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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Naturalist in La Plata, by W. H. Hudson

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Title: The Naturalist in La Plata

Author: W. H. Hudson

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Release Date: February, 2005
First Posted: May 1, 2003

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




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</pre>


<img src="images/h1-1.jpg" alt="h1-1.jpg" class="c1">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">Pampas grass: Indians
on the look-out for strayed horses</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h1>THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA</h1>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font12">BY</span><br>
</p>

<h2>W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.</h2>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font10">JOINT AUTHOR OF
"ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY"</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-2.jpg" alt="h1-2.jpg" class="c2">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font12">WHITE-BANDED
MOCKING-BIRD</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font1"><b>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
J. SMIT</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font13"><i>THIRD
EDITION.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font14">NEW YORK</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">D. APPLETON AND
COMPANY</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">1895</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h2>PREFACE.</h2>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">THE plan I have
followed in this work has been to sift and arrange the facts I
have gathered concerning the habits of the animals best known to
me, preserving those only, which, in my judgment, appeared worth
recording. In some instances a variety of subjects have linked
themselves together in my mind, and have been grouped under one
heading; consequently the scope of the book is not indicated by
the list of contents: this want is, however, made good by an
index at the end.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is seldom an easy
matter to give a suitable name to a book of this description. I
am conscious that the one I have made choice of displays a lack
of originality; also, that this kind of title has been used
hitherto for works constructed more or less on the plan of the
famous <i>Naturalist on the Amazons.</i> After I have made this
apology the reader, on his part, will readily admit that, in
treating of the Natural History of a district so well known, and
often described as the southern portion of La Plata, which has a
temperate climate, and where nature is neither exuberant nor
grand, a personal narrative would have seemed
superfluous.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The greater portion
of the matter contained in</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font1"><b>VI</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font22"><i>Preface.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">this volume has
already seen the light in the form of papers contributed to the
<i>Field,</i> with other journals that treat of Natural History;
and to the monthly magazines :--<i>Longmans', The Nineteenth
Century, The Gentleman's Magazine,</i> and others : I am indebted
to the Editors and Proprietors of these periodicals for kindly
allowing me to make use of this material.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Of all animals,
birds have perhaps afforded me most pleasure; but most of the
fresh knowledge I have collected in this department is contained
in a larger work <i>(Argentine Ornithology),</i> of which Dr. P.
L. Sclater is part author. As I have not gone over any of the
subjects dealt with in that work, bird-life has not received more
than a fair share of attention in the present volume.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER I. THE DESERT
PAMPAS ....... 1</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER II. CUB PUMA,
OR LION OF AMERICA 31</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c4">CHAPTER III. WAVE OF
LIFE ........ 59</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER IV. SOME
CURIOUS ANIMAL WEAPONS ..... 69</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c5">CHAPTER V. FEAR IN
BIRDS ........ 83</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c5">CHAPTER VI. PARENTAL
AND EARLY INSTINCTS ..... 101</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c4">CHAPTER VII. THE
MEPHITIC SKUNK . 116</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER VIII. MIMICRY
AND WARNING COLOURS IN GRASSHOPPERS . 124</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c4">CHAPTER IX.
DRAGON-FLY STORMS ....... 130</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">viii
<i>Contents.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c6">CHAPTER X.
MOSQUITOES AND PARASITE PROBLEMS .... 135</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XI. HUMBLE-BEES
AND OTHER MATTERS . . . .154</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XII. A NOBLE
WASP . ,. . . . . . . . 162</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c7">CHAPTER XIII.
NATURE'S NIGHT-LIGHTS ....... 168</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XIV. FACTS AND
THOUGHTS ABOUT SPIDERS . 178</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XV. THE
DEATH-FEIGNING INSTINCT . . . 200</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XVI.
HUMMING-BIRDS . . . . . . , . . 205</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XVII. THE
CRESTED SCREAMER . . . . . . . . 221</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c8">CHAPTER XVIII. THE
WOODHEWER FAMILY 235</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XIX. MUSIC AND
DANCING IN NATURE ..... 261</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c7">CHAPTER XX.
BIOGRAPHY OF THE VIZCACHA ...... 289</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c6">CHAPTER XXI. THE
DYING HUANACO ....... 314</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font10"><b>PAGE</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">CHAPTER XXII. THE
STRANGE INSTINCTS OF CATTLE ... 329</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c10">CHAPTER XXIII.
HORSE AND MAN ........ 348</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c11">CHAPTER XXIV. SEEN
AND LOST ..,,. 363</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">APPENDIX ......
384</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19">INDEX ........-
391</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18">Pampas Grass : Indians
on the look-out for strayed</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Horses .......
<i>Frontispiece</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Coyp&uacute;
.......... 12</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Puma killed by Cow
....... 39</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Puma attacking
Jaguar ..... <i>To face</i> 48</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Armadillo killing
Snake ....... 72</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Wrestler Frog . . .
. . . . . .77</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Ceratrophrys ornata
........ 80</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Didelphys azaree
and young . . . . . . 102</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Pampa Sheep
......... 109</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Skunk and Dog . . .
. . . . .123</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Storm, of
Dragon-flies ..... <i>To face,</i> 132</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Ixodes; before and
after a blood diet . . . .142</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Fire-wood gatherer
and Bird-fly .. . . . .147</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">A Bee's Kevengo . .
. . . . . .165</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Mygale fusca,
threatening ....... 191</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Loddigesia
Mirabilis . . . . . . . .215</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Crested Screamer .
. . . . . . . 224</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Some Woodhewers'
beaks . . . . . . .239</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Dance of Ypecaha
Rails ....... 267</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Wing-display of
Jacanas ....... 268</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Dance of
Spur-winged Lapwings ..... 270</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">White-banded
Mocking-bird ...... 277</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Vizcachas .........
290</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">The Dying Huanaco
...... To <i>face</i> 318</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Gaucho . . . . . .
, , . . 350</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">A lost Humming-bird
....... 367</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c12">Small Spine-tail
and Nest ,...,. 371</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h2>THE NATURALIST IN LA PLATA,</h2>

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">THE DESERT
PAMPAS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">DURING recent years
we have heard much about the great and rapid changes now going on
in the plants and animals of all the temperate regions of the
globe colonized by Europeans. These changes, if taken merely as
evidence of material progress, must be a matter of rejoicing to
those who are satisfied, and more than satisfied, with our system
of civilization, or method of outwitting Nature by the removal of
all checks on the undue increase of our own species. To one who
finds a charm in things as they exist in the unconquered
provinces of Nature's dominions, and who, not being over-anxious
to reach the end of his journey, is content to perform it on
horseback, or in a waggon drawn by bullocks, it is permissible to
lament the altered aspect of the earth's surface, together with
the disappearance of numberless noble and beautiful forms, both
of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. For he cannot find it in
his heart to love the forms by which they are replaced; these are
cultivated and domesticated, and have only become useful to man
at the cost of</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">B</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">2 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">that grace and
spirit which freedom and wildness give. In numbers they are
many--twenty-five millions of sheep in this district, fifty
millions in that, a hundred millions in a third--but how few are
the species in place of those destroyed? and when the owner of
many sheep and much wheat desires variety--for he possesses this
instinctive desire, albeit in conflict with and overborne by the
perverted instinct of destruction--what is there left to him,
beyond his very own, except the weeds that spring up in his
fields under all skies, ringing him round with old-world
monotonous forms, as tenacious of their undesired union with him
as the rats and cockroaches that inhabit his house?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">We hear most
frequently of North America, New Zealand, and Australia in this
connection; but nowhere on the globe has civilization "written
strange defeatures" more markedly than on that great area of
level country called by English writers <i>the pampas</i>, but by
the Spanish more appropriately <i>La Pampa</i>--from the Quichua
word signifying open space or country--since it forms in most
part one continuous plain, extending on its eastern border from
the river Parana, in latitude 32 degrees, to the Patagonian
formation on the river Colorado, and comprising about two hundred
thousand square miles of humid, grassy country.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">This district has
been colonized by Europeans since the middle of the sixteenth
century; but down to within a very few years ago immigration was
on too limited a scale to make any very great change; and,
speaking only of the pampean country, the conquered territory was
a long, thinly-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">3 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">settled strip,
purely pastoral, and the Indians, with their primitive mode of
warfare, were able to keep back the invaders from the greater
portion of their ancestral hunting-grounds. Not twenty years ago
a ride of two hundred miles, starting from the capital city,
Buenos Ayres, was enough to place one well beyond the furthest
south-western frontier outpost. In 1879 the Argentine Government
determined to rid the country of the aborigines, or, at all
events, to break their hostile and predatory spirit once for all;
with the result that the entire area of the grassy pampas, with a
great portion of the sterile pampas and Patagonia, has been made
available to the emigrant. There is no longer anything to deter
the starvelings of the Old World from possessing themselves of
this new land of promise, flowing, like Australia, with milk and
tallow, if not with honey; any emasculated migrant from a Genoese
or Neapolitan slum is now competent to "fight the wilderness" out
there, with his eight-shilling fowling-piece and the implements
of his trade. The barbarians no longer exist to frighten his soul
with dreadful war cries; they have moved away to another more
remote and shadowy region, called in their own language
<i>Alhuemapu</i>, and not known to geographers. For the results
so long and ardently wished for have swiftly followed on General
Roca's military expedition; and the changes witnessed during the
last decade on the pampas exceed in magnitude those which had
been previously effected by three centuries of
occupation.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In view of this
wave of change now rapidly sweeping away the old order, with
whatever beauty</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">4 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">and grace it
possessed, it might not seem inopportune at the present moment to
give a rapid sketch, from the field naturalist's point of view,
of the great plain, as it existed before the agencies introduced
by European colonists had done their work, and as it still exists
in its remoter parts.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The humid, grassy,
pampean country extends, roughly speaking, half-way from the
Atlantic Ocean and the Plata and Paran&aacute; rivers to the
Andes, and passes gradually into the "Monte Formation," or
<i>sterile pampa--</i>a sandy, more or less barren district,
producing a dry, harsh, ligneous vegetation, principally thorny
bushes and low trees, of which the cha&ntilde;ar (Gurliaca
decorticans) is the most common; hence the name of
"Cha&ntilde;ar-steppe" used by some writers: and this formation
extends southwards down into Patagonia. Scientists have not yet
been able to explain why the pampas, with a humid climate, and a
soil exceedingly rich, have produced nothing but grass, while the
dry, sterile territories on their north, west, and south borders
have an arborescent vegetation. Darwin's conjecture that the
extreme violence of the <i>pampero,</i> or south-west wind,
prevented trees from growing, is now proved to have been
ill-founded since the introduction of the Eucalyptus globulus;
for this noble tree attains to an extraordinary height on the
pampas, and exhibits there a luxuriance of foliage never seen in
Australia.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">To this level
area--my "parish of Selborne," or, at all events, a goodly
portion of it--with the sea on one hand, and on the other the
practically infinite expanse of grassy desert--another sea,
not</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> 5</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">"in vast
fluctuations fixed," but in comparative calm--I should like to
conduct the reader in imagination: a country all the easier to be
imagined on account of the absence of mountains, woods, lakes,
and rivers. There is, indeed, little to be imagined--not even a
sense of vastness; and Darwin, touching on this point, in the
<i>Journal of a Naturalist,</i> aptly says:--"At sea, a person's
eye being six feet above the surface of the water, his horizon is
two miles and four-fifths distant. In like manner, the more level
the plain, the more nearly does the horizon approach within these
narrow limits; and this, in my opinion, entirely destroys the
grandeur which one would have imagined that a vast plain would
have possessed."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I remember my first
experience of a hill, after having been always shut within "these
narrow limits." It was one of the range of sierras near Cape
Corrientes, and not above eight hundred feet high; yet, when I
had gained the summit, I was amazed at the vastness of the earth,
as it appeared to me from that modest elevation. Persons born and
bred on the pampas, when they first visit a mountainous district,
frequently experience a sensation as of "a ball in the throat"
which seems to prevent free respiration.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In most places the
rich, dry soil is occupied by a coarse grass, three or four feet
high, growing in large tussocks, and all the year round of a deep
green; a few slender herbs and trefoils, with long, twining
stems, maintain a frail existence among the tussocks; but the
strong grass crowds out most plants, and scarcely a flower
relieves its</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">6 A <i>Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">uniform everlasting
verdure. There are patches, sometimes large areas, where it does
not grow, and these are carpeted by small creeping herbs of a
livelier green, and are gay in spring with flowers, chiefly of
the composite and papilionaceous kinds; and verbenas, scarlet,
purple, rose, and white. On moist or marshy grounds there are
also several lilies, yellow, white, and red, two or three flags,
and various other small flowers; but altogether the flora of the
pampas is the poorest in species of any fertile district on the
globe. On moist clayey ground flourishes the stately pampa grass,
Gynerium argenteum, the spears of which often attain a height of
eight or nine feet. I have ridden through many leagues of this
grass with the feathery spikes high as my head, and often higher.
It would be impossible for me to give anything like an adequate
idea of the exquisite loveliness, at certain times and seasons,
of this queen of grasses, the chief glory of the solitary pampa.
Everyone is familiar with it in cultivation; but the garden-plant
has a sadly decaying, draggled look at all times, and to my mind,
is often positively ugly with its dense withering mass of coarse
leaves, drooping on the ground, and bundle of spikes, always of
the same dead white or dirty cream-colour. Now colour--the
various ethereal tints that give a blush to its cloud-like
purity--is one of the chief beauties of this grass on its native
soil; and travellers who have galloped across the pampas at a
season of the year when the spikes are dead, and white as paper
or parchment, have certainly missed its greatest charm. The plant
is social, and in some places where</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas,</i> 7</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">scarcely any other
kind exists it covers large areas with a sea of fleecy-white
plumes; in late summer, and in autumn, the tints are seen,
varying from the most delicate rose, tender and illusive as the
blush on the white under-plumage of some gulls, to purple and
violaceous. At no time does it look so perfect as in the evening,
before and after sunset, when the softened light imparts a
mistiness to the crowding plumes, and the traveller cannot help
fancying that the tints, which then seem richest, are caught from
the level rays of the sun, or reflected from the coloured vapours
of the afterglow.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The last occasion on
which I saw the pampa grass in its full beauty was at the close
of a bright day in March, ending in one of those perfect sunsets
seen only in the wilderness, where no lines of house or hedge mar
the enchanting disorder of nature, and the earth and sky tints
are in harmony. I had been travelling all day with one companion,
and for two hours we had ridden through the matchless grass,
which spread away for miles on every side, the myriads of white
spears, touched with varied colour, blending in the distance and
appearing almost like the surface of a cloud. Hearing a swishing
sound behind us, we turned sharply round, and saw, not forty
yards away in our rear, a party of five mounted Indians, coming
swiftly towards us: but at the very moment we saw them their
animals came to a dead halt, and at the same instant the five
riders leaped up, and stood erect on their horses' backs.
