of the females lay dead in
a dark corner where she had been murdered during the night; and
this with another and older buck in the same corral which might
fairly have been regarded as an offensive rival.
The desire to murder for the sake of killing is born in some
carnivorous animals, and by others it is achieved. Among the
largest and finest of the felines, the lions and tigers, midnight
murders very rarely occur. We never have known one. Individual
dislike is shown boldly and openly, and we are given a fair chance
to prevent fatalities. Among the lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars
and pumas of the New York Zoological Park, there has been but one
murder. That was the crime of Lopez, the big jaguar, who richly
deserved instant death as a punishment. It was one of the most
cunning crimes I have ever seen among wild animals, and is now
historic.
For a year Lopez _pretended,_ ostentatiously, to be a good-
natured animal! Twenty times at least he acted the part of a
playful pet, inviting me to reach in and stroke him. At last we
decided to give him a cage-mate, and a fine adult female jaguar
was purchased. The animals actually tried to caress each other
through the bars, and the big male completely deceived us, one and
all.
At the end of two days it was considered safe to permit the female
jaguar to enter the cage of Lopez. She was just as much deceived
as we were. An animal that is afraid always leaves its traveling-
cage slowly and unwillingly, or refuses to leave it at all. When
the two sets of doors were opened, the female joyously walked into
the cage of her treacherous admirer. In an instant, Lopez rushed
upon her, seized her whole neck in his powerful jaws, and crushed
her cervical vertebrae by his awful bite. We beat him over the
head; we spiked him; we even tried to brain him; but he held her,
as a bull-dog would hold a cat, until she was dead. He had
determined to murder her, but had cunningly concealed his purpose
until his victim was fully in his power.
Bears usually fight "on the square," openly and above-board,
rarely committing foul murder. If one bear hates another, he
attacks at the very first opportunity, He does not cunningly wait
to catch the offender at a disadvantage and beyond the possibility
of rescue. Sometimes a captive bear kills a cage-mate or mauls a
keeper, but not by the sneaking methods of the human assassin who
shoots in the dark and runs away.
I do not count the bear as a common criminal, even though at rare
intervals he kills a cage-mate smaller and weaker than himself.
One killing of that kind, done by Cinnamon Jim to a small black
bear that had annoyed him beyond all endurance, was inflicted as a
legitimate punishment, and was so recorded. The attack of two
large bears, a Syrian and a sloth bear, upon a small Japanese
black bear, in which the big pair deliberately attempted to
disembowel the small victim, biting him only in the abdomen,
always has been a puzzle to me. I cannot fathom the idea which
possessed those two ursine minds; but I have no doubt that some of
the book-making men who read the minds of wild animals as if they
were open books could tell me all about it.
On the ice-pack in front of his stone hut at the north end of the
Franz Josef Archipelago Nansen saw an occurrence that was plain
murder. A large male polar bear feeding upon a dead walrus was
approached across the ice-pack by two polar-bear cubs. The
gorging male immediately stopped feeding and rushed toward the
small intruders. They turned and fled wildly; but the villain
pursued them, far out upon the ice. He overtook them, killed both,
and then serenely returned to his solitary feast.
In February, 1907, a tragedy occurred in the Zoological Park which
was a close parallel of the Lopez murder. It was a case in which
my only crumb of satisfaction was in my ability to say, "I told
you so,"--than which no consolation can be more barren.
For seven years there had lived together in the great polar bears'
den of the Zoological Park two full-grown, very large and fine
polar bears. They came from William Hagenbeck's great group, and
both were males. Their rough-and-tumble wrestling, both in the
swimming pool and out of it, was a sight of almost perennial
interest; and while their biting and boxing was of the roughest
character, and frequently drew blood, they never got angry, and
never had a real fight.
In the autumn of 1906 one of the animals sickened and died, and
presently the impression prevailed that the survivor was lonesome.
The desirability of introducing a female companion was spoken of,
but I was afraid to try the experiment.
By and by, Mr. Carl Hagenbeck, who had handled about forty polar
bears to my one, wrote to us, offering a fine female polar as a
mate to the survivor. She was conceded to be one-third smaller
than the big male, but was fully adult. Without loss of time I
answered, declining to make the purchase, on the ground that our
male bear would kill the female. It was my belief that even if he
did not at once deliberately murder her, he soon would wear her
out by his rough play.
Mr. Hagenbeck replied with the assurance that, in his opinion, all
would be well; that, instead of a tragedy taking place, the male
would be delighted with a female companion, and that the pair
would breed. As convincing proof of the sincerity of his views,
Mr. Hagenbeck offered to lose half the purchase price of the
female bear in the event that my worst fears were realized.
I asked the opinion of our head keeper of bears, and after due
reflection he said:
"Why, no; I don't believe he'd kill her. He's not a _bad_
bear at all. I think we could work it so that there would be no
great trouble."
Mr. Hagenbeck's son also felt sure there would be no tragedy.
Quite against my own judgment of polar-bear character, but in
deference to the expert opinion arrayed against mine, I finally
yielded. The female bear was purchased, and on her arrival she was
placed for three weeks in the large shifting-cage which connects
with the eastern side of the great polar bears' den.