Satisfied that they had no intention of attacking us, and were
only looking out for strayed horses, we continued watching them
for</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font7">8</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">some time, as they
stood gazing away over the plain in different directions,
motionless and silent, like bronze men on strange horse-shaped
pedestals of dark stone; so dark in their copper skins and long
black hair, against the far-off ethereal sky, flushed with amber
light; and at their feet, and all around, the cloud of white and
faintly-blushing plumes. That farewell scene was printed very
vividly on my memory, but cannot be shown to another, nor could
it be even if a Ruskin's pen or a Turner's pencil were mine; for
the flight of the sea-mew is not more impossible to us than the
power to picture forth the image of Nature in our souls, when she
reveals herself in one of those "special moments" which have
"special grace" in situations where her wild beauty has never
been spoiled by man.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">At other hours and
seasons the general aspect of the plain is monotonous, and in
spite of the unobstructed view, and the unfailing verdure and
sunshine, somewhat melancholy, although never sombre: and
doubtless the depressed and melancholy feeling the pampa inspires
in those who are unfamiliar with it is due in a great measure to
the paucity of life, and to the profound silence. The wind, as
may well be imagined on that extensive level area, is seldom at
rest; there, as in the forest, it is a "bard of many breathings,"
and the strings it breathes upon give out an endless variety of
sorrowful sounds, from the sharp fitful sibilations of the dry
wiry grasses on the barren places, to the long mysterious moans
that swell and die in the tall polished rushes of the marsh. It
is also curious to note that with a few exceptions the resident
birds</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas,</i> 9</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">are comparatively
very silent, even those belonging to groups which elsewhere are
highly loquacious. The reason of this is not far to seek. In
woods and thickets, where birds abound most, they are continually
losing sight of each other, and are only prevented from
scattering by calling often; while the muffling effect on sound
of the close foliage, to' which may be added a spirit of
emulation where many voices are heard, incites most species,
especially those that are social, to exert their voices to the
utmost pitch in singing, calling, and screaming. On the open
pampas, birds, which are not compelled to live concealed on the
surface, can see each other at long distances, and perpetual
calling is not needful: moreover, in that still atmosphere sound
travels far. As a rule their voices are strangely subdued;
nature's silence has infected them, and they have become silent
by habit. This is not the case with aquatic species, which are
nearly all migrants from noisier regions, and mass themselves in
lagoons and marshes, where they are all loquacious together. It
is also noteworthy that the subdued bird-voices, some of which
are exceedingly sweet and expressive, and the notes of many of
the insects and batrachians have a great resemblance, and seem to
be in accord with the aeolian tones of the wind in reeds and
grasses: a stranger to the pampas, even a naturalist accustomed
to a different fauna, will often find it hard to distinguish
between bird, frog, and insect voices.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The mammalia is poor
in species, and with the single exception of the well-known
vizcacha (Lagostomus trichodactylus), there is not one
of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16"><b>10</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">which it can truly
be said that it is in any special way the product of the pampas,
or, in other words, that its instincts are better suited to the
conditions of the pampas than to those of other districts. As a
fact, this large rodent inhabits a vast extent of country, north,
west, and south of the true pampas, but nowhere is he so
thoroughly on his native heath as on the great grassy plain.
There, to some extent, he even makes his own conditions, like the
beaver. He lives in a small community of twenty or thirty
members, in a village of deep-chambered burrows, all with their
pit-like entrances closely grouped together; and as the village
endures for ever, or for an indefinite time, the earth constantly
being brought up forms a mound thirty or forty feet in diameter;
and this protects the habitation from floods on low or level
ground. Again, he is not swift of foot, and all rapacious beasts
are his enemies; he also loves to feed on tender succulent herbs
and grasses, to seek for which he would have to go far afield
among the giant grass, where his watchful foes are lying in wait
to seize him; he saves himself from this danger by making a
clearing all round his abode, on which a smooth turf is formed;
and here the animals feed and have their evening pastimes in
comparative security: for when an enemy approaches, he is easily
seen; the note of alarm is sounded, and the whole company
scuttles away to their refuge. In districts having a different
soil and vegetation, as in Patagonia, the vizcachas' curious,
unique instincts are of no special advantage, which makes it seem
probable that they have been formed on the pampas.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert Pampas.
11</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">How marvellous a
thing it seems that the two species of mammalians--the beaver and
the vizcacha--that most nearly simulate men's intelligent actions
in their social organizing instincts, and their habitations,
which are made to endure, should belong to an order so low down
as the Rodents! And in the case of the latter species, it adds to
the marvel when we find that the vizcacha, according to
Water-house, is the lowest of the order in its marsupial
affinities.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The vizcacha is the
most common rodent on the pampas, and the Rodent order is
represented by the largest number of species. The finest is the
so-called Patagonian hare--Dolichotis patagonica--a beautiful
animal twice as large as a hare, with ears shorter and more
rounded, and legs relatively much longer. The fur is grey and
chestnut brown. It is diurnal in its habits, lives in kennels,
and is usually met with in pairs, or small flocks. It is better
suited to a sterile country like Patagonia than to the grassy
humid plain; nevertheless it was found throughout the whole of
the pampas; but in a country where the wisdom of a Sir William
Harcourt was never needed to slip the leash, this king of the
Rodentia is now nearly extinct.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">A common rodent is
the coyp&uacute;--Myiopotamus coyp&uacute;--yellowish in colour
with bright red incisors; a rat in shape, and as large as an
otter. It is aquatic, lives in holes in the banks, and where
there are no banks it makes a platform nest among the rushes. Of
an evening they are all out swimming and playing in the water,
conversing together in their strange tones, which sound like the
moans and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15"><b>12</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">cries of wounded
and suffering men; and among them the mother-coyp&uacute; is seen
with her progeny, numbering eight or nine, with as many on her
back as she can accommodate, while the others swim after her,
crying for a ride.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">With reference to
this animal, which, as we have seen, is prolific, a strange thing
once happened in Buenos Ayres. The coyp&uacute; was much more
abundant fifty years ago than now, and its skin, which</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-3.jpg" alt="h1-3.jpg" class="c14">

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font15">Coyp&uacute;.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">has a fine fur
under the long coarse hair, was largely exported to Europe. About
that time the Dictator Rosas issued a decree prohibiting the
hunting of the coyp&uacute;. The result was that the animals
increased and multiplied exceedingly, and, abandoning their
aquatic habits, they became terrestrial and migratory, and
swarmed everywhere in search of food. Suddenly a mysterious
malady fell on them, from which they quickly perished, and became
almost extinct.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> 13</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">What a blessed
thing it would be for poor rabbit-worried Australia if a similar
plague should visit that country, and fall on the right animal!
On the other hand, what a calamity if the infection, wide-spread,
incurable, and swift as the wind in its course, should attack the
too-numerous sheep! And who knows what mysterious, unheard-of
retributions that revengeful deity Nature may not be meditating
in her secret heart for the loss of her wild four-footed children
slain by settlers, and the spoiling of her ancient beautiful
order!</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">A small pampa
rodent worthy of notice is the Cavia australis, called
<i>cu&iacute;</i> in the vernacular from its voice: a timid,
social, mouse-coloured little creature, with a low gurgling
language, like running babbling waters; in habits resembling its
domestic pied relation the guinea pig. It loves to run on clean
ground, and on the pampas makes little rat-roads all about its
hiding-place, which little roads tell a story to the fox, and
such like; therefore the little cavy's habits, and the habits of
all cav&iacute;es, I fancy, are not so well suited to the humid
grassy region as to other districts, with sterile ground to run
and play upon, and thickets in which to hide.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">A more interesting
animal is the Ctenomys magellanica, a little less than the rat in
size, with a shorter tail, pale grey fur, and red incisors. It is
called <i>tuco-tuco</i> from its voice, and <i>oculto</i> from
its habits; for it is a dweller underground, and requires a
loose, sandy soil in which, like the mole, it may <i>swim</i>
beneath the surface. Consequently the pampa, with its heavy,
moist mould, is not the tuco's proper place; nevertheless,
wherever there</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><b>14</b> <i>The
Naturalist in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">is a stretch of
sandy soil, or a range of dunes, there it is found living; not
seen, but heard; for all day long and all night sounds its voice,
resonant and loud, like a succession of blows from a hammer; as
if a company of gnomes were toiling far down underfoot, beating
on their anvils, first with strong measured strokes, then with
lighter and faster, and with a swing and rhythm as if the little
men were beating in time to some rude chant unheard above the
surface. How came these isolated colonies of a species so
subterranean in habits, and requiring a sandy soil to move in, so
far from their proper district--that sterile country from which
they are separated by wide, unsuitable areas? They cannot perform
long overland journeys like the rat. Perhaps the dunes have
travelled, carrying their little cattle with them.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Greatest among the
carnivores are the two cat-monarchs of South America, the jaguar
and puma. Whatever may be their relative positions elsewhere, on
the pampas the puma is mightiest, being much more abundant and
better able to thrive than its spotted rival. Versatile in its
preying habits, its presence on the pampa is not surprising; but
probably only an extreme abundance of large mammalian prey, which
has not existed in recent times, could have, tempted an animal of
the river and forest-loving habits of the jaguar to colonize this
cold, treeless, and comparatively waterless desert. There are two
other important cats. The grass-cat, not unlike Felis catus in
its robust form and dark colour, but a larger, more powerful
animal, inexpressibly savage in disposition. The second, Felis
geoffroyi,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> <b>15</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">is a larger and
more beautiful animal, coloured like a leopard; it is called
wood-cat, and, as the name would seem to indicate, is an intruder
from wooded districts north of the pampas.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">There are two
canines: one is Azara's beautiful grey fox-like dog, purely a fox
in habits, and common everywhere. The other is far more
interesting and extremely rare; it is called
<i>aguar&aacute;,</i> its nearest ally being the
<i>aguar&aacute;-guaz&uacute;,</i> the Canis jubatus or maned
wolf of naturalists, found north of the pampean district. The
aguar&aacute; is smaller and has no mane; it is like the dingo in
size, but slimmer and with a sharper nose, and lias a much
brighter red colour. At night when camping out I have heard its
dismal screams, but the screamer was sought in vain; while from
the gauchos of the frontier I could only learn that it is a
harmless, shy, solitary animal, that ever flies to remoter wilds
from its destroyer, man. They offered me a skin--what more could
I want? Simple souls! it was no more to me than the skin of a
dead dog, with long, bright red hair. Those who love dead animals
may have them in any number by digging with a. spade in that vast
sepulchre of the pampas, where perished the hosts of antiquity. I
love the living that are above the earth; and how small a remnant
they are in South America we know, and now yearly becoming more
precious as it dwindles away.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The pestiferous
skunk is universal; and there are two quaint-looking weasels,
intensely black in colour, and grey on the back and flat crown.
One, the Galictis barbara, is a large bold animal that</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">16</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">hunts in companies;
and when these long-bodied creatures sit up erect, glaring with
beady eyes, grinning and chattering at the passer-by, they look
like little friars in black robes and grey cowls; but the
expression on their round faces is malignant and bloodthirsty
beyond anything in nature, and it would perhaps be more decent to
liken them to devils rather than to humans.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">On the pampas there
is, strictly speaking, only one ruminant, the Cervus campestris,
which is common. The most curious thing about this animal is that
the male emits a rank, musky odour, so powerful that when the
wind blows from it the effluvium comes in nauseating gusts to the
nostrils from a distance exceeding two miles. It is really
astonishing that only one small ruminant should be found on this
immense grassy area, so admirably suited to herbivorous
quadrupeds, a portion of which at the present moment affords
sufficient pasture to eighty millions of sheep, cattle, and
horses. In La Plata the author of <i>The Mammoth and the
Flood</i> will find few to quarrel with his doctrine.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">Of Edentates there
are four. The giant armadillo does not range so far, and the
delicate little pink fairy armadillo, the truncated
Chlamydophorus, is a dweller in the sand-dunes of Mendoza, and
has never colonized the grassy pampas. The Tatusia hybrida,
called "little mule" from the length of its ears, and the Dasypus
tricinctus, which, when disturbed, rolls itself into a ball, the
wedge-shaped head and wedge-shaped tail admirably fitting into
the deep-cut shell side by side; and the <i>quirquincho</i>
(Dasypus minutus), all inhabit the pampa, are</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> 7</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">diurnal, and feed
exclusively on insects, chiefly ants. Wherever the country
becomes settled, these three disappear, owing to the dulness of
their senses, especially that of sight, and to the diurnal habit,
which was an advantage to them, and enabled them to survive when
rapacious animals, which are mostly nocturnal, were their only
enemies. The fourth, and most important, is the hairy armadillo,
with habits which are in strange contrast to those of its
perishing congeners, and which seem to mock many hard-and-fast
rules concerning animal life. It is omnivorous, and will thrive
on anything from grass to flesh, found dead and in all stages of
decay, or captured by means of its own strategy. Furthermore, its
habits change to suit its conditions: thus, where nocturnal
carnivores are its enemies, it is diurnal; but where man appears
as a chief persecutor, it becomes nocturnal. It is much hunted
for its flesh, dogs being trained for the purpose; yet
it</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">actually becomes
more abundant as population increases in any district; and, if
versatility in habits or adaptiveness can be taken as a measure
of intelligence, this poor armadillo, a survival of the past, so
old on the earth as to have existed contemporaneously with the
giant glyptodon, is the superior of the large-brained cats and
canines.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">To finish with the
mammalia, there are two interesting opossums, both of the genus
Didelphys, but in habits as wide apart as cat from otter. One of
these marsupials appears so much at home on the plains that I
almost regret having said that the vizcacha alone gives us the
idea of being in its habits the <i>product</i> of the pampas.
This animal--</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">18</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Didelphys
crassicaudata--has a long slender, wedge-, shaped head and body,
admirably adapted for pushing through the thick grass and rushes;
for it is both terrestrial and aquatic, therefore well suited to
inhabit low, level plains liable to be flooded. On dry land its
habits are similar to those of a weasel; in lagoons, where it
dives and swims with great ease, it constructs a globular nest
suspended from the rushes. The fur is soft, of a rich yellow,
reddish above, and on the sides and under surfaces varying in
some parts to orange, in others exhibiting beautiful copper and
terra-cotta tints. These lovely tints and the metallic lustre
soon fade from the fur, otherwise this animal would be much
sought after in the interests of those who love to decorate
themselves with the spoils of beautiful dead animals--beast and
bird. The other opossum is the black and white Didelphys azarae;
and it is indeed strange to find this animal on the pampas,
although its presence there is not so mysterious as that of the
tuco-tuco. It shuffles along slowly and awkwardly on the ground,
but is a great traveller nevertheless. Tschudi met it
mountaineering on the Andes at an enormous altitude, and, true to
its lawless nature, it confronted me in Patagonia, where the
books say no marsupial dwells. In every way it is adapted to an
arboreal life, yet it is everywhere found on the level country,
far removed from the conditions which one would imagine to be
necessary to its existence. For how many thousands of years has
this marsupial been a dweller on the plain, all its best
faculties unexercised, its beautiful grasping hands pressed to
the ground, and its prehensile tail</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Desert Pampas.
19</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">dragged like an
idle rope behind it! Yet, if one is brought to a tree, it will
take to it as readily as a duck to water, or an armadillo to
earth, climbing up the trunk and about the branches with a
monkey-like agility. How reluctant Nature seems in some cases to
undo her own work! How long she will allow a specialized organ,
with the correlated instinct, to rest without use, yet ready to
flash forth on the instant, bright and keen-edged, as in the
ancient days of strife, ages past, before peace came to dwell on
earth!</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The avi-fauna is
relatively much richer than the mammalia, owing to the large
number of aquatic species, most of which are migratory with their
"breeding" or "subsistence-areas" on the pampas. In more senses
than one they constitute a "floating population," and their
habits have in no way been modified by the conditions of the
country. The order, including storks, ibises, herons, spoonbills,
and flamingoes, counts about eighteen species; and the most
noteworthy birds in it are two great ibises nearly as large as
turkeys, with mighty resonant voices. The duck order is very
rich, numbering at least twenty species, including two beautiful
upland geese, winter visitors from Magellanic lands, and two
swans, the lovely black-necked, and the pure white with rosy
bill. Of rails, or ralline birds, there are ten or twelve,
ranging from a small spotted creature no bigger than a thrush to
some large majestic birds. One is the courlan, called "crazy
widow" from its mourning plumage and long melancholy screams,
which on still evenings may be heard a league away. Another is
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">20 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">graceful variegated
<i>ypicaha,</i> fond of social gatherings, where the birds
perform a dance and make the desolate marshes resound with their
insane humanlike voices. A smaller kind, Porphyriops melanops,
has a night-cry like a burst of shrill hysterical laughter, which
has won for it the name of "witch;" while another, Rallus
rythyrhynchus, is called "little donkey" from its braying cries.