The two animals seemed glad to see each other. At once they
fraternized through the bars, licked each other's noses, and ate
their meals side by side. At night the male always slept as near
as possible to his new companion. There was not a sign of ill
temper; but, for all that, my doubts were ever present.
At last, after three full weeks of close acquaintance, it was
agreed that there was nothing to be gained by longer delay in
admitting the female to the large den. But we made preparations
for trouble. The door of the sleeping-den was oiled and overhauled
and put in thorough working order, so that if the female should
dash into it for safety, a keeper could instantly slide the
barrier and shut her in. We provided pike-poles, long iron bars,
lariats, meat, and long planks a foot wide. Heartily wishing
myself a hundred miles away, I summoned all my courage and gave
the order:
"Open her door, a foot only, and let her put her head out. Keep
him away."
The female bear had not the slightest fear or premonition of
danger. Thrusting her head through the narrow opening, she looked
upon the world and the open sky above, and found that it was good.
She struggled to force the door open wider; and the male stood
back, waiting.
"Let her go!" Forcing the door back with her own eager strength,
she fearlessly dropped the intervening eighteen inches to the
floor of the den, and was free. The very _next second_ the
male flung his great bulk upon her, and the tragedy was on.
I would not for five thousand dollars see such a thing again. A
hundred times in the twenty minutes that followed I bitterly
regretted my folly in acting contrary to my own carefully formed
conclusions regarding the temper, the strength, and the mental
processes of that male bear.
He never left her alone for ten seconds, save when, at five or six
different times, we beat him off by literally ramming him away.
When she first fell, the slope of the floor brought her near the
cage bars, which gave us a chance to fight for her. We beat him
over the head; we drove big steel spikes into him; and we rammed
him with planks, not caring how many bones we might break. But
each time that we beat him off, and the poor harried female rose
to her feet, he flung himself upon her anew, crushed her down upon
the snow, and fought to reach her throat!
Gallantly the female fought for her life, with six wild men to
help her. After a long battle,--it seemed like hours, but I
suppose it was between twenty and thirty minutes, the male bear
recognized the fact that so long as the female lay near the bars
his own punishment would continue and the end would be postponed.
Forthwith he seized his victim and dragged her inward and down to
the ice that covered the swimming-pool in the centre of the den,
beyond our reach. The floor of the den was so slippery from ice
and snow that it was utterly unsafe for any of our men to enter
and try to approach the now furious animal within striking
distance.
Very quickly some choice pieces of fresh meat were thrown within
six feet of the bears, in the hope that the male would be tempted
away from his victim. In vain! Then, with all possible haste,
Keeper Mulvehill coiled a lasso, bravely entered the den, and with
the first throw landed the noose neatly around the neck of the
male bear. In a second it was jerked taut, the end passed through
the bars, and ten eager arms dragged the big bear away from his
victim and close up to the bars. Another lariat was put on him to
guard against breakages, and no bear ever missed being choked to
death by a narrower margin than did that one. That morsel of
revenge was sweet. While he was held thus, two men went in and
attached a rope to the now dying female, and she was quickly
dragged into the shifting-cage.
But the rescue came too late. At the last moment on the ice, the
canine teeth of the big bear had severed the jugular vein of the
female, and in two minutes after her rescue she was dead. It is
my belief that at first the male did not intend to murder the
female. I think his first impulse was to play with her, as he had
always done with the male comrade of his own size. But the _joy
of combat_ seized him, and after that his only purpose was to
kill. My verdict was, not premeditated murder, but murder in the
second degree.
In the order of carnivorous animals, I think the worst criminals
are found in the Marten Family (_Mustelidae_); and if there
is a more murderous villain than the mink, I have yet to find him
out. The mink is a midnight assassin, who loves slaughter for the
joy of murder. The wolverine, the marten, mink and weasel are all
courageous, savage and merciless. To the wolverine Western
trappers accord the evil distinction of being a veritable imp of
darkness on four legs. To them he is the arch-fiend, beyond which
animal cunning and depravity cannot go. Excepting the profane
history of the pickings and stealings of this "mountain devil" as
recorded by suffering trappers, I know little of it; but if its
instincts are not supremely murderous, its reputation is no index
of its character.
The mink, however, is a creature that we know and fear. Along the
rocky shores of the Bronx River, even in the Zoological Park, it
perversely persisted long after our park-building began. In spite
of traps, guns, and poison, and the killing of from three to five
annually in our Park, _Putorius vison_ would not give up.
With us, the only creatures that practiced wholesale and
unnecessary murder were minks and dogs. The former killed our
birds, and during one awful period when a certain fence was being
rebuilt, the latter destroyed several deer. A mink once visited an
open-air yard containing twenty-two pinioned laughing gulls, and
during that _noche triste_ killed all of those ill-fated
birds. It did not devour even one, and it sucked the blood of only
two or three.
On another tragic occasion a mink slaughtered an entire flock of
fifteen gulls; but its joy of killing was short-lived, for it was
quickly caught and clubbed to death. A miserable little weasel
killed three fine brant geese, purely for the love of murder; and
then he departed this life by the powder-and-lead route.
All the year round captive buffalo bulls are given to fighting,
and for one bull to injure or kill another is an occurrence all
too common. Even in the great twenty-seven thousand acre reserve
of the Corbin Blue Mountain Forest Association, fatal fights
sometimes occur. It was left to a large bull named Black Beauty,
in our Zoological Park herd, to reveal the disagreeable fact that
under certain circumstances a buffalo may become a cunning and
deliberate assassin.
In the spring of 1904, a new buffalo bull, named Apache, was added
to the portion of our herd which up to that time had been
dominated by Black Beauty. We expected the usual head-to-head
battle for supremacy, succeeded by a period of peace and quiet. It
is the law of the herd that after every contest for supremacy the
vanquished bull shall accept the situation philosophically, and
thereafter keep his place.
At the end of a half-hour of fierce struggle, head-to-head, Black
Beauty was overpowered by Apache, and fled from him into the open
range. To emphasize his victory, Apache followed him around and
around at a quiet walk, for several hours; but the beaten bull
always kept a factor of safety of about two hundred feet between
himself and the master of the herd. Convinced that Black Beauty
would no longer dispute his supremacy, Apache at last pronounced
for peace and thought no more about the late unpleasantness. His
rival seemed to accept the situation, and rejoined the herd on the
subdued status of an ex-president.
For several days nothing occurred; but all the while Black Beauty
was biding his time and watching for an opportunity. At last it
came. As Apache lay dozing and ruminating on a sunny hill-side,
his beaten rival quietly drifted around his resting-place,
stealthily secured a good position, and, without a second's
warning plunged his sharp horns deep into the lungs of the
reclining bull. With the mad energy of pent-up and superheated
fury, the assassin delivered stab after stab into the unprotected
side of the helpless victim, and before Apache could gain his feet
he had been gored many times. He lived only a few minutes.
It was foul murder, fully premeditated; and had Black Beauty been
my personal property, he would have been executed for the crime,
without any objections, or motions, or appeals, or far-fetched
certificates of unreasonable doubt.
During the past twenty years a number of persons have been
treacherously murdered by animals they had fed and protected. One
of the most deplorable of these tragedies occurred late in 1906,
near Montclair, New Jersey. Mr. Herbert Bradley was the victim.
While walking through his deer park, he was wantonly attacked by a
white-tailed buck and murdered on the spot. At Helena, Montana, a
strong man armed with a pitchfork was killed by a bull elk. There
have been several other fatalities from elk.
The greater number of such crimes as the above have been committed
by members of the Deer Family (deer, elk, moose and caribou). The
hollow-horned ruminants seem to be different. I believe that
toward their keepers the bison, buffaloes and wild cattle
entertain a certain measure of respect that in members of the Deer
Family often is totally absent. But there are exceptions; and a
very sad and notable case was the murder of Richard W. Rock, of
Henry's Lake, Idaho, in 1903.
Dick Rock was a stalwart ranchman in the prime of life, who
possessed a great fondness for big-game animals. He lived not far
from the western boundry of the Yellowstone Park. He liked to rope
elk and moose in winter, and haul them on sleds to his ranch; to
catch mountain goats or mule deer for exhibition; and to breed
buffaloes. His finest bull buffalo, named Indian, was one of his
favorites, and was broken _to ride!_ Scores of times Rock
rode him around the corral, barebacked and without bridle or
halter. Rock felt that he could confidently trust the animal, and
he never dreamed of guarding himself against a possible evil day.
But one day the blood lust seized the buffalo, and he decided to
assassinate his best friend. The next time Dick Rock entered the
corral, closing the gate and fastening it securely,--thus shutting
himself in,--the big bull attacked him so suddenly and fiercely
that there was not a moment for either escape or rescue. We can
easily estimate the suddenness of the attack by the fact that
alert and active Dick Rock had not time even to climb upon the
fence of the corral, whereby his life would have been saved. With
a mighty upward thrust, the treacherous bull drove one of his
horns deeply into his master's body, and impaled him so completely
and so securely that the man hung there and died there! As a
crowning horror, the bull was unable to dislodge his victim, and
the body of the ranchman was carried about the corral on the horns
of his assassin until the horrified wife went a mile and a half
and summoned a neighbor, who brought a rifle and executed the
murderer on the spot.
Such sudden onslaughts as this make it unsafe to trust implicitly,
and without recourse, to the good temper of any animal having
dangerous horns.
If bird-lovers knew the prevalence of the murder instinct among
the feathered folk, no doubt they would be greatly shocked. Many
an innocent-looking bird is really a natural villain without
opportunity to indulge in crime. It is in captivity that the
wickedness inherent in wild creatures comes to the surface and
becomes visible. In the open, the weak ones manage to avoid
danger, and to escape when threatened; but, with twenty birds in
one large cage, escape is not always possible. A "happy-family" of
a dozen or twenty different species often harbors a criminal in
its midst; and when the criminal cunningly waits until all
possibilities of rescue are eliminated, an assassination is the
result.
[Illustration with caption: RICHARD W. ROCK AND HIS
BUFFALO MURDERER This bison treacherously killed the man soon
after this picture was made]
[Illustration with caption: "BLACK BEAUTY" MURDERING "APACHE"]
Here is a partial list of the crimes in our bird collection during
one year:
A green jay killed a blue jay. A jay-thrush and several smaller
birds were killed by laughing thrushes,--which simply love to do
murder! A nightingale was killed by a catbird and two mocking-
birds. Two snake-birds killed a third one--all of them thoroughly
depraved villains. Three gulls murdered another; a brown pelican
was killed by trumpeter-swans; and a Canada goose was killed by a
gull. All these victims were birds in good health.