Strange eerie voices have all these birds. Of the remaining
aquatic species, the most important is the spur-winged crested
screamer; a noble bird as large as a swan, yet its favourite
pastime is to soar upwards until it loses itself to sight in the
blue ether, whenca it pours forth its resounding choral notes,
which reach the distant earth clarified, and with a rhythmic
swell and fall as of chiming bells. It also sings by night,
"counting the hours," the gauchos say, and where they have
congregated together in tens of thousands the mighty roar of
their combined voices produces an astonishingly grand
effect.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The largest aquatic
order is that of the Limicolse--snipes, plover, and their
allies--which has about twenty-five species. The vociferous
spur-winged lapwing; the beautiful black and white stilt; a true
snipe, and a painted snipe, are, strictly speaking, the only
residents; and it is astonishing to find, that, of the
five-and-twenty species, at least thirteen are visitors from
North America, several of them having their breeding-places quite
away in the Arctic regions. This is one of those facts concerning
the annual migration of birds which almost stagger belief; for
among them are species with widely different habits, upland,
marsh and sea-shore</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> <b>21</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">birds, and in their
great biannual journey they pass through a variety of climates,
visiting many countries where the conditions seem suited to their
requirements. Nevertheless, in September, and even as early as
August, they begin to arrive on the pampas, the golden plover
often still wearing his black nuptial dress; singly and in pairs,
in small flocks, and in clouds they come--curlew, godwit, plover,
tatler, tringa--piping the wild notes to which the Greenlander
listened in June, now to the gaucho herdsman on the green plains
of La Plata, then to the wild Indian in his remote village; and
soon, further south, to the houseless huanaco-hunter in the grey
wilderness of Patagonia.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">Here is a puzzle for
ornithologists. In summer on the pampas we have a godwit--Limosa
hudsonica; in March it goes north to breed; later in the season
flocks of the same species arrive from the south to winter on the
pampas. And besides this godwit, there are several other North
American species, which have colonies in the southern hemi-spere,
with a reversed migration and breeding season. Why do these
southern birds winter so far south? Do they really breed in
Patagonia? If so, their migration is an extremely limited one
compared with that of the northern birds--seven or eight hundred
miles, on the outside, in one case, against almost as many
thousands of miles in the other. Considering that some species
which migrate as far south as Patagonia breed in the Arctic
regions as far north as latitude 82 degrees, and probably higher
still, it would be strange indeed if none of the birds which
winter in Patagonia and on the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">22 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">pampas were summer
visitors to that great austral continent, which has an estimated
area twice as large as that of Europe, and a climate milder than
the arctic one. The migrants would have about six hundred miles
of sea to cross from Tierra del Fuego; but we know that the
golden plover and other species, which sometimes touch at the
Bermudas when travelling, fly much further than that without
resting. The fact that a common Argentine titlark, a non-migrant
and a weak flyer, has been met with at the South Shetland
Islands, close to the antarctic continent, shows that the journey
may be easily accomplished by birds with strong flight; and that
even the winter climate of that unknown land is not too severe to
allow an accidental colonist, like this small delicate bird, to
survive. The godwit, already mentioned, has been observed in
flocks at the Falkland Islands in May, that is, three months
after the same species had taken its autumal departure from the
neighbouring mainland. Can it be believed that these late
visitors to the Falklands were breeders in Patagonia, and had
migrated east to winter in so bleak a region? It is far more
probable that they came from the south. Officers of sailing ships
beating round Cape Horn might be able to settle this question
definitely by looking out, and listening at night, for flights of
birds, travelling north from about the first week in January to
the end of February; and in September and October travelling
south. Probably not fewer than a dozen species of the plover
order are breeders on the great austral continent; also other
aquatic birds--ducks and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> 23</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">geese; and many
Passerine birds, chiefly of the Tyrant family.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Should the long
projected Australasian expedition to the South Polar regions ever
be carried to a successful issue, there will probably be
important results for ornithology, in spite of the astounding
theory which has found a recent advocate in Canon Tristram, that
all life originated at the North Pole, whence it spread over the
globe, but never succeeded in crossing the deep sea surrounding
the antarctic continent, which has consequently remained till now
desolate, "a giant ash (and ice) of death." Nor is it unlikely
that animals of a higher class than birds exist there; and the
discovery of new mammalians, differing in type from those we
know, would certainly be glad tidings to most students of
nature.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Land birds on the
pampas are few in species and in numbers. This may be accounted
for by the absence of trees and other elevations on which birds
prefer to roost and nest; and by the scarcity of food. Insects
are few in dry situations; and the large perennial grasses, which
occupy most of the ground, yield a miserable yearly harvest of a
few minute seeds; so that this district is a poor one both for
soft and hard billed birds. Hawks of several genera, in moderate
numbers, are there, but generally keep to the marshes. Eagles and
vultures are somewhat unworthily represented by carrion-hawks
(Polyborinae); the lordly carancho, almost eagle-like in size,
black and crested, with a very large, pale blue, hooked beak--his
battle axe: and his humble follower and jackal, the brown
and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">24 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">harrier-like
chimango. These nest on the ground, are versatile in their
habits, carrion-eaters, also killers on their own account, and,
like wild dogs, sometimes hunt in bands, which gives them an
advantage. They are the unfailing attendants of all
flesh-hunters, human or feline; and also furiously pursue and
persecute all eagles and true vultures that venture on that great
sea of grass, to wander thereafter, for ever lost and harried,
"the Hagars and Ishmaels of their kind."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The owls are few and
all of wide-ranging species. The most common is the
burrowing-owl, found in both Americas. Not a retiring owl this,
but all day long, in cold and in heat, it stands exposed at the
mouth of its kennel, or on the vizcacha's mound, staring at the
passer-by with an expression of grave surprise and reprehension
in its round yellow eyes; male and female invariably together,
standing stiff and erect, almost touching--of all birds that pair
for life the most Darby and Joan like.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Of the remaining
land birds, numbering about forty species, a few that are most
attractive on account of their beauty, engaging habits, or large
size, may be mentioned here. On the southern portion of the
pampas the military starling (Sturnella) is found, and looks like
the European starling, with the added beauty of a scarlet breast:
among resident pampas birds the only one with a touch of
brilliant colouring. It has a pleasing, careless song, uttered on
the wing, and in winter congregates in great flocks, to travel
slowly northwards over the plains. When thus travelling the birds
observe a kind of order, and the flock feeding along
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> 25</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ground shows a very
extended front--a representation in bird-life of the "thin red
line"--and advances by the hindmost birds constantly flying over
the others and alighting in the front ranks.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Among the
tyrant-birds are several species of the beautiful wing-banded
genus, snow-white in colour, with black on the wings and tail:
these are extremely graceful birds, and strong flyers, and in
desert places, where man seldom intrudes, they gather to follow
the traveller, calling to each other with low whistling notes,
and in the distance look like white flowers as they perch on the
topmost stems of the tall bending grasses.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The most
characteristic pampean birds are the tinamous--called partridges
in the vernacular--large as a fowl, and the spotted tinamou,
which is about the size of the English partridge. Their habits
are identical: both lay eggs of a beautiful wine-purple colour,
and in both species the young acquire the adult plumage and power
of flight when very small, and fly better than the adults. They
have small heads, slender curved beaks, unfeathered legs and
feet, and are tailless; the plumage is deep yellowish, marked
with black and brown above. They live concealed, skulking like
rails through the tall grass, fly reluctantly, and when driven
up, their flight is exceedingly noisy and violent, the bird soon
exhausting itself. They are solitary, but many live in proximity,
frequently calling to each other with soft plaintive voices. The
evening call-notes of the larger bird are flute-like in
character, and singularly sweet and expressive.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">26 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The last figure to
be introduced into this sketch--which is not a catalogue--is that
of the Rhea. Glyptodon, Toxodon, Mylodon, Megatherium, have
passed away, leaving no descendants, and only pigmy
representatives if any; but among the feathered inhabitants of
the pampa the grand archaic ostrich of America survives from a
time when there were also giants among the avians. Vain as such
efforts usually are, one cannot help trying to imagine something
of the past history of this majestic bird, before man came to
lead the long chase now about to end so mournfully. Its
fleetness, great staying powers, and beautiful strategy when
hunted, make it seem probable that it was not without pursuers,
other than the felines, among its ancient enemies, long-winded
and tenacious of their quarry; and these were perhaps of a type
still represented by the wolf or hound-like aguar&aacute; and
aguara-guaz&uacute;. It might be supposed that when almost all
the larger forms, both mammal and bird, were overtaken by
destruction, and when the existing rhea was on the verge of
extinction, these long-legged swift canines changed their habits
and lost their bold spirit, degenerating at last into hunters of
small birds and mammals, on which they are said to
live.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The rhea possesses
a unique habit, which is a puzzle to us, although it probably
once had some significance--namely, that of running, when hunted,
with one wing raised vertically, like a great sail--a veritable
"ship of the wilderness." In every way it is adapted to the
conditions of the pampas in a far greater degree than other
pampean birds, only excepting the rufous and spotted tinamous.
Its</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> 27</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c13">commanding stature
gives it a wide horizon; and its dim, pale, bluish-grey colour
assimilates to that of the haze, and renders it invisible at even
a moderate distance. Its large form fades out of sight
mysteriously, and the hunter strains his eyes in vain to
distinguish it on the blue expanse. Its figure and carriage have
a quaint majestic grace, somewhat unavian in character, and
peculiar to itself. There are few more strangely fascinating
sights in nature than that of the old black-necked cock bird,
standing with raised agitated wings among the tall plumed
grasses, and calling together his scattered hens with hollow
boomings and long mysterious suspira-tions, as if a wind blowing
high up in the void sky had found a voice. Rhea-hunting with the
bolas, on a horse possessing both speed and endurance, and
trained to follow the bird in all his quick doublings, is
unquestionably one of the most fascinating forms of sport ever
invented, by man. The quarry has even more than that fair chance
of escape, without which all sport degenerates into mere
butchery, unworthy of rational beings; moreover, in this unique
method of hunting the ostrich the capture depends on a
preparedness for all the shifts and sudden changes of course
practised by the bird when closely followed, which is like
instinct or intuition; and, finally, in a dexterity in casting
the bolas at the right moment, with a certain aim, which no
amount of practice can give to those who are not to the manner
born.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c13">This 'wild mirth of
the desert,' which the gaucho has known for the last three
centuries, is now passing away, for the rhea's fleetness can no
longer</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">28 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">avail him. He may
scorn the horse and his rider, what time he lifts himself up, but
the cowardly murderous methods of science, and a systematic war
of extermination, have left him no chance. And with the rhea go
the flamingo, antique and splendid; and the swans in their bridal
plumage; and the rufous tinamou--sweet and mournful melodist of
the eventide; and the noble crested screamer, that clarion-voiced
watch-bird of the night in the wilderness. Those, and the other
large avians, together with the finest of the mammalians, will
shortly be lost to the pampas utterly as the great bustard is to
England, and as the wild turkey and bison and many other species
will shortly be lost to North America. What a wail there would be
in the world if a sudden destruction were to fall on the
accumulated art-treasures of the National Gallery, and the
marbles in the British Museum, and the contents of the King's
Library--the old prints and' mediaeval illuminations! And these
are only the work of human hands and brains--impressions of
individual genius on perishable material, immortal only in the
sense that the silken cocoon of the dead moth is so, because they
continue to exist and shine when the artist's hands and brain are
dust:--and man has the long day of life before him in which to do
again things like these, and better than these, if there is any
truth in evolution. But the forms of life in the two higher
vertebrate classes are Nature's most perfect work; and the life
of even a single species is of incalculably greater value to
mankind, for what it teaches and would continue to teach, than
all the chiselled marbles and painted canvases</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Desert
Pampas.</i> <b>29</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the world contains;
though doubtless there are many persons who are devoted to art,
but blind to some things greater than art, who will set me down
as a Philistine for saying so. And, above all others, we should
protect and hold sacred those types, Nature's masterpieces, which
are first singled out for destruction on account of their size,
or splendour, or rarity, and that false detestable glory which is
accorded to their most successful slayers. <b>In</b> ancient
times the spirit of life shone brightest in these; and when
others that shared the earth with them were taken by death they
were left, being more worthy of perpetuation. Like immortal
flowers they have drifted down to us on the ocean of time, and
their strangeness and beauty bring to our imaginations a dream
and a picture of that unknown world, immeasurably far removed,
where man was not: and when they perish, something of gladness
goes out from nature, and the sunshine loses something of its
brightness. Nor does their loss affect us and our times only. The
species now being exterminated, not only in South America but
everywhere on the globe, are, so far as we know, untouched by
decadence. They are links in a chain, and branches on the tree of
life, with their roots in a past inconceivably remote; and but
for our action they would continue to flourish, reaching outward
to an equally distant future, blossoming into higher and more
beautiful forms, and gladdening innumerable generations of our
descendants. But we think nothing of all this: we must give full
scope to our passion for taking life, though by so doing we "ruin
the great work of time;" not in the sense in which</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">30 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">the poet used those
words, but in one truer, and wider, and infinitely sadder. Only
when this sporting rage has spent itself, when there are no
longer any animals of the larger kinds remaining, the loss we are
now inflicting on this our heritage, in which we have a
life-interest only, will be rightly appreciated. It is hardly to
be supposed or hoped that posterity will feel satisfied with our
monographs of extinct species, and the few crumbling bones and
faded feathers, which may possibly survive half a dozen centuries
in some happily-placed museum. On the contrary, such dreary
mementoes will only serve to remind them of their loss; and if
they remember us at all, it will only be to hate our memory, and
our age--this enlightened, scientific, humanitarian age, which
should have for a motto "Let us slay all noble and beautiful
things, for tomorrow we die."</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER II.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">THE PUMA, OB LION OF
AMERICA.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">THE Puma has been
singularly unfortunate in its biographers. Formerly it often
happened that writers were led away by isolated and highly
exaggerated incidents to attribute very shining qualities to
their favourite animals; the lion of the Old World thus came to
be regarded as brave and I magnanimous above all beasts of the
field--the Bayard of the four-footed kind, a reputation which
these prosaic and sceptical times have not suffered it to keep.
Precisely the contrary has happened with the puma of literature;
for, although to those personally acquainted with the habits of
this lesser lion of the New World it is known to possess a
marvellous courage and daring, it is nevertheless</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">always spoken of in
books of natural history as the most pusillanimous of the larger
carnivores. It does not attack man, and Azara is perfectly
correct when he affirms that it never hurts, or threatens to
hurt, man or child, even when it finds them sleeping. This,
however, is not a full statement of the facts; the puma will not
even defend itself against man. How natural, then, to conclude
that it is too timid to attack a human being, or to defend
itself, but scarcely philosophical; for even the most cowardly
carnivores we know--dogs and hyaenas,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">32 <i>Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">for instance--will
readily attack a disabled or sleeping man when pressed by hunger;
and when driven to desperation no animal is too small or too
feeble to make a show of resistance. In such a case "even the
armadillo defends itself," as the gaucho proverb says. Besides,
the conclusion is in contradiction to many other well-known
facts. Putting-aside the puma's passivity in the presence of man,
it is a bold hunter that invariably prefers large to small game;
in desert places killing peccary, tapir, ostrich, deer, huanaco,
&amp;c., all powerful, well-armed, or swift animals. Huanaco
skeletons seen in Patagonia almost invariably have the neck
dislocated, showing that the puma was the executioner. Those only
who have hunted the huanaco on the sterile plains and mountains
it inhabits know how wary, keen-scented, and fleet of foot it is.
I once spent several weeks with a surveying party in a district
where pumas were very abundant, and saw not less than half a
dozen deer every day, freshly killed in most cases, and all with
dislocated necks. Where prey is scarce and difficult to capture,
the puma, after satisfying its hunger, invariably conceals the
animal it has killed, covering it over carefully with grass and
brushwood; these deer, however, had all been left exposed to the
caracaras and foxes after a portion of the breast had been eaten,
and in many cases the flesh had not been touched, the captor
having satisfied itself with sucking the blood. It struck me very
forcibly that the puma of the desert pampas is, among mammals,
like the peregrine falcon of the same district among birds; for
there this wide-ranging raptor only</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 33</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">attacks
comparatively large birds, and, after fastidiously picking a meal
from the flesh of the head and neck, abandons the untouched body
to the polybori and other hawks of the more ignoble
sort.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In pastoral
districts the puma is very destructive to the larger domestic
animals, and has an extraordinary fondness for horseflesh. This
was first noticed by Molina, whose <i>Natural History of
Chili</i> was written a century and a half ago. In Patagonia I
heard on all sides that it was extremely difficult to breed
horses, as the colts were mostly killed by the pumas. A native
told me that on one occasion, while driving his horses home
through the thicket, a puma sprang out of the bushes on to a colt
following behind the troop, killing it before his eyes and not
more than six yards from his horse's head. In this instance, my
informant said, the puma alighted directly on the colt's back,
with one fore foot grasping its bosom, while with the other it
seized the head, and, giving it a violent wrench, dislocated the
neck. The colt fell to the earth as if shot, and he affirmed that
it was dead before it touched the ground.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Naturalists have
thought it strange that the horse, once common throughout
America, should have become extinct over a continent apparently
so well suited to it and where it now multiplies so greatly. As a
fact wherever pumas abound the wild horse of the present time,
introduced from Europe, can hardly maintain its existence.