It is deplorable, but nevertheless true, that in large mixed
companies of birds, say where forty or fifty live together, it is
a common thing for a sick bird to be set upon and killed, unless
rescued by the keepers. In crimes of this class birds often murder
their own kind, but they are quite as ready to kill members of
other species. In 1902 a sick brant goose was killed by its mates;
and so were a red-tailed hawk, two saras cranes, two black
vultures, a road-runner, and a great horned owl. An aged and
sickly wood ibis was killed by a whooping crane; and a night heron
killed its mate.
Strange as it may seem, among reptiles there is far less of real
first-degree murder than among mammals and birds. Twenty
rattlesnakes may be crowded together in one cage, without a family
jar. Even among cobras, perhaps the most irritable and pugnacious
of all serpents, I think one snake never wantonly murders another,
although about once in twenty years one will try to swallow
another. The big pythons and anacondas never fight, nor try to
commit murder. And yet, a twenty-foot regal python with a bad
heart--like Nansen's polar bear--could easily constrict and kill
any available snake of smaller size.
At this moment I do not recall one instance of wanton murder among
serpents. It is well known that some snakes devour other snakes;
but that is not crime. The record of the crocodilians is not so
clear. It is a common thing for the large alligators in our
Reptile House to battle for supremacy and in these contests
several fatalities have occurred. Some of these occurrences are
not of the criminal sort; but when a twelve-foot alligator attacks
and kills a six-foot individual, entirely out of his class and far
too small to fight with him, it is murder. An alligator will seize
the leg of a rival and by violently whirling around on his axis,
like a revolving shaft, twist the leg completely off.
Among sea creatures, the clearly defined criminal instinct, as
exhibited aside from the never-ending struggle for existence and
the quest of food, is rarely observed, possibly because
opportunities are so few. The sanguinary exploits of the grampus,
or whale-killer, among whales small enough to be killed and eaten,
are the onslaughts of a marine glutton in quest of food.
Among the fishes there is one murderer whose evil reputation is
well deserved. The common swordfish of the Atlantic, forty miles
or so off Block Island or Montauk Point, is not only one of the
most fearless of all fishes, but it also is the most dangerous.
His fierce attacks upon the boats of men who have harpooned him
and seek to kill him are well known, and his unparalleled courage
fairly challenges our wonder and admiration. But, unfortunately,
the record of the swordfish is stained with crime. When the spirit
of murder prompts him to commit a crime in sheer wantonness, he
will attack a whale, stab the unfortunate monster again and again,
and pursue it until it is dead. This is prompted solely by
brutality and murder lust, for the swordfish feeds upon fish, and
never attempts to eat any portion of a whale. It can easily be
proved that wild animals in a normal state of nature are by no
means as much given to murder, either of their own kind or other
kinds, as are many races of men. The infrequency of animal
murders cannot be due wholly to the many possibilities for the
intended victim to escape, nor to difficulty in killing. In every
wild species murders are abundantly possible; but it is wholly
against the laws of nature for free wild beasts to kill one
another in wantonness. It is left to the savage races of men to
commit murders without cause, and to destroy one another by fire.
The family crimes and cruelties of people both civilized and
savage completely eclipse in blackness and in number the doings of
even the worst wild beasts. In wild animals and in men, crime is
an index to character. The finest species of animals and the
noblest races of men are alike distinguished by their abhorrence
of the abuse of the helpless and the shedding of innocent blood.
The lion, the elephant, the wild horse, the grizzly bear, the
orang-utan, the eagle and the whooping crane are singularly free
from the criminal instinct. On the other hand, even today Africa
contains tribes whose members are actually fond of practicing
cruelty and murder. In the Dark Continent there has lived many a
"king" beside whom a hungry lion or a grizzly bear is a noble
citizen.
XXV
FIGHTING WITH WILD ANIMALS
The study of the intelligence and temperaments of wild animals is
by no means a pursuit of academic interest only. Men now are
mixing up with dangerous wild beasts far more extensively than
ever before, and many times a life or death issue hangs upon the
man's understanding of the animal mind. I could cite a long and
gruesome list of trainers, keepers and park owners who have been
killed by the animals they did not correctly understand.
Not long ago, it was a park owner who was killed by a dangerous
deer. Next it was a bull elk who killed the keeper who undertook
to show that the animal was afraid of him. In Idaho we saw a
death-penalty mistake with a bull buffalo. Recently, in Spain, an
American ape trainer was killed by his big male chimpanzee.
Recently in Switzerland a snake-charmer was strangled and killed
on the stage by her python.
Men who keep or who handle dangerous animals owe it to themselves,
their heirs and their assigns to _know the animal mind and
temperament, and to keep on the safe side._
In view of the tragedies and near-tragedies that animal trainers
and keepers have been through during the past twenty years, I am
desirous of so vividly exhibiting the wild animal mind and temper
that at least a few of the mistakes of the past may be avoided in
the future. Fortunately I am able to state that thus far no one
ever has been killed by an animal in the Zoological Park; but
several of our men have been severely hurt. The writer hereof
carries two useless fingers on his best hand as a reminder of a
fracas with a savage bear. How Dangerous Animals Attack Men. The
following may be listed as the wild animals most dangerous to man:
1. In the open: Alaskan brown bears, the grizzly bears, lion,
tiger, elephant, leopard, wolf, African buffalo, Indian gaur and
buffalo, and gorilla.
All these species are dangerous to the man who meddles with them,
either to kill or to capture them. If they are not molested by
man, there is very little to fear from any of them save the man-
eating lions, and tigers, the northern wolf packs, Alaskan brown
bears and rogue elephants.
2. In captivity, or in process of capture: Under this head a
special list may be thus composed:
Male elk and deer in the rutting season; male elephants over
fifteen years of age; all bears over one year of age, and
especially "pet" bears; all gorillas, chimpanzees and orangs over
seven years of age (puberty); all adult male baboons, gibbons,
rhesus monkeys, callithrix or green monkeys, Japanese red-faced
monkeys and large macaques; many adult bison bulls and cows of
individually bad temper; also gaur, Old World buffalo, anoa bulls,
many individually bad African antelopes, gnus and hartebeests; all
lions, tigers, jaguars, leopards, wolves, hyenas, and all male
zebras and wild asses over four years of age.
How they attack. The _lion, tiger and bear_ launches at a
man's head or face a lightning-quick and powerful fore-paw blow
that in one stroke tears the skin and flesh in long gashes, and
knocks down the victim with stunning force. Before recovery is
possible the assailant rushes to the prostrate man and begins to
bite or to tear him. Instinctively the fallen man covers his face
with his arms, and with the lion, tiger and leopard the arms come
in for fearful punishment. It is the way of carnivorous beasts to
attack each other head to head and mouth to mouth, and this same
instinct leads these animals to focus their initial attacks upon
the heads and faces of their human quarry.
After a man-eating lion or tiger has reduced the human victim to a
state of non-resistance, the great beast seizes the man by a bite
embracing the chest, and with the feet dragging upon the ground
rushes off to a place of safety to devour him at leisure. Dr.
David Livingston was seized alive by a lion, and carried I forget
how many yards without a stop. His left humerus was broken in the
onset, but the lion abandoned him without doing him any further
serious harm.
Once I could not believe that a lion or a tiger could pick up a
man in his mouth and rapidly carry him off, as a fox gets away
with a chicken; but when I shot a male tiger weighing 495 pounds,
standing 37 inches high and measuring 35 inches around his jaws, I
was forever convinced. In the Malay Peninsula Captain Syers told
me that a tiger leaped a stockade seven feet high, seized a
Chinese woodcutter, leaped out with him, and carried him away.
In a scrimmage with a lion or tiger in the open, the fight is not
prolonged. It is a case of kill or be killed quickly. The time of
times for steady nerves and perfectly accurate shooting is when a
lion, tiger or bear charges the hunter at full speed, beginning
sufficiently far away to give the hunter a sporting chance. _The
hunter can not afford to be "scared!"_ It is liable to cost too
much!
The Alaskan brown bear has a peculiar habit. Occasionally he kills
the hunter he has struck down, but very often he contents himself
with biting his victim on his fleshy parts, _literally from head
to foot._ More than one unfortunate amateur hunter has been
fearfully bitten without having a bone broken, and without having
an important artery or vein severed. Such unfortunates lie upon
their faces, with their arms protecting their heads as best they
can, and take the awful punishment until the bear tires of it and
goes away. Then they _crawl,_ on hands and knees, to come
within reach of discovery and help. In the annals of Alaska's
frontier life there are some heart-rending records of cases such
as I have described, coupled with some marvellous recoveries.
Strange to say, bear bites or scratches _almost never produce
blood poisoning!_ This seems very strange, for the bites of
lions, tigers and leopards very frequently end in blood poisoning,
incurable fever and death. This probably is due to the clean mouth
of the omnivorous bear and the infected mouth of the large cats,
from putrid meat between their teeth.
_The wolf_ is particularly dangerous to his antagonists, man
or beast, from the cutting power of his fearful snap. His molar
teeth shear through flesh and small bones like the gash of a
butcher's cleaver; and his wide gape and lightning-quick
movements render him a very dangerous antagonist. The bite of a
wolf is the most dangerous to man of any animal bite to which
keepers are liable, and it is the law of zoological gardens and
parks that every wolf bite means a quick application of anti-
rabies treatment at a Pasteur institute. Personally, I would be no
more scared by a wolf-bite than by a feline bite, but the verdict
of the jury is,--"it is best to be on the safe side."
_Buck elk and deer_ very, very rarely attack men in the
wilds, unless they have been wounded and brought to bay; and then
very naturally they fight furiously. It is the attacks of captive
or park-bred animals that are most to be feared.
All the deer that I know attack in the same way,--first by a
_slow_ push forward, in order to come to close quarters
_without getting hurt,_ and then follows the relentless push,
push, push to get up steam for the final raging and death-dealing
drive. Even in fighting each other, buck elk and deer do not come
together with a long run and a grand crash. Each potential fighter
_fears for his own eyes,_ and conserves them by a cautious
and deliberate engaging process. This is referred to in another
chapter.
Fortunately for poor humanity, the same slow and cautious tactics
are adopted when a buck deer or wapiti decides to attack a man.