Formerly in many places horses ran wild and multiplied to an
amazing extent, but this happened, I believe, only in districts
where the puma was scarce or had</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">D</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font5">34</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">already been driven
out by man. My own experience is that on the desert pampas wild
horses are exceedingly scarce, and from all accounts it is the
same throughout Patagonia.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Next to horseflesh,
sheep is preferred, and where the puma can come at a flock, he
will not trouble himself to attack horned cattle. In Patagonia
especially I found this to be the case. I resided for some time
at an estancia close to the town of El Carmen, on the Rio Negro,
which during my stay was infested by a very bold and cunning
puma. To protect the sheep from his attacks an enclosure was made
of upright willow-poles fifteen feet long, while the gate, by
which he would have to enter, was close to the house and nearly
six feet high. In spite of the difficulties thus put in the way,
and of the presence of several large dogs, also of the watch we
kept in the hope of shooting him, every cloudy night he came, and
after killing one or more sheep got safely away. One dark night
he killed four sheep; I detected him in the act, and going up to
the gate, was trying to make out his invisible form in the gloom
as he flitted about knocking the sheep over, when suddenly he
leaped clear over my head and made his escape, the bullets I sent
after him in the dark failing to hit him. Yet at this place
twelve or fourteen calves, belonging to the milch cows, were
every night shut into a small brushwood pen, at a distance from
the house where the enemy could easily have destroyed every one
of them. When I expressed surprise at this arrangement, the owner
said that the puma was not fond of calves' flesh, and came only
for the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 35</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">sheep. Frequently
after his nocturnal visits we found, by tracing his footprints in
the loose sand, that he had actually used the calves' pen as a
place of concealment while waiting to make his attack on the
sheep.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The puma often kills
full-grown cows and horses, but exhibits a still greater daring
when attacking the jaguar, the largest of American carnivores,
although, compared with its swift, agile enemy, as heavy as a
rhinoceros. Azara states that it is generally believed in La
Plata and Paraguay that the puma attacks and conquers the jaguar;
but he did not credit what he heard, which was not strange, since
he had already set the puma down as a cowardly animal, because it
does not attempt to harm man or child. Nevertheless, it is well
known that where the two species inhabit the same district they
are at enmity, the puma being the persistent persecutor of the
jaguar, following and harassing it as a tyrant-bird harasses an
eagle or hawk, moving about it with such rapidity as to confuse
it, and, when an opportunity occurs, springing upon its back and
inflicting terrible wounds with teeth and claws. Jaguars with
scarred backs are frequently killed, and others, not long escaped
from their tormentors, have been found so greatly lacerated that
they were easily overcome by the hunters.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In Kingsley's
American <i>Standard Natural History</i>, it is stated that the
puma in North California has a feud with the grizzly bear similar
to that of the southern animal with the jaguar. In its encounter
with the grizzly it is said to be always</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">1 D 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">36 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">the victor; and
this is borne out by the finding of the bodies of bears, which
have evidently perished in the struggle.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">How strange that
this most cunning, bold, and bloodthirsty of the Felidae, the
persecutor of the jaguar and the scourge of the ruminants in the
regions it inhabits, able to kill its prey with the celerity of a
rifle bullet, never attacks a human being! Even the cowardly,
carrion-feeding dog will attack a man when it can do so with
impunity; but in places where the puma is the only large beast of
prey, it is notorious that it is there perfectly safe for even a
small child to go out and sleep on the plain. At the same time it
will not fly from man (though the contrary is always stated in
books of Natural History) except in places where it is
continually persecuted. Nor is this all: it will not, as a rule,
even defend itself against man, although in some rare instances
it has been known to do so.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The mysterious,
gentle instinct of this ungentle species, which causes the
gauchos of the pampas to name it man's friend--"amigo del
cristiano"--has been persistently ignored by all travellers and
naturalists who have mentioned the puma. They have thus made it a
very incongruous creature, strong enough to kill a horse, yet so
cowardly withal that it invariably flies from a human being--even
from a sleeping child! Possibly its real reputation was known to
some of those who havo spoken about it; if so, they attributed
what they heard to the love of the marvellous and the romantic,
natural to the non-scientific mind; or else</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 37</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">preferred not to
import into their writings matter which has so great a likeness
to fable, and might have the effect of imperilling their
reputation for sober-mindedness.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is, however,
possible that the singular instinct of tho southern puma, which
is unique among animals in a state of nature, is not possessed by
the entire species, ranging as it does over a hundred degrees of
latitude, from British North America to Tierra del Fuego. The
widely different conditions of life in the various regions it
inhabits must necessarily have caused some divergence. Concerning
its habits in the dense forests of the Amazonian region, where it
must have developed special instincts suited to its semi-arboreal
life, scarcely anything has been recorded. Everyone is, however,
familiar with the dreaded cougar, catamount, or
panther--sometimes called "painter"--of North American
literature, thrilling descriptions of encounters with this
imaginary man-eating monster being freely scattered through the
backwoods or border romances, many of them written by authors who
have the reputation of being true to nature. It may be true that
this cougar of a cold climate did occasionally attack man, or, as
it is often stated, follow him in the forest with the intention
of springing on him unawares; but on this point nothing definite
will ever be known, as the pioneers hunters of the past were only
anxious to shoot cougar and not to study its instinct and
disposition. It is now many years since Audubon and Bachman
wrote, "This animal, which has excited so much terror in the
minds of the ignorant</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">38 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">and timid, has been
nearly exterminated in all the Atlantic States, and we do not
recollect a single well-authenticated instance where any hunter's
life fell a sacrifice in a cougar hunt." It might be added, I
believe, that no authentic instance has been recorded of the puma
making an unprovoked attack on any human being. In South America
also the traveller in the wilderness is sometimes followed by a
puma; but he would certainly be very much surprised if told that
it follows with the intention of springing on him unawares and
devouring his flesh.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have spoken of the
comparative ease with which the puma overcomes even large
animals, comparing it in this respect with the peregrine falcon;
but all predacious species are liable to frequent failures,
sometimes to fatal mishaps, and even the cunning, swift-killing
puma is no exception. Its attacks are successfully resisted by
the ass, which does not, like the horse, lose his presence of
mind, but when assaulted thrusts his head well down between its
fore-legs and kicks violently until the enemy is thrown or driven
off. Pigs, when in large herds, also safely defy the puma,
massing themselves together for defence in their well-known
manner, and presenting a serried line of tusks to the aggressor.
During my stay in Patagonia a puma met its fate in a manner so
singular that the incident caused considerable sensation among
the settlers on the Rio Negro at the time. A man named Linares,
the chief of the tame Indians settled in the neighbourhood of El
Carmen, while riding near the river had his curiosity aroused by
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">39</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">appearance and
behaviour of a young cow standing alone in the grass, her head,
armed with long and exceedingly sharp horns, much raised, and
watching his approach in a manner which betokened a state of
dangerous excitement. She had recently dropped her calf, and he
at once conjectured that it had been attacked, and perhaps
killed, by some animal of prey. To satisfy himself on this point
he began to search for it, and while thus engaged the
cow</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-4.jpg" alt="h1-4.jpg" class="c15">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15">Puma killed by
Cow.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">repeatedly charged
him with the greatest fury. Presently he discovered the calf
lying dead among the long grass; and by its side lay a full-grown
puma, also dead, and with a large wound in its side, just behind
the shoulder. The calf had been killed by the puma, for its
throat showed the wounds of large teeth, and the puma had been
killed by the cow. When he saw it he could, he affirmed, scarcely
believe the evidence of his own senses, for was an unheard-of
thing that a puma should be</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">4O <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">injured by any other
animal. His opinion was that it had come down from the hills in a
starving condition, and having sprung upon the calf, the taste of
blood had made it for a moment careless of its own safety, and
during that moment the infuriated cow had charged, and driving
one of her long sharp horns into some vital part, killed it
instantly.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The puma is, with
the exception of some monkeys, the most playful animal in
existence. The young of all the Felidae spend a large portion of
their time in characteristic gambols; the adults, however,
acquire a grave and dignified demeanour, only the female playing
on occasions with her offspring; but this she always does with a
certain formality of manner, as if the relaxation were indulged
in not spontaneously, but for the sake of the young and as being
a necessary part of their education. Some writer has described
the lion's assumption of gaiety as more grim than its most
serious moods. The puma at heart is always a kitten, taking
unmeasured delight in its frolics, and when, as often happens,
one lives alone in the desert, it will amuse itself by the hour
fighting mock battles or playing at hide-and-seek with imaginary
companions, and lying in wait and putting all its wonderful
strategy in practice to capture a passing butterfly. Azara kept a
young male for four months, which spent its whole time playing
with the slaves. This animal, he says, would not refuse any food
offered to it; but when not hungry it would bury the meat in the
sand, and when inclined to eat dig it up, and, taking it to the
water-trough, wash it clean. I have only known one puma kept as a
pet, and this animal, in seven</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> <b>41</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">or eight years had
never shown a trace of ill-temper. When approached, he would lie
down, purring loudly, and twist himself about a person's legs,
begging to be caressed. A string or handkerchief drawn about was
sufficient to keep him in a happy state of excitement for an
hour; and when one person was tired of playing with him he was
ready for a game with the next comer.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I was told by a
person who had spent most of his life on the pampas that on one
occasion, when travelling in the neighbourhood of Cape
Corrientes, his horse died under him, and he was compelled to
continue his journey on foot, burdened with his heavy native
horse-gear. At night he made his bed under the shelter of a rock,
on the slope of a stony sierra; a bright moon was shining, and
about nine o'clock in the evening four pumas appeared, two adults
with their two half-grown young. Not feeling the least alarm at
their presence, he did not stir; and after a while they began to
gambol together close to him, concealing themselves from each
other among the rocks, just as kittens do, and frequently while
pursuing one another leaping over him. He continued watching them
until past midnight, then fell asleep, and did not wake until
morning, when they had left him.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">This man was an
Englishman by birth, but having gone very young to South America
he had taken kindly to the semi-barbarous life of the gauchos,
and had imbibed all their peculiar notions, one of which is that
human life is not worth very much. "What does it matter?" they
often say,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">42 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">and shrug their
shoulders, when told of a comrade's death; "so many beautiful
horses die!" I asked him if he had ever killed a puma, and he
replied that he had killed only one and had sworn never to kill
another. He said that while out one day with another gaucho
looking for cattle a puma was found. It sat up with its back
against a stone, and did not move even when his companion threw
the noose of his lasso over its neck. My informant then
dismounted, and, drawing his knife, advanced to kill it: still
the puma made no attempt to free itself from the lasso, but it
seemed to know, he said, what was coming, for it began to
tremble, the tears ran from its eyes, and it whined in the most
pitiful manner. He killed it as it sat there unresisting before
him, but after accomplishing the deed felt that he had committed
a murder. It was the only thing ho had ever done in his life, he
added, which filled him with remorse when he remembered it. This
I thought a rather startling declaration, as I knew that he had
killed several individuals of his own species in duels, fought
with knives, in the fashion of the gauchos.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">All who have killed
or witnessed the killing of the puma--and I have questioned
scores of hunters on this point--agree that it resigns itself in
this unresisting, pathetic manner to death at the hands of man.
Claudio Gay, in his <i>Natural History of Chili,</i> says, "When
attacked by man its energy and daring at once forsake it, and it
becomes a weak, inoffensive animal, and trembling, and uttering
piteous moans, and shedding abundant tears, it seems to implore
compassion from a generous</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 43</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">enemy." The enemy is
not often generous; but many gauchos have assured me, when
speaking on this subject, that although they kill the puma
readily to protect their domestic animals, they consider it an
evil thing to take its life in desert places, where it is man's
only friend among the wild animals.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">When the hunter is
accompanied by dogs, then the puma, instead of drooping and
shedding tears, is roused to a sublime rage: its hair stands
erect; its eyes shine like balls of green flame; it spits and
snarls like a furious torn cat. The hunter's presence seems at
such times to be ignored altogether, its whole attention being
given to the dogs and its rage directed against them. In
Patagonia a sheep-farming Scotchman, with whom I spent some days,
showed me the skulls of five pumas which he had shot in the
vicinity of his ranche. One was of an exceptionally large
individual, and I here relate what he told me of his encounter
with this animal, as it shows just how the puma almost invariably
behaves when attacked by man and dogs. He was out on foot with
his flock, when the dogs discovered the animal concealed among
the bushes. He had left his gun at home, and having no weapon,
and finding that the dogs dared not attack it where it sat in a
defiant attitude with its back against a thorny bush, he looked
about and found a large dry stick, and going boldly up to it
tried to stun it with a violent blow on the head. But though it
never looked at him, its fiery eyes gazing steadily at the dogs
all the time, he could not hit it, for with a quick side movement
it avoided every blow. The small heed the puma paid him, and the
apparent</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">44 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ease with which it
avoided his best-aimed blows, only served to rouse his spirit,
and at length striking with increased force his stick came to the
ground and was broken to pieces. For some moments he now stood
within two yards of the animal perfectly defenceless and not
knowing what to do. Suddenly it sprang past him, actually
brushing against his arm with its side, and began pursuing the
dogs round and round among the bushes. In the end my informant's
partner appeared on the scene with his rifle, and the puma was
shot.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In encounters of
this kind the most curious thing is that the puma steadfastly
refuses to recognize an enemy in man, although it finds him
acting in concert with its hated canine foe, about whose hostile
intentions it has no such delusion.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Several years ago a
paragraph, which reached me in South America, appeared in the
English papers relating an incident characteristic of the puma in
a wild beast show in this country. The animal was taken out of
its cage and led about the grounds by its keeper, followed by a
large number of spectators. Suddenly it was struck motionless by
some object in the crowd, at which it gazed steadily with a look
of intense excitement; then springing violently away it dragged
the chain from the keeper's hand and dashed in among the people,
who immediately fled screaming in all directions. Their fears
were, however, idle, the object of the puma's rage being a dog
which it had spied among the crowd.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is said that when
taken adult pumas invariably pine away and die; when brought up
in captivity</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 45</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">they invariably make
playful, affectionate pets, and are gentle towards all human
beings, but very seldom overcome their instinctive animosity
towards the dog.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">One of the very few
authentic instances I have met with of this animal defending
itself against a human being was related to me at a place on the
pampas called Saladillo. At the time of my visit there jaguars
and pumas were very abundant and extremely destructive to the
cattle and horses. Sheep it had not yet been considered worth
while to introduce, but immense herds of pigs were kept at every
estancia, these animals being able to protect themselves. One
gaucho had so repeatedly distinguished himself by his boldness
and dexterity in killing jaguars that he was by general consent
made the leader of every tiger-hunt. One day the comandante of
the district got twelve or fourteen men together, the
tiger-slayer among them, and started in search of a jaguar which
had been seen that morning in the neighbourhood of his estancia.
The animal was eventually found and surrounded, and as it was
crouching among some clumps of tall pampas grass, where throwing
a lasso over its neck would be a somewhat difficult and dangerous
operation, all gave way to the famous hunter, who at once
uncoiled his lasso and proceeded in a leisurely manner to form
the loop. While thus engaged he made the mistake of allowing his
horse, which had grown restive, to turn aside from the hunted
animal. The jaguar, instantly taking advantage of the oversight,
burst from its cover and sprang first on to the haunches of the
horse, then seizing the hunter by</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">46 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">his poncho dragged
him to the earth, and would no doubt have quickly despatched him
if a lasso, thrown by one of the other men, had not closed round
its neck at this critical moment. It was quickly dragged off, and
eventually killed. But the discomfited hunter did not stay to
assist at the finish. He arose from the ground unharmed, but in a
violent passion and blaspheming horribly, for he knew that his
reputation, which he priced above everything, had suffered a
great blow, and that he would be mercilessly ridiculed by his
associates. Getting on his horse he rode away by himself from the
scene of his misadventure. Of what happened to him on his
homeward ride there were no witnesses; but his own account was as
follows, and inasmuch as it told against his own prowess it was
readily believed: Before riding a league, and while his bosom was
still burning with rage, a puma started up from the long grass in
his path, but made no attempt to run away; it merely sat up, he
said, and looked at him in a provokingly fearless manner. To slay
this animal with his knife, and so revenge himself on it for the
defeat he had just suffered, was his first thought. He alighted
and secured his horse by tying its fore feet together, then,
drawing his long, heavy knife, rushed at the puma. Still it did
not stir. Raising his weapon he struck with a force which would
have split the animal's skull open if the blow had fallen where
it was intended to fall, but with a quick movement the puma
avoided it, and at the same time lifted a foot and with lightning
rapidity dealt the aggressor a blow on the face, its unsheathed
claws literally dragging down the flesh</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 47</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">from his cheek,
laying the bone bare. After inflicting this terrible punishment
and eyeing its fallen foe for a few seconds it trotted quietly
away. The wounded man succeeded in getting on to his horse and
reaching his home. The hanging flesh was restored to its place
and the ghastly rents sewn up, and in the end he recovered: but
he was disfigured for life; his temper also completely changed;
he became morose and morbidly sensitive to the ridicule of his
neighbours, and he never again ventured to join them in their
hunting expeditions. I inquired of the comandante, and of others,
whether any case had come to their knowledge in that district in
which the puma had shown anything beyond a mere passive
friendliness towards man; in reply they related the following
incident, which had occurred at the Saladillo a few years before
my visit: The men all went out one day beyond the frontier to
form a <i>cerco,</i> as it is called, to hunt ostriches and other
game. The hunters, numbering about thirty, spread themselves
round in a vast ring and, advancing towards the centre, drove the
animals before them. During the excitement of the chase which
followed, while they were all engaged in preventing the
ostriches, deer, &amp;c., from doubling back and escaping, it was
not noticed that one of the hunters had disappeared; his horse,
however, returned to its home during the evening, and on the next
morning a fresh hunt for the lost man was organized. He was
eventually found lying on the ground with a broken leg, where he
had been thrown at the beginning of the hunt. He related that
about an hour after it had become dark a puma</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">48 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">appeared and sat
near him, but did not seem to notice him. After a while it became
restless, frequently going away and returning, and finally it
kept away so long, that he thought it had left him for good.
About midnight he heard the deep roar of a jaguar, and gave
himself up for lost. By raising himself on his elbow he was able
to see the outline of the beast crouching near him, but its face
was turned from him, and it appeared to be intently watching some
object on which it was about to spring. Presently it crept out of
sight, then he heard snarlings and growlings and the sharp yell
of a puma, and he knew that the two beasts were fighting. Before
morning he saw the jaguar several times, but the puma renewed the
contest with it again and again until morning appeared, after
which he saw and heard no more of them.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Extraordinary as
this story sounds, it did not seem so to me when I heard it, for
I had already met with many anecdotes of a similar nature in
various parts of the country, some of them vastly more
interesting than the one I have just narrated; only I did not get
them at first hand, and am consequently not able to vouch for
their accuracy; but in this case it seemed to me that there was
really no room for doubt. All that I had previously heard had
compelled me to believe that the puma really does possess a
unique instinct of friendliness for man, the origin of which,
like that of many other well-known instincts of animals, must
remain a mystery. The fact that the puma never makes an
unprovoked attack on a human being, or eats human flesh, and that
it refuses, except in some very rare cases, even</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<img src="images/h1-5.jpg" alt="h1-5.jpg" class="c16">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font11">PUMA ATTACKING
JAGUAR.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font11">[Page 48.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 49</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">to defend itself,
does not seem really less wonderful in an animal of its bold and
sanguinary temper thau that it should follow the traveller in the
wilderness, or come near him when he lies sleeping or disabled,
and even occasionally defend him from its enemy the jaguar. We
know that certain sounds, colours, or smells, which are not
particularly noticed by most animals, produce an extraordinary
effect on some species; and it is possible to believe, I think,
that the human form or countenance, or the odour of the human
body, may also have the effect on the puma of suspending its
predatory instincts and inspiring it with a gentleness towards
man, which we are only accustomed to see in our domesticated
carnivores or in feral animals towards those of their own
species. Wolves, when pressed with hunger, will sometimes devour
a fellow wolf; as a rule, however, rapacious animals will starve
to death rather than prey on one of their own kind, nor is it a
common thing for them to attack other species possessing
instincts similar to their own. The puma, we have seen, violently
attacks other large carnivores, not to feed on them, but merely
to satisfy its animosity; and, while respecting man, it is,
within the tropics, a great hunter and eater of monkeys, which of
all animals most resemble men. We can only conclude with Humboldt
that there is something mysterious in the hatreds and affections
of animals.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The view here taken
of the puma's character imparts, I think, a fresh interest to
some things concerning the species, which have appeared
in</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">50 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">historical and
other works, and which I propose to discuss briefly in this
place.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">There is a
remarkable passage in Byron's <i>Narrative of the loss of the
Wager,</i> which was quoted by Admiral Fitzroy in his <i>Voyage
of the Beagle,</i> to prove that tho puma inhabits Tierra del
Fuego and the adjacent islands; no other large beast of prey
being known in that part of America. "I heard," he says, "a
growling close by me, which made me think it advisable to retire
as soon as possible: the woods were, so gloomy I could see
nothing; but, as I retired, this noise followed me close till I
got out of them. Some of our men did assure me that they had seen
a very large beast in the woods. . . I proposed to four of the
people to go to the end of the bay, about two miles distant from
the bell tent, to occupy the skeleton of an old Indian wigwam,
which I had discovered in a walk that way on our first landing.
This we covered to windward with seaweed; and, lighting a fire,
laid ourselves down in hopes of finding a remedy for our hunger
in sleep; but we had not long composed ourselves before one of
our company was disturbed by the blowing of some animal at his
face; and, upon opening his eyes, was not a little astonished to
see by the glimmering of the fire, a large beast standing over
him. He had presence of mind enough to snatch a brand from the
fire, which was now very low, and thrust it at the nose of tho
animal, which thereupon made off. . . . In the morning we were
not a little anxious to know how our companions had fared; and
this anxiety was increased upon our tracing the footsteps of
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 51</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">beast in the sand,
in a direction towards the bell tent. The impression was deep and
plain, of a large round foot well furnished with claws. Upon
acquainting the people in the tent with the circumstances of our
story, we found that they had been visited by the same unwelcome
guest."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Mr. Andrew Murray,
in his work on the Geographical Distribution of Mammals, gives
the Straits of Magellan as the extreme southern limit of the
puma's range, and in discussing the above passage from Byron he
writes: "This reference, however, gives no support to the notion
of the animal alluded to having been a puma. . . . The
description of the footprints clearly shows that the animal could
not have been a puma. None of the cat tribe leave any trace of a
claw in their footprints. . . .The dogs, on the other hand, leave
a very well-defined claw-mark. . . . Commodore Byron and his
party had therefore suffered a false alarm. The creature which
had disturbed them was, doubtless, one of the harmless domestic
dogs of the natives."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The assurance that
the bold hardy adventurer and his men suffered a false alarm, and
were thrown into a great state of excitement at the appearance of
one of the wretched domestic dogs of the Fuegians, with which
they were familiar, comes charmingly, it must be said, from a
closet naturalist, who surveys the world of savage beasts from
his London study. He apparently forgets that Commodore Byron
lived in a time when the painful accuracy and excessive
minuteness we are accustomed to was not expected from a writer,
whenever he happened to touch on any matters connected with
zoology.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">52 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">This kind of
criticism, which seizes on a slight inaccuracy in one passage,
and totally ignores an important statement in another--as, for
instance, that of the "great beast" seen in the woods--might be
extended to other portions of the book, and Byron's entire
narrative made to appear as purely a work of the imagination as
Peter Wilkin's adventures in those same antarctic
seas.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Mr. J. W. Boddam
Whetham, in his work <i>Across Central America</i> (1877), gives
an anecdote of the puma, which he heard at Sacluk, in Guatemala,
and which strangely resembles some of the stories I have heard on
the pampas. He writes: "The following event, most extraordinary
if true, is said to have occurred in this forest to a
mahogany-cutter, who had been out marking trees. As he was
returning to his hut, he suddenly felt a soft body pressing
against him, and on looking down saw a cougar, which, with tail
erect, and purring like a cat, twisted itself in and out of his
legs, and glided round him, turning up its fierce eyes as if with
laughter. Horror-stricken and with faltering steps he kept on,
and the terrible animal still circled about, now rolling over,
and now touching him with a paw like a cat playing with a mouse.
At last the suspense became too great, and with a loud shout he
struck desperately at the creature with his axe. It bounded on
one side and crouched snarling and showing its teeth. Just as it
was about to spring, the man's companion, who had heard his call,
appeared in the distance, and with a growl the beast vanished
into the thick bushes."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Now, after allowing
for exaggeration, if there is</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 53</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">no foundation for
stories of this character, it is really a very wonderful
coincidence that they should be met with in countries so widely
separated as Patagonia and Central America. Pumas, doubtless, are
scarce in Guatemala; and, as in other places where they have met
with nothing but persecution from man, they are shy of him; but
had this adventure occurred on the pampas, where they are better
known, the person concerned in it would not have said that the
puma played with him as a cat with a mouse, but rather as a tame
cat plays with a child; nor, probably, would he have been
terrified into imagining that the animal, even after its caresses
had met with so rough a return, was about to spring on
him.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In Clavigero's
<i>History of Lower California,</i> it is related that a very
extraordinary state of things was discovered to exist in that
country by the first missionaries who settled there at the end of
the seventeenth century, and which was actually owing to the
pumas. The author says that there were no bears or tigers
(jaguars); these had most probably been driven out by their old
enemies; but the pumas had increased to a prodigious extent, so
that the whole peninsula was overrun by them; and this was owing
to the superstitious regard in which they were held by the
natives, who not only did not kill them, but never ventured to
disturb them in any way. The Indians were actually to some extent
dependent on the puma's success in hunting for their subsistence;
they watched the movements of the vultures in order to discover
the spot in which the remains of any animal it had captured had
been</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">54 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">left by the puma,
and whenever the birds were seen circling about persistently over
one place, they hastened to take possession of the carcass,
discovered in this way. The domestic animals, imported by the
missionaries, were quickly destroyed by the virtual masters of
the country, and against these enemies the Jesuits preached a
crusade in vain: for although the Indians readily embraced
Christianity and were baptized, they were not to be shaken in
their notions concerning the sacred <i>Chimbic&aacute;,</i> as
the puma was called. The missions languished in consequence; the
priests existed in a state of semi-starvation, depending on
provisions sent to them at long intervals from the distant
Mexican settlements; and for many years all their efforts to
raise the savages from their miserable condition were thrown
away. At length, in 1701, the mission of Loreto was taken charge
of by one Padre Ugarte, described by Clavigero as a person of
indomitable energy, and great physical strength and courage, a
true muscular Christian, who occasionally varied his method of
instruction by administering corporal chastisements to his
hearers when they laughed at his doctrines, or at the mistakes he
made in their language, while preaching to them. Ugarte, like his
predecessors, could not move the Indians to hunt the puma, but he
was a man of action, with a wholesome belief in the efficacy of
example, and his opportunity came at last.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">One day, while
riding in the wood, he saw at a distance a puma walking
deliberately towards him. Alighting from his mule, he took up a
large stone and advanced to meet the animal, and when</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America.</i> 55</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">sufficiently near
hurled the missile with such precision and force that he knocked
ifc down senseless. After killing it, he found that the heaviest
part of his task remained, as it was necessary for the success of
his project to carry the beast, still warm and bleeding, to the
Indian village; but mow his mule steadfastly refused to approach
it. Father Ugarte was not, however, to be defeated, and partly by
stratagem, partly by force, he finally succeeded in getting the
puma on to the mule's back, after which he rode in triumph to the
settlement. The Indians at first thought it all a trick of their
priest, who was so anxious to involve them in a conflict with the
pumas, and standing at a distance they began jeering at him, and
exclaiming that he had found the animal dead! But when they were
induced to approach, and saw that it was still warm and bleeding,
they were astonished beyond measure, and began to watch the
priest narrowly, thinking that he would presently drop down and
die in sight of them all. It was their belief that death would
quickly overtake the slayer of a puma. As this did not happen,
the priest gained a great influence over them, and in the end
they were persuaded to turn their weapons against the
Chimbic&aacute;.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Clavigero has
nothing to say concerning the origin of this Californian
superstition; but with some knowledge of the puma's character, it
is not difficult to imagine what it may have been. No doubt these
savages had been very well acquainted from ancient times with the
animal's instinct of friendliness toward man, and its extreme
hatred of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">56 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">other carnivores,
which prey on the human species; and finding it ranged on their
side, as it were, in the hard struggle of life in the desert,
they were induced to spare it, and even to regard it as a friend;
and such a feeling, among primitive men, might in the course of
time degenerate into such a superstition as that of the
Californians.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I shall, in
conclusion, relate here the story of Maldonada, which is not
generally known, although familiar to Buenos Ayreans as the story
of Lady Godiva's ride through Coventry is to the people of that
town. The case of Maldonada is circumstantially narrated by Rui
Diaz de Guzman, in his history of the colonization of the Plata:
he was a person high in authority in the young colonies, and is
regarded by students of South American history as an accurate and
sober-minded chronicler of the events of his own times. He
relates that in the year 1536 the settlers at Buenos Ayres,
having exhausted their provisions, and being compelled by hostile
Indians to keep within their pallisades, were reduced to the
verge of starvation. The Governor Mendoza went off to seek help
from the other colonies up the river, deputing his authority to
one Captain Ruiz, who, according to all accounts, displayed an
excessively tyrannous and truculent disposition while in power.