This gives the man in the case a chance to put up his defense.
The attacking deer lowers his head, throws his antlers far to the
front, and pushes for the body of the man. The instant a tine
touches the soft breast or abdomen, he lunges forward to drive it
in. But thanks to that life-saving slow start, the man is
mercifully afforded a few seconds of time in which to save
himself, or at least delay the punishment.
No man ever should enter the enclosure of a "bad" deer, or any
buck deer in the rut, without a stout and tough club or pitchfork
for defense. Of the two weapons, the former is the best.
In the first place, keep away from all bad deer, especially
between October and January first. If you are beset, follow these
instructions, as you value your life:
If unarmed, seize the deer by the antlers before he touches your
vitals, hold on for all you are worth, and _shout for help. Keep
your feet,_ just as long as you possibly can. Never mind being
threshed about, so long as you keep your feet and keep the tines
out of your vitals. Your three hopes are (1) that help will come,
(2) or that you can come within reach of a club or some shelter,
or (3) that the animal will in some manner decide to desist,--a
most forlorn hope.
With a good club, or even a stout walking-stick, you have a
fighting chance. As the animal lowers his head and comes close up
to impale you on his spears of bone, hit him a smashing blow
_across the side of his head, or his nose._ In a desperate
situation, _aim at the eye,_ and lay on the blows. If your
life is in danger from a buck elk or a large deer, do not hesitate
about putting out an eye for him. What are a thousand deer eyes
compared with a twelve inch horn thrust through your stomach? My
standing instructions to our keepers of dangerous animals are:
"Save your own life, at all hazards. Don't let a dangerous animal
kill you. Kill any animal rather than let it kill you!"
It is useless to strike a charging deer on the top of its head, or
on its antlers. Give a sweeping _side_ blow for the
unprotected cheek and jaw, or the tender nose. There is nothing
that a club can do that is so disconcerting as the eye and nose
attack, for a badly injured eye always shuts both eyes,
automatically. Once when alone in the corral of the axis deer
herd, I was treacherously and wantonly attacked by a full-grown
buck. I had violated my own rules about going in armed with a
stick, and it was lucky for me that the axis deer was not as large
as the barasingha or the mule deer. As the buck lowered his head,
threw his long, sharp beams straight forward, and pushed for my
vitals, I seized him by both antlers, to make my defense. At that
he drove forward and nearly upset me. Quickly I let go the right
antler and shifted myself to the animal's left side, where by
means of the left antler I pulled the struggling buck's head
around to my side. Then he began to plunge. Throwing the weight of
my chest upon his shoulders I reached over him and with my free
hand finally grasped his right foreleg below the knee, and pulled
it up clear of the ground. With that I had him.
He tried to struggle free, but I was strong in those days, and
angry besides, and he was helpless. Up beside the deer barn, most
providentially for the finish, I saw a very beautiful barrel
stave. It was the very thing! I worked him over to it, caught it
up, and then still holding him by his left antler I laid that
stave along his side until he was well punished, and glad when
released to rush from that neighborhood.
Female "pet" deer, and female elk, can and do put up dangerous
fights with their front hoofs, standing high up on their hind legs
and striking fast and furiously. A gentleman of my acquaintance
was thus attacked, most unexpectedly, by his pet white-tailed deer
doe. She struck about a dozen times for his breast, and his vest
and coat were slit open in several places. I once saw two cow elk
engage with their front feet in a hot fight, but they did no real
damage.
Of course an angry _bison, buffalo or gaur_ lowers its head
in attacking a man, and seeks to gore and toss him at the same
moment. The American bison will start at a distance of ten or
twenty yards, and with half lowered head jump forward, grunting
"Uh! Uh! Uh!" as he comes. When close up he pauses for a second
and poises his head for the toss. That is the man's one chance. At
that instant he must strike the animal on the side of his head,
and strike hard; and the region of the eye is the spot at which to
aim.
Once we were greatly frightened by the determined charge of a
savage cow bison upon Keeper McEnroe, who was armed with a short-
handled 4-tine pitchfork. As she grunted and came for him we could
not refrain from shouting a terrorized warning, "Look out,
McEnroe! Look out!"
He looked out. He stood perfectly still, and calmly awaited the
onset. The cow rushed close up, and dropped her chin low down for
the goring toss. The keeper was ready for her. Swinging his
pitchfork he delivered a smashing blow upon the left side of the
cow's head, which disconcerted and checked her. Before she could
recover herself he smashed her again, and again. Then she turned
tail and ran, followed by the shouts of the multitude.
_Adult male elephants_ are among the most dangerous of all
wild animals to keep in captivity. They _will_ grow bad-
tempered with adult age, keepers _will_ become careless of
danger that is present every day, and a bad elephant often is a
cunning and deceitful devil. The strength of an elephant is so
great, the toughness of its hide is so pronounced, and the danger
of a sudden attack is so permanent that life in a park with a
"bad" elephant is one continuous nightmare.
Naturally we have been ambitious to prevent all manner of fatal
wild beast attacks upon our keepers. We try our best to provide
for their safety, and having done that to the limit we say: "Now
it is up to you to preserve your own life. If you can not save
yourself from your bad animals, no other person can do it for
you!"