The people were finally reduced to a ration of sis ounces of
flour per day for each person; but as the flour was putrid and
only made them ill, they were forced to live on any small animals
they could capture, including snakes, frogs and toads. Some
horrible details are given by Rui Diaz, and other writers; one,
Del Barco</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Puma, or Lion of
America</i> 57</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Centenera, affirms
that of two thousand persons in the town eighteen hundred
perished of hunger. During this unhappy time, beasts of prey in
large numbers were attracted to the settlement by the effluvium
of the corpses, buried just outside the pallisades; and this made
the condition of the survivors more miserable still, since they
could venture into the neighbouring woods only at the risk of a
violent death. Nevertheless, many did so venture, and among these
was the young woman Maldonada, who, losing herself in the forest,
strayed to a distance, and was eventually found by a party of
Indians, and carried by them to their village.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Some months later,
Captain Ruiz discovered her whereabouts, and persuaded the
savages to bring her to the settlement; then, accusing her of
having gone to the Indian village in order to betray the colony,
he condemned her to be devoured by wild beasts. She was taken to
a wood at a distance of a league from the town, and left there,
tied to a tree, for the space of two nights and a day. A party of
soldiers then went to the spot, expecting to find her bones
picked clean by the beasts, but were greatly astonished to find
Maldonada still alive, without hurt or scratch. She told them
that a puma had come to her aid, and had kept at her side,
defending her life against all the other beasts that approached
her. She was instantly released, and taken back to the town, her
deliverance through the action of the puma probably being looked
on as direct interposition of Providence to save her.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Rui Diaz concludes
with the following paragraph, in which he affirms that he knew
the woman Mal-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">58 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">donada, which may be
taken as proof that she was among the few that survived the first
disastrous settlement and lived on to more fortunate times: his
pious pun on her name would be lost in a translation:--"De esta
manera qued&oacute; libre la que ofrecieron a las fieras: la cual
mujer yo la conoc&iacute;, y la llamaban la Maldonada, que mas
bien se le pod&iacute;a llamar la BIENDONADA; pues por este
suceso se ha de ver no haber merecido el castigo &aacute; que la
ofrecieron."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">If such a thing were
to happen now, in any portion of southern South America, where
the puma's disposition is best known, it would not be looked on
as a miracle, as it was, and that unavoidably, in the case of
Maldonada.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER III.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">A WAVE OF
LIFE,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">FOR many years,
while living in my own home on the pampas, I kept a journal, in
which all my daily observations on the habits of animals and
kindred matters were carefully noted. Turning back to 1872-3, I
find my jottings for that season contain a history of one of
those waves of life--for I can think of no better name for the
phenomenon in question--that are of such frequent occurrence in
thinly-settled regions, though in countries like England, seen
very rarely, and on a very limited scale. An exceptionally
bounteous season, the accidental mitigation of a check, or other
favourable circumstance, often causes an increase so sudden and
inordinate of small prolific species, that when we actually
witness it we are no longer surprised at the notion prevalent
amongst the common people that mice, frogs, crickets, &amp;c.,
are occasionally rained down from the clouds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the summer of
1872-3 we had plenty of sunshine, with frequent showers; so that
the hot months brought no dearth of wild flowers, as in most
years. The abundance of flowers resulted in a wonderful increase
of humble bees. I have never known them so plentiful before; in
and about the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">6o <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">plantation
adjoining my house I found, during the season, no fewer than
seventeen nests.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The season was also
favourable for mice; that is, of course, favourable for the time
being, unfavourable in the long run, since the short-lived, undue
preponderance of a species is invariably followed by a long
period of undue depression. These prolific little creatures were
soon so abundant that the dogs subsisted almost exclusively on
them; the fowls also, from incessantly pursuing and killing them,
became quite rapacious in their manner; whilst the sulphur
tyrant-birds (Pitangus) and the Guira cuckoos preyed on nothing
but mice.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The domestic cats,
as they invariably do in such plentiful seasons, absented
themselves from the house, assuming all the habits of their wild
congeners, and slinking from the sight of man--even of a former
fireside companion--with a shy secrecy in their motions, an
apparent affectation of fear, almost ludicrous to see. Foxes,
weasels, and opossums fared sumptuously. Even for the common
armadillo (Dasypus villosus) it was a season of affluence, for
this creature is very adroit in capturing mice. This fact might
seem surprising to anyone who marks the uncouth figure, toothless
gums, and the motions --anything but light and graceful--of the
armadillo and perhaps fancying that, to be a dexterous mouser, an
animal should bear some resemblance in habits and structure to
the felidas. But animals, like men, are compelled to adapt
themselves to their surroundings; new habits are acquired, and
the exact co-relation between habit and structure is seldom
maintained.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>A Wave of Life,</i>
61 '</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I kept an armadillo
at this time, and good cheer and the sedentary life he led in
captivity made him excessively fat; but the mousing exploits of
even this individual were most interesting. Occasionally I took
him into the fields to give him a taste of liberty, though at
such times I always took the precaution to keep hold of a cord
fastened to one of his hind legs; for as often as he came to a
kennel of one of his wild fellows, he would attempt to escape
into it. He invariably travelled with an ungainly trotting gait,
carrying his nose, beagle-like, close to the ground. His sense of
smell was exceedingly acute, and when near his prey he became
agitated, and quickened his motions, pausing frequently to sniff
the earth, till, discovering the exact spot where the mouse
lurked, he would stop and creep cautiously to it; then, after
slowly raising himself to a sitting posture, spring suddenly
forwards, throwing his body like a trap over the mouse, or nest
of mice, concealed beneath the grass.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">A curious instance
of intelligence in a cat was brought to my notice at this time by
one of my neighbours, a native. His children had made the
discovery that some excitement and fun was to be had by placing a
long hollow stalk of the giant thistle with a mouse in it--and
every hollow stalk at this time had one for a tenant--before a
cat, and then watching her movements. Smelling her prey, she
would spring at one end of the stalk--the end towards which the
mouse would be moving at the same time, but would catch nothing,
for the mouse, instead of running out, would turn back to run to
the other end; whereupon the cat, all excitement,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">62 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">would jump there to
seize it; and so the contest would continue for a long time, an
exhibition of the cleverness and the stupidity of instinct, both
of the pursuer and the pursued. There were several cats at the
house, and all acted in the same way except one. When a stalk was
placed before this cat, instead of becoming excited like the
others, it went quickly to one end and smelt' at the opening,
then, satisfied that its prey was inside, it deliberately bit a
long piece out of the stalk with its teeth, then another strip,
and so on progressively, until the entire stick had been opened
up to within six or eight inches of the further end, when the
mouse came out and was caught. Every stalk placed before this cat
was demolished in the same businesslike way; but the other cats,
though they were made to look on while the stick was being broken
up by their fellow, could never learn the trick.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In the autumn of
the year countless numbers of storks (Ciconia maguari) and of
short-eared owls (Otus brachyotus) made their appearance. They
had also come to assist at the general feast.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Remembering the
opinion of Mr. E. Newman, quoted by Darwin, that two-thirds of
the humble bees in England are annually destroyed by mice, I
determined to continue observing these insects, in order to
ascertain whether the same thing occurred on the pampas. I
carefully revisited all the nests I had found, and was amazed at
the rapid disappearance of all the bees. I was quite convinced
that the mice had devoured or driven them out, for the weather
was still warm, and flowers and fruit on which humble bees feed
were very abundant.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>A Wave of Life.</i>
63</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">After cold weather
set in the storks went away, probably on account of the scarcity
of water, for the owls remained. So numerous were they during the
winter, that any evening after sunset I could count forty or
fifty individuals hovering over the trees about my house.
Unfortunately they did not confine their attentions to the mice,
but became destructive to the birds as well. I frequently watched
them at dusk, beating about the trees and bushes in a systematic
manner, often a dozen or more of them wheeling together about one
tree, like so many moths about a candle, and one occasionally
dashing through the branches until a pigeon--usually the Zenaida
maculata--or other bird was scared from its perch. The instant
the bird left the tree they would all give chase, disappearing in
the darkness. I could not endure to see the havoc they were
making amongst the ovenbirds (Furnarius rufus--a species for
which I have a regard and affection almost superstitious), so I
began to shoot the marauders. Very soon, however, I found it was
impossible to protect my little favourites. Night after night the
owls mustered in their usual numbers, so rapidly were the gaps I
made in their ranks refilled. I grew sick of the cruel war in
which I had so hopelessly joined, and resolved, not without pain,
to let things take their course. A singular circumstance was that
the owls began to breed in the middle of winter. The
field-labourers and boys found many nests with eggs and young
birds in the neighbourhood. I saw one nest in July, our coldest
month, with three half-grown young birds in it. They were
excessively fat, and, though it</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">64 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata*</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">was noon-day, had
their crops full. There were three mice and two young
cav&iacute;es (Cavia australis) lying untouched in the
nest.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The short-eared owl
is of a wandering disposition, ard performs long journeys at all
seasons of the year in search of districts where food is
abundant; and perhaps these winter-breeders came from a region
where scarcity of prey, or some such cause, had prevented them
from nesting at their usual time in summer.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The gradual
increase or decrease continually going on in many species about
us is little remarked; but the sudden infrequent appearance in
vast numbers of large and comparatively rare species is regarded
by most people as a very wonderful phenomenon, not easily
explained. On the pampas, whenever grasshoppers, mice, frogs or
crickets become excessively abundant we confidently look for the
appearance of multitudes of the birds that prey on them. However
obvious may be the cause of the first phenomenon--the sudden
inordinate increase during a favourable year of a species always
prolific--the attendant one always creates astonishment: For how,
it is asked, do these largo birds, seldom seen at other times,
receive information in the distant regions they inhabit of an
abundance of food in any particular locality? Years have perhaps
passed during which, scarcely an individual of these kinds has
been seen: all at once armies of the majestic white storks are
seen conspicuously marching about the plain in all directions;
while the night air resounds with the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>A Wave of Life.</i>
65</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">solemn hootings of
innumerable owls. It is plain that these birds have been drawn
from over an immense area to one spot; and the question is how
have they been drawn?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Many large birds
possessing great powers of flight are, when not occupied with the
business of propagation, incessantly wandering from place to
place in search of food. They are not, as a rule, regular
migrants, for their wanderings begin and end irrespective of
seasons, and where they find abundance they remain the whole
year. They fly at a very great height, and traverse immense
distances. When the favourite food of any one of these species is
plentiful in any particular region all the individuals that
discover it remain, and attract to them all of their kind passing
overhead. This happens on the pampas with the stork, the
short-eared owl, the hooded gull and the dominican or
black-backed gull--the leading species among the feathered
nomads: a few first appear like harbingers; these are presently
joined by new comers in considerable numbers, and before long
they are in myriads. Inconceivable numbers of birds are,
doubtless, in these regions, continually passing over us unseen.
It was once a subject of very great wonder to me that flocks of
black-necked swans should almost always appear flying by
immediately after a shower of rain, even when none had been
visible for a long time before, and when they must have come from
a very great distance. When the reason at length occurred to me,
I felt very much disgusted with myself for being puzzled over so
very simple a matter. After rain a flying swan</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">P</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">66</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">may be visible to
the eye at a vastly greater distance than during fair weather;
the sun shining on its intense white plumage against the dark
background of a rain-cloud making it exceedingly conspicuous. The
fact that swans are almost always seen after rain shows only that
they are almost always passing.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Whenever we are
visited by a dust-storm on the pampas myriads of hooded
gulls--Larus macnlipen-nis--appear flying before the dark
dust-cloud, even when not a gull has been seen for months.
Dust-storms are of rare occurrence, and come only after a long
drought, and, the water-courses being all dry, the gulls cannot
have been living in the region over which the storm passes. Yet
in seasons of drought gulls must be continually passing by at a
great height, seeing but not seen, except when driven together
and forced towards the earth by the fury of the storm.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">By August (1873)
the owls had vanished, and they had, indeed, good cause for
leaving. The winter had been one of continued drought; the dry
grass and herbage of the preceding year had been consumed by the
cattle and wild animals, or had turned to dust, and with the
disappearance of their food and cover the mice had ceased to be.
The famine-stricken cats sneaked back to the house. It was
pitiful to see the little burrowing owls; for these birds, not
having the powerful wings and prescient instincts of the vagrant
Otus brachyotus, are compelled to face the poverty from which the
others escape. Just as abundance had before made</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>A Wave of Life.</i>
67</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">the domestic cats
wild, scarcity now made the burrowing owls tame and fearless of
man. They were so reduced as scarcely to be able to fly, and hung
about the houses all day long on the look-out for some stray
morsel of food. I have frequently seen one alight and advance
within two or three yards of the door-step, probably attracted by
the smell of roasted meat. The weather continued dry until late
in spring, so reducing the sheep and cattle that incredible
numbers perished during a month of cold and rainy weather that
followed the drought.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">How clearly we can
see in all this that the tendency to multiply rapidly, so
advantageous in normal seasons, becomes almost fatal to a species
in seasons of exceptional abundance. Cover and food without limit
enabled the mice to increase at such an amazing rate that the
lesser checks interposed by predatory species were for a while
inappreciable. But as the mice increased, so did their enemies.
Insectivorous and other species acquired the habits of owls and
weasels, preying exclusively on them; while to this innumerable
army of residents was shortly added multitudes of wandering birds
coming from distant regions. No sooner had the herbage perished,
depriving the little victims of cover and food, than the effects
of the war became apparent. In autumn the earth so teemed with
them that one could scarcely walk anywhere without treading on
mice; while out of every hollow weed-stalk lying on the ground
dozens could be shaken; but so rapidly had they devoured, by the
trained army of persecutors, p 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font25">68</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">that in spring it
was hard to find a survivor, even in the barns and houses. The
fact that species tend to increase in a geometrical ratio makes
these great and sudden changes frequent in many regions of the
earth; but it is not often they present themselves so vividly as
in the foregoing instance, for here, scene after scene in one of
Nature's silent passionless tragedies opens before us, countless
myriads of highly organized beings rising into existence only to
perish almost immediately, scarcely a hard-pressed remnant
remaining after the great reaction to continue the
species.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER IV.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">SOME CURIOUS ANIMAL
WEAPONS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">STRICTLY speaking,
the only weapons of vertebrates are teeth, claws, horns, and
spurs. Horns belong only to the ruminants, and the spur is a rare
weapon. There are also many animals in which teeth and claws are
not suited to inflict injury, or in which the proper instincts
and courage to use and develop them are wanted; and these would
seem, to be in a very defenceless condition. Defenceless they are
in one sense, but as a fact they are no worse off than the
well-armed species, having either a protective colouring or a
greater swiftness or cunning to assist them in escaping from
their enemies. And there are also many of these practically
toothless and clawless species which have yet been provided with
other organs and means of offence and defence out of Nature's
curious armoury, and concerning a few of these species I propose
to speak in this place.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Probably such
distinctive weapons as horns, spurs, tusks and spines would be
much more common in nature if the conditions of life always
remained the same. But these things are long in fashioning;
meanwhile, conditions are changing; climate, soil, vegetation
vary; foes and rivals</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">70 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">diminish or
increase; the old go, and others with different weapons and a new
strategy take their place; and just as a skilful man "fighting
the wilderness" fashions a plough from a hunting-knife, turns his
implements into weapons of war, and for everything he possesses
discovers a use never contemplated by its maker, so does Nature
--only with an ingenuity exceeding that of man--use the means she
has to meet all contingencies, and enable her creatures,
seemingly so ill-provided, to maintain their fight for life.
Natural selection, like an angry man, can make a weapon of
anything; and, using the word in this wide sense, the mucous
secretions the huanaco discharges into the face of an adversary,
and the pestilential drops "distilled" by the skunk, are weapons,
and may be as effectual in defensive warfare as spines, fangs and
tushes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I do not know of a
more striking instance in the animal kingdom of adaptation of
structure to habit than is afforded by the hairy
armadillo--Dasypus villosus. He appears to us, roughly speaking,
to resemble an ant-eater saddled with a dish cover; yet this
creature, with the cunning Avhich Nature has given it to
supplement all deficiencies, has discovered in its bony
encumbrance a highly efficient weapon of offence. Most other
edentates are diurnal and almost exclusively insectivorous, some
feeding only on ants; they have unchangeable habits, very limited
intelligence, and vanish before civilization. The hairy armadillo
alone has struck out a line for itself. Like its fast
disappearing congeners, it is an insect-eater still,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Some curious Annual
Weapons. 71</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">but does not like
them seek its food on the surface and in the ant-hill only; all
kinds of insects are preyed on, and by means of its keen scent it
discovers worms and larvae several inches beneath the surface.
Its method of taking worms and grubs resembles that of probing
birds, for it throws up no earth, but forces its sharp snout and
wedge-shaped head down to the required depth; and probably while
working it moves round in a circle, for the hole is conical,
though the head of the animal is flat. Where it has found a rich
hunting-ground, the earth is seen pitted with hundreds of these
neat symmetrical bores. It is also an enemy to ground-nesting
birds, being fond of eggs and fledglings; and when unable to
capture prey it will feed on carrion as readily as a wild dog or
vulture, returning night after night to the carcase of a horse or
cow as long as the flesh lasts. Failing animal food, it subsists
on vegetable diet; and I have frequently found their stomachs
stuffed with clover, and, stranger still, with the large, hard
grains of the maize, swallowed entire.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is not,
therefore, strange that at all seasons, and even when other
animals are starving, the hairy armadillo is always fat and
vigorous. In the desert it is diurnal; but where man appears it
becomes more and more nocturnal, and in populous districts does
not go abroad until long after dark. Yet when a district becomes
thickly settled it increases in numbers; so readily does it adapt
itself to new conditions. It is not to be wondered at that the
gauchos, keen observers of nature as they are, should make this
species the hero of many of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">72 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">their fables of the
"Uncle Remus" type, representing it as a versatile creature,
exceedingly fertile in expedients, and duping its sworn friend
the fox in various ways, just as "Brer Rabbit" serves the fox in
the North American fables.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The hairy armadillo
will, doubtless, long survive all the other armadillos, and on
this account alone it will have an ever-increasing interest for
the naturalist. I have elsewhere described how it</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-6.jpg" alt="h1-6.jpg" class="c17">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Armadillo killing
Snake.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">captures mice; when
preying on snakes it proceeds in another manner. A friend of
mine, a careful observer, who was engaged in cattle-breeding
amongst the stony sierras near Cape Corrientes, described to me
an encounter he witnessed between an armadillo and a poisonous
snake. While seated on the hillside one day he observed a snake,
about twenty inches in length, lying coiled up on a stoue five or
six yards beneath him. By-and-by, a hairy</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Some curious Animal
Weapons.</i> 73</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">armadillo appeared
trotting directly towards it. Apparently the snake perceived and
feared its approach, for it quickly uncoiled itself and began
gliding away. Instantly the armadillo rushed on to it, and,
squatting close down, began swaying its body backward and forward
with a regular sawing motion, thus lacerating its victim with the
sharp, deep-cut edges of its bony covering. The snake struggled
to free itself, biting savagely at its aggressor, for its head
and neck were disengaged. Its bites made no impression, and very
soon it dropped its head, and when its enemy drew off, it was
dead and very much mangled. The armadillo at once began its meal,
taking the tail in its mouth and slowly progressing towards the
head; but when about a third of the snake still remained it
seemed satisfied, and, leaving that portion, trotted
away.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Altogether, in its
rapacious and varied habits this armadillo appears to have some
points of resemblance with the hedgehog; and possibly, like the
little European mammal it resembles, it is not harmed by the bite
of venomous snakes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I once had a cat
that killed every snake it found, purely for sport, since it
never ate them. It would jump nimbly round and across its victim,
occasionally dealing it a blow with its cruel claws. The enemies
of the snake are legion. Burrowing owls feed largely on them; so
do herons and storks, killing them with a blow of their javelin
beaks, and swallowing them entire. The sulphur tyrant-bird picks
up the young snake by the tail, and, flying to a branch or stone,
uses it like a flail till its life is battered out. The bird is
highly com-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font5">74</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">mended in
consequence, reminding one of very ancient words: "Happy shall he
be that taketh thy little ones and dasheth them against the
stones." In arraying such a variety of enemies against the snake,
nature has made ample amends for having endowed it with deadly
weapons. Besides, the power possessed by venomous snakes only
seems to us disproportionate; it is not really so, except in
occasional individual encounters. Venomous snakes are always
greatly outnumbered by non-venomous ones in the same district; at
any rate this is the case on the pampas. The greater activity of
the latter counts for more in the result than the deadly weapons
of the former.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The large teguexin
lizard of the pampas, called iguana by the country people, is a
notable snake-killer. Snakes have in fact, no more formidable
enemy, for he is quick to see, and swift to overtake them. He is
practically invulnerable, and deals them sudden death with his
powerful tail. The gauchos say that dogs attacking the iguana are
sometimes known to have their legs broken, and I do not doubt it.
A friend of mine was out riding one day after his cattle, and
having attached one end of his lasso to the saddle, He let it
trail on the ground. He noticed a large iguana lying apparently
asleep in the sun, and though he rode by it very closely, it did
not stir; but no sooner had he passed it, than it raised its
head, and fixed its attention on the forty feet of lasso slowly
trailing by. Suddenly it rushed after the rope, and dealt it a
succession of violent blows with its tail. When the whole of the
lasso, several yards of which had been pounded in vain, had
been</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Sonic curious Animal
Weapons.</i> 75</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">dragged by, the
lizard, with uplifted head, continued gazing after it with the
greatest astonishment. Never had such a wonderful snake crossed
its path before!</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Molina, in his
<i>Natural History of Chill,</i> says the vizcacha uses its tail
as a weapon; but then Molina is not always reliable. I have
observed vizcachas all my life, and never detected them making
use of any weapon except their chisel teeth. The tail is
certainly very curious, being straight at the base, then curving
up outwardly, and slightly down again at the tip, resembling the
spout of a china teapot. The under surface of the straight
portion of the base is padded with a thick, naked, corneous skin;
and, when the animal performs the curious sportive antics in
which it occasionally indulges, it gives rapid loud-sounding
blows on the ground with this part of the tail. The peculiar form
of the tail also makes it a capital support, enabling the
vizcacha to sit erect, with ease and security.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The frog is a most
timid, inoffensive creature, saving itself, when pursued, by a
series of saltatory feats unparalleled amongst vertebrates.
Consequently, when I find a frog, I have no hesitation in placing
my hands upon it, and the cold sensation it gives one is the
worse result I fear. It came to pass, however, that I once
encountered a frog that was not like other frogs, for it
possessed an instinct and weapons of offence which greatly
astonished me. I was out snipe shooting one day when, peering
into an old disused burrow, two or three feet deep, I perceived a
burly-looking frog sitting it. It was larger and stouter-looking
than</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><b>76</b> <i>The
Naturalist in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">our common Rana,
though like it in colour, and I at once dropped on to my knees
and set about its capture. Though it watched me attentively, the
frog remained perfectly motionless, and this greatly surprised
me. Before I was sufficiently near to make a grab, it sprang
straight at my hand, and, catching two of my fingers round with
its fore legs, administered a hug so sudden and violent as to
cause an acute sensation of pain; then, at the very instant I
experienced this feeling, which made me start back quickly, it
released its hold and bounded out and away. I flew after it, and
barely managed to overtake it before it could gain the water.
Holding it firmly pressed behind the shoulders, it was powerless
to attack me, and I then noticed the enormous development of the
muscles of the fore legs, usually small in frogs, bulging out in
this individual, like a second pair of thighs, and giving-it a
strangely bold and formidable appearance. On holding my gun
within its reach, it clasped the barrel with such energy as to
bruise the skin of its breast and legs. After allowing it to
partially exhaust itself in these fruitless huggings, I
experimented by letting it seize my hand again, and I noticed
that invariably after each squeeze it made a quick, violent
attempt to free itself. Believing that I had discovered a frog
differing in structure from all known species, and possessing a
strange unique instinct of self-preservation, I carried my
captive home, intending to show it to Dr. Burmeister, the
director of the National Museum at Buenos Ayres-Unfortunately,
after I had kept it some days, it effected its escape by pushing
up the glass cover of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>Some curious Animal
Weapons.</i> 77</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">its box, and I have
never since met with another individual like it. That this
singular frog has it in its power to seriously injure an opponent
is, of course, out of the question; but its unexpected attack
must be of great advantage. The effect of the sudden opening of
an umbrella in the face of an angry bull gives, I think, only a
faint idea of</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-7.jpg" alt="h1-7.jpg" class="c18">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Wrestler
Frog.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">the astonishment
and confusion it must cause an adversary by its leap, quick as
lightning, and the violent hug it administers; and in the
confusion it finds time to escape. I cannot for a moment believe
that an instinct so admirable, correlated as it is with the
structure of the fore legs, can be merely an individual
variation; and I confidently expect</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">78 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">that all I have
said about my lost frog will some day be confirmed by others.
Rana luctator would be a good name for this species.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The toad is a
slow-moving creature that puts itself in the way of persecution;
yet, strange to say, the acrid juice it exudes when irritated is
a surer protection to it than venomous fangs are to the deadliest
snake. Toads are, in fact, with a very few exceptions, only
attacked and devoured by snakes, by lizards, and by their own
venomous relative, Ceratophrys ornata. Possibly the cold sluggish
natures of all these creatures protects them against the toad's
secretion, which would be poison to most warm-blooded animals,
but I am not so sure that all fish enjoy a like immunity. I one
day noticed a good-sized fish (bagras) floating, belly upmost, on
the water. It had apparently just died, and had such a glossy,
well-nourished look about it, and appeared so full, I was curious
to know the cause of its death. On opening it I found its stomach
quite filled with a very large toad it had swallowed. The toad
looked perfectly fresh, not even a faint discoloration of the
skin showing that the gastric juices had begun to take effect;
the fish, in fact, must have died immediately after swallowing
the toad. The country people in South America believe that the
milky secretion exuded by the toad possesses wonderful curative
properties; it is their invariable specific for shingles--a
painful, dangerous malady common amongst them, and to cure it
living toads are applied to the inflamed parb. I dare say learned
physicians would laugh at this cure, but then, if I mistake not,
the learned have in past</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Some curious Animal
Weapons.</i> 79</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">times laughed at
other specifics used by the vulgar, but which now have honourable
places in the pharmacopoeia--pepsine, for example. More than two
centuries ago (very ancient times for South America) the gauchos
were accustomed to take the lining of the rhea's stomach, dried
and powdered, for ailments caused by impaired digestion; and the
remedy is popular still. Science has gone over to them, and the
ostrich-hunter now makes a double profit, one from the feathers,
and the other from the dried stomachs which he supplies to the
chemists of Buenos Ayres. Yet he was formerly told that to take
the stomach of the ostrich to improve his digestion was as wild
an idea as it would be to swallow birds' feathers in order to
fly.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I just now called
Ceratophrys ornata venomous, though its teeth are not formed to
inject poison into the veins, like serpents' teeth. It is a
singular creature, known as <i>escuerzo</i> in the vernacular,
and though beautiful in colour, is in form hideous beyond
description. The skin is of a rich brilliant green, with
chocolate-coloured patches, oval in form, and symmetrically
disposed. The lips are bright yellow, the cavernous mouth pale
flesh colour, the throat and under-surface dull white. The body
is lumpy, and about the size of a large man's fist. The eyes,
placed on the summit of a disproportionately large head, are
embedded in horn-like protuberances, capable of being elevated or
depressed at pleasure. When the creature is undisturbed, the
eyes, which are of a pale gold colour, look out <b>as</b> from a
couple of watch towers, but when touched on the head or menaced,
the prominences sink down</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font5">8o</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">to a level with the
head, closing the eyes completely, and giving the creature the
appearance of being eyeless. The upper jaw is armed with minute
teeth, and there are two teeth in the centre of the lower jaw,
the remaining portions of the jaw being armed with two
exceedingly sharp-edged bony plates. In place of a tongue, it has
a round</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-8.jpg" alt="h1-8.jpg" class="c19">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Ceratophrys
ornata.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">muscular process
with a rough flat disc the size of a halfpenny.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is common all
over the pampas, ranging as far south as the Rio Colorado in
Patagonia. In the breeding season it congregates in pools, and
one is then struck by their extraordinary vocal powers, which
they exercise by night. The performance in no way resembles the
series of percussive sounds uttered by most batrachians. The
notes it utters</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Some curious Animal
Weapons.</i> Si</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">are long, as of a
wind instrument, not unmelodious, and so powerful as to make
themselves heard distinctly a mile off on still evenings. After
the amorous period these toads retire to moist places and sit
inactive, buried just deep enough to leave the broad green back
on a level with the surface, and it is then very difficult to
detect them. In this position they wait for their prey--frogs,
toads, birds, and small mammals. Often they capture and attempt
to swallow things too large for them, a mistake often made by
snakes. In very wet springs they sometimes come about houses and
lie in wait for chickens and ducklings. In disposition they are
most truculent, savagely biting at anything that comes near them;
and when they bite they hang on with the tenacity of a bulldog,
poisoning the blood with their glandular secretions. When teased,
the creature swells itself out to such an extent one almost
expects to see him burst; he follows his tormentors about with
slow awkward leaps, his vast mouth wide open, and uttering an
incessant harsh croaking sound. A gaucho I knew was once bitten
by one. He sat down on the grass, and, dropping his hand at his
side, had it seized, and only freed himself by using his hunting
knife to force the creature's mouth open. He washed and bandaged
the wound, and no bad result followed; but when the toad cannot
be shaken off, then the result is different. One summer two
horses were found dead on the plain near my home. One, while
lying down, had been seized by a fold in the skin near the belly;
the other had been grasped by the nose while cropping grass. In
both instances the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">82 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24 c20">vicious toad was
found dead, with jaws tightly closed, still</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24 c20">hanging to the dead
horse. Perhaps they are sometimes</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24 c20">incapable of
letting go at will, and like honey bees, destroy themselves in
these savage attacks.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER V.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15">FEAR IN
BIRDS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">THE statement that
birds instinctively fear man is frequently met with in zoological
works written since the <i>Origin of Species</i> appeared; but
almost the only reason--absolutely the only plausible reason, all
the rest being mere supposition--given in support of such a
notion is that birds in desert islands show at first no fear of
man, but afterwards, finding him a dangerous neighbour, they
become wild; and their young also grow up wild. It is thus
assumed that the habit acquired by the former has become
hereditary in the latter--or, at all events, that in time it
becomes hereditary. Instincts, which are few in number in any
species, and practically endure for ever, are not, presumably,
acquired with such extraordinary facility.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Birds become shy
where persecuted, and the young, even when not disturbed, learn a
shy habit from the parents, and from other adults they associate
with. I have found small birds shyer in desert places, where the
human form was altogether strange to them, than in
thickly-settled districts. Large birds are actually shyer than
the small ones, although, to the civilized or shooting man they
seem astonishingly tame where they have never been</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">G 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">84 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">fired at. I have
frequently walked quite openly to within twenty-five or thirty
yards of a flock of flamingoes without alarming them. This,
however, was when they were in the water, or on the opposite side
of a stream. Having no experience of guns, they fancied
themselves secure as long as a strip of water separated them from
the approaching object. When standing on dry land they would not
allow so near an approach. Sparrows in England aro very much
tamer than the sparrows I have observed in desert places, where
they seldom see a human being. Nevertheless young sparrows in
England are very much tamer than old birds, as anyone may see for
himself. During the past summer, while living near Kew Gardens, I
watched the sparrows a great deal, and fed forty or fifty of them
every day from a back window. The bread and seed was thrown on to
a low roof just outside the window, and I noticed that the young
birds when first able to fly were always brought by the parents
to this feeding place, and that after two or three visits they
would begin to come of their own accord. At such times they would
venture quite close to me, showing as little suspicion as young
chickens. The adults, however, although so much less shy than
birds of other species, were extremely suspicious, snatching up
the bread and flying away; or, if they remained, hopping about in
a startled manner, craning their necks to view me, and making so
many gestures and motions, and little chirps of alarm, that
presently the young would become infected with fear. The lesson
was taught them in a surprisingly short time; their suspicion was
seen to increase day by</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Fear in Birds.</i>
85</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">day, and about a
week later they were scarcely to be distinguished, in behaviour
from the adults. It is plain that, with these little birds, fear
of man is an associate feeling, and that, unless it had been
taught them, his presence would trouble them as little as does
that of horse, sheep, or cow. But how about the larger species,
used as food, and which have had a longer and sadder experience
of man's destructive power?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The rhea, or South
American ostrich, philosophers tell us, is a very ancient bird on
the earth; and from its great size and inability to escape by
flight, and its excellence as food, especially to savages, who
prefer fat rank-flavoured flesh, it must have been systematically
persecuted by man as long as, or longer than, any bird now
existing on the globe. If fear of man ever becomes hereditary in
birds, we ought certainly to find some trace of such an instinct
in this species. I have been unable to detect any, though I have
observed scores of young rheas in captivity, taken before the
parent bird had taught them what to fear. I also once kept a
brood myself, captured just after they had hatched out. With
regard to food they were almost, or perhaps quite, independent,
spending most of the time catching flies, grasshoppers, and other
insects with surprising dexterity; but of the dangers
encompassing the young rhea they knew absolutely frothing. They
would follow me about as if they took me for their parent; and,
whenever I imitated the loud snorting or rasping warning-call
emitted the old bird in moments of danger, they would to me in
the greatest terror, though no animal</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">86 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">was in sight, and,
squatting at my feet, endeavour to conceal themselves by
thrusting their heads and long necks up my trousers. If I had
caused a person to dress in white or yellow clothes for several
consecutive days, and had then uttered the warning cry each time
he showed himself to the birds, I have no doubt that they would
soon have acquired a habit of running in terror from him, even
without the warning cry, and that the fear of a person in white
or yellow would have continued all their lives. Up to within
about twenty years ago, rheas were seldom or never shot in La
Plata and Patagonia, but were always hunted on horseback and
caught with the bolas. The sight of a mounted man would set them
off at once, while a person on foot could walk quite openly to
within easy shooting distance of them; yet their fear of a
horseman dates only two hundred years back--a very short time,
when we consider that, before the Indian borrowed the horse from
the invader, he must have systematically pursued the rhea on foot
for centuries. The rhea changed its habits when the hunter
changed his, and now, if an <i>estanciero</i> puts down ostrich
hunting on his estate, in a very few years the birds, although
wild birds still, become as fearless and familiar as domestic
animals. I have known old and ill-tempered males to become a
perfect nuisance on some estancias, running after and attacking
every person, whether on foot or on horseback, that ventured near
them. An old instinct of a whole race could not be thus readily
lost here and there on isolated estates wherever a proprietor
chose to protect his birds for half a dozen years.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>Fear in Birds,</i>
87</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I suppose the
Talegallus--the best-known brush-turkey--must be looked on as an
exception to all other birds with regard to the point I am
considering; for this abnormal form buries its eggs in the huge
mound made by the male, and troubles herself no more about them.