Either positively, comparatively or superlatively, a bad elephant
is a cunning, treacherous and dangerous animal. We have seen
several elephants in various stages of cussedness. Alice, the
adult Indian female, is mentally a freak, but she is not vicious
save under one peculiar combination of circumstances. Take her
outside her yard, and instantly she becomes a storm centre. Gunda
was bad to begin with, worse in continuation and murderously
worst at his finish. At present Kartoum is dangerous only to
inanimate fences and doors.
A wild elephant attacks a hunter by charging furiously and
persistently, sometimes making a real man-chase, seizing the man
or knocking him down, and then impaling him upon his tusks as he
lies. More than one hunter has been knocked down, and escaped the
impalement thrust only through the mercy of heaven that caused the
tusks to miss him and expend their murderous fury in the ample
earth.
On rare occasions an enraged wild elephant deliberately tramples a
man to death; and there is one instance on record wherein the
elephant held his dead native victim firmly to the ground while he
tore him asunder "and actually jerked his arms and legs to some
distance."
In captivity a mean elephant kills a keeper, or other person, by
suddenly knocking him down, and then either trampling upon him or
impaling him.
Gunda, our big male Indian tusker, was the worst elephant with
which I ever came in close touch, and we hope never to see his
like again. When about ten years old he came to us direct from
Assam, and when I saw his big and bulging eyes, and the slits torn
in his ears, I recognized him as a bad-tempered animal. I kept my
opinions to myself. Two weeks later when we started Gunda's Hindu
keeper back toward his native land, I sent for Keepers Gleason and
Forester to give them a choice lot of instruction in elephant
management. They heard me through attentively, and then Forester
said very solemnly:
"Director, I think that is a bad elephant; and I'm afraid of him!"
Keeper Gleason willingly took him over, on condition that he
should have sole charge of him, and as long as Gleason remained in
our service he managed the elephant successfully. Elsewhere I
have spoken at length of Gunda's mind and manners. He went
steadily from bad to worse; but we never once really punished him.
The time was when there was only one man in the world whom he
feared, and would obey, and that was his keeper, Walter Thuman. I
have seen that great dangerous beast cower and quake with fear,
and back off into a corner, when Thuman's powerful voice yelled at
him, and admonished him to behave himself. But all that ended on
the day that he "got" Thuman.
On that fateful afternoon, with no visitors present, Thuman opened
the outside door, took Gunda by the left ear, and with his steel-
shod elephant hook in his left hand started to lead the huge
animal out into his yard. Just inside the doorway Gunda thought he
saw his chance, and he took it.
With a fierce sidewise thrust of his head he struck his keeper
squarely on the shoulder and sent him plunging to the floor in the
stall corner nearest him. Then, instantly he wheeled about and
started to follow up his attack. In the fall Thuman's hook flew
from his hand.
At first Gunda tried to step on him, but he lay so close into the
corner that the elephant could not plant his feet so that they
would do execution. Then he tried to kneel upon the keeper, with
the same result.
Thuman struggled more closely into the corner, and tried hard to
pull himself into the refuse box, through its low door; but with
his trunk Gunda caught him by a leg and dragged him back. Then he
made a fierce downward thrust with his tusks, which were nearly
four feet long, to transfix his intended victim.
His left tusk struck the steel-clad wall and shattered into
fragments, half way up. The resounding crash of that breaking tusk
was what saved Thuman's life.
Gunda thrust again and again with his sound tusk, with the
terrified and despairing keeper trying to cling to the broken tusk
and save himself. At last the point of the sound tusk drove full
and fair through the flat of Thuman's left thigh, as he lay, and
stopped against the concrete floor.
Experienced animal men always are listening for sounds of trouble.
In the cage of Alice, three cages and a vestibule distant, Keeper
Dick Richards was busily working, when he heard the peculiar crash
of that shattered tusk. "What's all that!" said he; and "That's
some trouble," was his own answer.
Grabbing his pitchfork he shot out of that cage, ran down the
keeper's passage and in about ten seconds' arrived in front of
Gunda's cage. And there was Gunda, killing Walter Thuman.
Richards darted in between the widely-separated front bars, gave a
wild yell, and with a fierce thrust drove all the tines of his
pitchfork into Gunda's unprotected hind-quarters, where the skin
was thin and vulnerable.
With a shrill trumpet scream of pain and rage, Gunda whirled away
from Thuman, bolted through the door, and rushed madly into his
yard.
Keeper Thuman survived, and his recovery was presently
accomplished. When I first called to see him he begged me not to
kill Gunda for what he had done, or tried to do. In due course
Thuman got well, and again took charge of Gunda; but after that
the elephant was not afraid of him. We adopted a policy which
prevented further accidents, but finally Gunda became a hopeless
case of sexual insanity and lust for murder.
When Gunda became most dangerous, we protected our keepers by
chaining his feet, and keeping the men out of the reach of his
trunk. Because of this, his fury was boundless; and as soon as it
was apparent that he was suffering from his confinement and never
would be any better, we quickly decided to end it all. He was
painlessly put to death, by Mr. Carl E. Akeley, with a single .26
calibre bullet very skilfully sent through the elephant's brain.
_Chimpanzees and Orang-Utans_ attack and fight men just as
they attack each other,--by biting the face and neck, and the
hands, shoulders and arms. The fighting ape always reaches out,
seizes the arm or wrist of the person to be harmed, drags it up to
his mouth and bites savagely. As a home illustration of this
method of attack, a chimpanzee named Chico in the Central Park
Menagerie once bit a finger from the hand of his keeper. In April,
1921, Mr. Ellis Joseph, the animal dealer, was very severely
bitten on his face and neck by his own chimpanzee, so much so in
fact that eighteen stitches were required to sew up his
lacerations.
One excellent thing about the manners of chimpanzees and orang-
utans in captivity and on the stage is that they do not turn
deadly dangerous all in a moment, as do bears and elephants, and
occasionally deer. The ape who is falling from grace goes
gradually, and gives warning signs that wise men recognize. They
first become strong and boisterous, then they playfully resist and
defy the keeper's restraining hand. Next in order they openly
become angry at their keepers over trifles, and bristle up, stamp
on the floor and savagely yell. It is then that the whip and the
stick become not only useless but dangerous to the user, and must
be discarded. It is then that new defensive tactics must be
inaugurated, and the keeper must see to it that the big and
dangerous ape gets no advantage. This means the exercise of good
strategy, and very careful management in cage-cleaning. It calls
for two cages for each dangerous ape.
There is only one thing in this world of which our three big
chimps are thoroughly afraid, and that is an absurd little _toy
gun_ that cost about fifty cents, and looks it. No matter how
bad Boma may be acting, if Keeper Palmer says in a sharp tone,
"_Where's that gun!_" Boma hearkens and stops short, and if
the "gun" is shown in front of his cage he flies in terror to the
top of his second balcony, and cowers in a corner.
Why are those powerful and dangerous apes afraid of that absurd
toy? I do not know. Perhaps the answer is--instinct; but if so,
how was it acquired? The natives of the chimp country do not have
many firearms, and the white man's guns have been seen and heard
by not more than one out of every thousand of that chimp
population.
Baboons Throw Stones. So far as we are aware, baboons are the only
members of the Order Primates who ever deliberately throw
missiles as means of offense. In 1922 there was in the New York
Zoological Park a savage and aggressive Rhodesian baboon
(_Choiropithecus rhodesiae,_ Haagner) which throws stones at
people whenever he can get hold of such missiles. We have seen him
set up against Keeper Palmer and Curator Ditmars a really vigorous
bombardment with stones and coal that had been supplied him. His
throw was by means of a vigorous underhand pitch, and but for the
intervening bars he would have done very good execution.
Keeper Rawlinson, of the Primate House, who was in the Boer War,
states that on one occasion when his company was deploying along
the steep side of a rock-covered kopje a troop of baboons above
them rolled and threw so many stones down at the men that finally
two machine guns were let loose on the savage beasts to disperse
them.
THE CURTAIN
On one side of the heights above the River of Life stand the men
of this little world,--the fully developed, the underdone, and
the unbaked, in one struggling, seething mass. On the other side,
and on a level but one step lower down, stands the vanguard of the
long procession of "Lower" Animals, led by the chimpanzee, the
orang and the gorilla. The natural bridge that _almost_ spans
the chasm lacks only the keystone of the arch.
Give the apes just one thing,--_speech,_--and the bridge is
closed!
Take away from a child its sight, speech and hearing, and the
whole world is a mystery, which only the hardest toil of science
and education ever can reveal. Give back hearing and sight,
without speech, and even then the world is only half available.
Give a chimpanzee articulate expression and language, and no one
could fix a limit to his progress.
Take away from a man the use of one lobe of his brain, and he is
rendered speechless.
The great Apes have travelled up the River of Life on the opposite
side from Man, but they are only one lap behind him. Let us not
deceive ourselves about that. Remember that truth is inexorable in
its demands to be heard.
We need not rack our poor, finite minds over the final problem of
evolution, or the final destiny of Man and Ape. We cannot prove
anything beyond what we see. We do not know, and we never can
know, whether the chimpanzee has a "soul" or not; and we cannot
_prove_ that the soul of man is immortal. If man possesses a
soul of lofty stature, why not a soul of lowly stature for the
chimpanzee?
We do not know just _where_ "heaven" is; and we cannot know
until we find it. But what does it all matter on earth, if we keep
to the straight path, and rest our faith upon the Great Unseen
Power that we call God?
Said the great Poet of Nature in his ode "To a Waterfowl:"
"He who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless
Sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread
alone Will lead my steps aright."
CURTAIN.
BY WILLIAM T. HORNADAY
THE MINDS AND MANNERS OF WILD ANIMALS
CAMP FIRES ON DESERT AND LAVA
CAMP FIRES IN THE CANADIAN ROCKIES
TAXIDERMY AND ZOOLOGICAL COLLECTING
TWO YEARS IN THE JUNGLE The Experiences of a Hunter and Naturalist
in India, Ceylon, the Malay Peninsula and Borneo. Illustrated. 8 vo.
THE AMERICAN NATURAL HISTORY A Foundation of Useful Knowledge of
the Higher Animals of North America. Four Crown Octavo Volumes,
Illustrated in colors and half-tones.
THE SAME Royal 8 vo. Complete in one volume.
OUR VANISHING WILD LIFE Its Extermination and Preservation.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Minds and Manners of Wild Animals
by William T. Hornaday
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