When the young is fully developed it simply kicks the coffin to
pieces in which its mother interred it, and, burrowing its way up
to the sunshine, enters on the pleasures and pains of an
independent existence from earliest infancy--that is, if a
species born into the world in full possession of all the wisdom
of the ancients, can be said ever to know infancy. At all events,
from Mr. Bartlett's observations on the young hatched in the
Zoological Gardens, it appears that they took no notice of the
old birds, but lived quite independently from the moment they
came out of the ground, even flying up into a tree and roosting
separately at night. I am not sure, however, that these
observations are quite conclusive; for it is certain that
captivity plays strange pranks with the instincts of some
species, and it is just possible that in a state of nature the
old birds exercise at first some slight parental supervision,
and, like all other species, have a peculiar cry to warn the
young of the dangers to be avoided. If this is not so, then the
young Talegallus must fly or hide with instinctive tear from
every living thing that approaches it. I, at any rate, find it
hard to believe that it has a knowledge, independent of
experience, of the different habits of man and kangaroo, and
dis-criminates at first sight between animals that are dangerous
to it and those that are not. This</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">88 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">interesting point
will probably never be determined, as, most unhappily, the
Australians are just now zealously engaged in exterminating their
most wonderful bird for the sake of its miserable flesh; and with
less excuse than the Maories could plead with regard to the moa,
since they cannot deny that they have mutton and rabbit enough to
satisfy hunger.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Whether birds fear
or have instinctive knowledge of any of their enemies is a much
larger question. Species that run freely on the ground from the
time of quitting the shell know their proper food, and avoid
whatever is injurious. Have all young birds a similarly
discriminating instinct with regard to their enemies? Darwin
says, "Fear of any particular enemy is certainly an instinctive
quality, as may be seen in nestling birds." Here, even man seems
to be included among the enemies feared instinctively; and in
another passage he says, "Young chickens have lost, wholly from
habit, that fear of the dog and cat which, no doubt, was
originally instinctive in them." My own observations point to a
contrary conclusion; and I may say that I have had unrivalled
opportunities for studying the habits of young birds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Animals of all
classes, old and young, shrink with instinctive fear from any
strange object approaching them. A piece of newspaper carried
accidentally by the wind is as great an object of terror to an
inexperienced young bird as a buzzard sweeping down with death in
its talons. Among birds not yet able to fly there are, however,
some curious exceptions; thus the young of most owls
and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Fear in Birds.</i>
89</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">pigeons are excited
to anger rather than fear, and, puffing themselves up, snap and
strike at an intruder with their beaks. Other fledglings simply
shrink down in the nest or squat close on the ground, their fear,
apparently, being in proportion to the suddenness with which the
strange animal or object comes on them; but, if the deadliest
enemy approaches with slow caution, as snakes do--and snakes must
be very ancient enemies to birds--there is no fear or suspicion
shown, even when the enemy is in full view and about to strike.
This, it will be understood, is when no warning-cry is uttered by
the parent bird. This shrinking, and, in some cases, hiding from
an object corning swiftly towards them, is the "wildness<i>"</i>
of young birds, which, Darwin says again, is greater in wild than
in domestic species. Of the extreme tameness of the young rhea I
have already spoken; I have also observed young tinamous,
plovers, coots, &amp;c., hatched by fowls, and found them as
incapable of distinguishing friend from foe as the young of
domestic birds. The only difference between the young of wild and
tame is that the former are, as a rule, much more sprightly and
active. But there are many exceptions; and if this greater
alertness and activity is what is meant by "wildness," then the
young of some wild birds--rhea, crested screamer, &amp;c.--are
actually much tamer than our newly-hatched chickens and
ducklings.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">To return to what
may be seen in nestling birds, n very young, and before their
education has begun, if quietly approached and touched, they open
their bills and take food as readily from a man</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>90 The Naturalist in
La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">as from the parent
bird. But if while being thus fed the parent returns and emits
the warning note, they instantly cease their hunger-cries, close
their gaping mouths, and crouch down frightened in the nest. This
fear caused by the parent bird's warning note begins to manifest
itself even before the young are hatched--and my observations on
this point refer to several species in three widely separated
orders. When the little prisoner is hammering at its shell, and
uttering its feeble <i>peep,</i> as if begging to be let out, if
the warning note is uttered, even at a considerable distance, the
strokes and complaining instantly cease, and the chick will then
remain quiescent in the shell for a long time, or until the
parent, by a changed note, conveys to it an intimation that the
danger is over. Another proof that the nestling has absolutely no
instinctive knowledge of particular enemies, but is taught to
fear them by the parents, is to be found in the striking contrast
between the habits of parasitical and genuine young in the nest,
and after they have left it, while still unable to find their own
food. I have had no opportunities of observing the habits of the
young cuckoo in England with regard to this point, and do not
know whether other observers have paid any attention to the
matter or not, but I am very familiar with the manners of the
parasitical starling or cow-bird of South America. The warning
cries of the foster parent have no effect on the young cow-bird
at any time. Until they are able to fly they will readily devour
worms from the hand of a man, even when the old birds are
hovering close by and screaming their danger notes,
and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Fear in Birds'.</i>
91</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">while their own
young, if the parasite has allowed any to survive in the nest,
are crouching down in the greatest fear. After the cow-bird has
left the nest it is still stupidly tame, and more than once I
have seen one carried off from its elevated perch by a milvago
hawk, when, if it had understood the warning cry of the foster
parent, it would have dropped down into the bush or grass and
escaped. But as soon as the young cow-birds are able to shift for
themselves, and begin to associate with their own kind, their
habits change, and they become suspicious and wild like other
birds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">On this point--the
later period at which the parasitical young bird acquires fear of
man--and also bearing on the whole subject under discussion, I
shall add here some observations I once made on a dove hatched
and reared by a pigeon at my home on the pampas. A very large
omb&uacute; tree grew not far from the dove-cote, and some of the
pigeons used to make their nests on the lower horizontal
branches. One summer a dove of the most common species, Zenaida
maculata, in size a third less than the domestic pigeon, chanced
to drop an egg in one of these nests, and a young dove was
hatched and reared; and, in due time, when able to fly, it was
brought to the dove-cote. I watched it a great deal, and it was
evident that this foster-young, though' with the pigeons, was not
nor ever would be of them, for it could not take kiudly to their
flippant flirty ways. Whenever a male approached it, and with
guttural noises and strange gestures made a pompous declaration
of amorous feelings, the dove would strike vigorously at its
undesirable lover,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">92 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">and drive him off,
big as he was; and, as a rule, it would sit apart, afoot or so,
from the others. The dove was also a male; but its male
companions, with instinct tainted by domestication, were ignorant
alike of its sex and different species. Now, it chanced that my
pigeons, never being fed and always finding their own living on
the plain like wild birds, were, although still domestic, not
nearly so tame as pigeons usually are in England. They would not
allow a person to approach within two or three yards of them
without flying, and if grain was thrown to them they would come
to it very suspiciously, or not at all. And, of course, the young
pigeons always acquired the exact degree of suspicion shown by
the adults as soon as they were able to fly and consort with the
others. But the foundling Zenaida did not know what their
startled gestures and notes of fear meant when a person
approached too near, and as he saw none of his own kind, he did
not acquire their suspicious habit. On the contrary, he was
perfectly tame, although by parentage a wild bird, and showed no
more fear of a man than of a horse. Throughout the winter it
remained with the pigeons, going afield every day with them, and
returning to the dove-cote; but as spring approached the slight
tie which united him to them began to be loosened; their company
grew less and less congenial, and he began to lead a solitary
life. But he did not go to the trees yet. He came to the house,
and his favourite perch was on the low overhanging roof of a
vine-covered porch, just over the main entrance. Here he would
pass several hours every day, taking no notice of the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>Fear in Birds.</i>
93</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">people passing in
and out at all times; and when the weather grew warm he would
swell out his breast and coo mournfully by the hour for our
pleasure.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">We can, no doubt,
learn best by observing the behaviour of nestlings and young
birds; nevertheless, I find much even in the confirmed habits of
adults to strengthen me in the belief that fear of particular
enemies is in nearly all cases--for I will not say all--the
result of experience and tradition.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Hawks are the most
open, violent, and persistent enemies birds have; and it is
really wonderful to see how well the persecuted kinds appear to
know the power for mischief possessed by different raptorial
species, and how exactly the amount of alarm exhibited is in
proportion to the extent of the danger to be apprehended. Some
raptors never attack birds, others only occasionally; still
others prey only on the young and feeble; and, speaking of La
Plata district, where I have observed hawks, from the milvago
chimango--chiefly a carrion-eater--to the destructive peregrine
falcon, there is a very great variety of predatory habits, and
all degrees of courage to be found; yet all these raptors are
treated differently by species liable to be preyed on, and have
just as much respect paid them as their strength and daring
entitles them to, and no more, So much discrimination must seem
almost incredible to those who are not very familiar with the
manners of wild birds; I do not think it could exist if the fear
shown resulted from instinct or inherited habit. There would be
no end to the blunders of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">94 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">such an instinct as
that; and in regions where hawks are extremely abundant most of
the birds would be in a constant state of trepidation. On the
pampas the appearance of the comparatively harmless chimango
excites not the least alarm among small birds, yet at a distance
it closely resembles a henharrier, and it also readily attacks
young, sick, and wounded birds; all others know how little they
have to fear from it. When it appears unexpectedly, sweeping over
a hedge or grove with a rapid flight, it is sometimes mistaken
for a more dangerous species; there is then a little flutter of
alarm, some birds springing into the air, but in two or three
seconds of time they discover their mistake, and settle down
quietly again, taking no further notice of the despised
carrion-eater. On the other hand, I have frequently mistaken a
harrier (Circus cinereus, in the brown state of plumage) for a
chimango, and have only discovered my mistake by seeing the
commotion among the small birds. The harrier I have mentioned,
also the C. macropterus, feed partly on small birds, which they
flush from the ground and strike down with their claws. When the
harrier appears moving along with a loitering flight near the
surface, it is everywhere attended by a little whirlwind of
alarm, small birds screaming or chirping excitedly and diving
into the grass or bushes; but the alarm does not spread far, and
subsides as soon as the hawk has passed on its way. Buzzards
(Buteo and Urubitinga) are much more feared, and create a more
widespread alarm, and they ars certainly more destructive to
birds than harriers. Another curious instance is that of the
sociable</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Fear in Birds.</i>
95</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">hawk (Rostrhanrus
sociabilis). This bird spends the summer and breeds in marshes in
La Plata, and birds pay no attention to it, for it feeds
exclusively on water-snails (Ampullaria). But when it visits
woods and plantations to roost, during migration, its appearance
creates as much alarm as that of a true buzzard, which it closely
resembles. Wood-birds, unaccustomed to see it, do not know its
peculiar preying habits, and how little they need fear its
presence. I may also mention that the birds of La Plata seem to
fear the kite-like Elanus less than other hawks, and I believe
that its singular resemblance to the common gull of the district
in its size, snowy-white plumage and manner of flight, has a
deceptive effect on most species, and makes them so little
suspicious of it.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The wide-ranging
peregrine falcon is a common species in La Plata, although, oddly
enough, not included in any notice of the avifauna of that region
before 1888. The consternation caused among birds by its
appearance is vastly greater than that produced by any of the
raptors I have mentioned: and it is unquestionably very much more
destructive to birds, since it preys exclusively on them, and, as
a rule, merely picks the flesh from the head and neck, and leaves
the untouched body to its jackal, the carrion-hawk. When the
peregrine appears speeding through the air in a straight line at
a great height, the feathered world, as far as one able to see,
is thrown into the greatest commo-tion, all birds, from the
smallest up to species large as duck, ibis, and curlew, rushing
about in the air as if distracted. When the falcon has
disappeared</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">96 <i>The Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">in the sky, and the
wave of terror attending its progress subsides behind it, the
birds still continue wild and excited for some time, showing how
deeply they have been moved; for, as a rule, fear is exceedingly
transitory in its effects on animals.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I must, before
concluding this part of my subject, mention another raptor, also
a true falcon, but differing from the peregrine in being
exclusively a marsh-hawk. In size it is nearly a third less than
the male peregrine, which it resembles in its sharp wings and
manner of flight, but its flight is much more rapid. The whole
plumage, is uniformly of a dark grey colour. Unfortunately,
though I have observed it not fewer than a hundred times, I have
never been able to procure a specimen, nor do I find that it is
like any American falcon already described; so that for the
present it must remain nameless. Judging solely from the effect
produced by the appearance of this hawk, it must be even more
daring and destructive than its larger relation, the peregrine.
It flies at a great height, and sometimes descends vertically and
with extraordinary velocity, the wings producing a sound like a
deep-toned horn. The sound is doubtless produced at will, and is
certainly less advantageous to the hawk than to the birds it
pursues. No doubt it can afford to despise the wing-power of its
quarry; and I have sometimes thought that it takes a tyrannous
delight in witnessing the consternation caused by its hollow
trumpeting sound. This may be only a fancy, but some hawks do
certainly take pleasure in pursuing and striking birds when not
seeking prey. The</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Fear in Birds.</i>
97</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">peregrine has been
observed, Baird says, capturing birds, only to kill and drop
them. Many of the Felidae, we know, evince a similar habit; only
these prolong their pleasure by practising a more refined and
deliberate cruelty.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The sudden
appearance overhead of this hawk produces an effect wonderful to
witness. I have frequently seen all the inhabitants of a marsh
struck with panic, acting as if demented, and suddenly grown
careless to all other dangers; and on such occasions I have
looked up confident of seeing the sharp-winged death, suspended
above them in the sky. All birds that happen to be on the wing
drop down as if shot into the reeds or water; ducks away from the
margin stretch out their necks horizontally and drag their
bodies, as if wounded, into closer cover; not one bird is found
bold enough to rise up and wheel about the marauder--a usual
proceeding in the case of other hawks; while, at every sudden
stoop the falcon makes, threatening to dash down on his prey, a
low cry of terror rises from the birds beneath; a sound
expressive of an emotion so contagious that it quickly runs like
a murmur all over the marsh, as if a gust of wind had swept
moaning through, the rushes. As long as the falcon hangs
overhead, always at a height of about forty yards, threatening at
intervals to dash down, this murmuring sound, made up of many
hundreds of individual cries, is heard swelling and dying away,
and occasionally, when he drops lower than usual, rising to a
sharp scream of terror.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Sometimes when I
have been riding over marshy</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">H</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">ground, one of
these hawks has placed himself directly over my head, within
fifteen or twenty yards of me; and it has perhaps acquired the
habit of following a horseman in this way in order to strike at
any birds driven up. On one occasion my horse almost trod on a
couple of snipe squatting terrified in the short grass. The
instant they rose the hawk struck at one, the end of his wing
violently smiting my cheek as he stooped, and striking at the
snipe on a level with the knees of my horse. The snipe escaped by
diving under the bridle, and immediately dropped down on the
other side of me, and the hawk, rising up, flew away.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">To return. I think
I am justified in believing that fear of hawks, like fear of men,
is, in very nearly all cases, the result of experience and
tradition. Nevertheless, I think it probable that in some species
which have always lived in the open, continually exposed to
attack, and which are preferred as food by raptors, such as duck,
snipe, and plover, the fear of the falcon may be an inherited
habit. Among passerine birds I am also inclined to think that
swallows show inherited fear of hawks. Swallows and humming-birds
have least to fear from raptors; yet, while humming-birds readily
pursue and tease hawks, thinking as little of them as of pigeons
or herons, swallows everywhere manifest the greatest terror at
the approach of a true falcon; and they also fear other birds of
prey, though in a much less degree. It has been said that the
European hobby occasionally catches swal-lows on the wing, but
this seems a rare and exceptional habit, and in South America I
have</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Fear in Birds.</i>
99</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">never seen any bird
of prey attempt the pursuit of a swallow. The question then
arises, how did this unnecessary fear, so universal in swallows,
originate? Can it be a survival of a far past--a time when some
wide-ranging small falcon, aerial in habits as the swallow
itself, preyed by preference on hirundines only?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">[NOTE.-Herbert
Spencer, who accepts Darwin's inference, explains how the fear of
man, acquired by experience, becomes instinctive in birds, in the
following passage: "It is well known that in newly-discovered
lands not inhabited by man, birds are so devoid o<b>f</b> fear as
to allow themselves to be knocked over with sticks; but that, in
the course of generations, they acquire such a dread o<b>f</b>
man as to fly on his approach: and that this dread is manifested
by young as well as by old. Now unless this change be</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">ascribed to the
killing-off of the least fearful, and the preservation and
multiplication of the most fearful which, considering the
comparatively small number killed by man, is an inadequate cause,
it must be ascribed to accumulated experience; and each
experience must be held to have a share in producing it.
We</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">must conclude that
in each bird that escapes with injuries inflicted by man, or is
alarmed by the outcries of other members of the flock (gregarious
creatures of any intelligence being necessarily more or less
sympathetic), there is established an association of ideas
between the human aspect and the pains, direct and in-direct,
suffered from human agency. And we must further con-clude, that
the state of consciousness which compels the bird to take flight,
is at first nothing more than an ideal reproduction of</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">those painful
impressions which before followed man's approach; that such ideal
reproduction becomes more vivid and more massive as the painful
experiences, direct or sympathetic, increase<i>;</i> and that
thus the emotion, in its incipient state, is nothing else
than</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">an aggregation of
the revived pains before experience.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">"As, in the course
of generations, the young birds of this race begin to display a
fear of man before yet they have been injured by him, it is an
unavoidable inference that the nervous system of the race has
been organically modified by these experiences, we have no choice
but to conclude, that when a young bird is led</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">100</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">to fly, it is
because the impression produced in its senses by the approaching
man entails, through an incipiently reflex action, a partial
excitement of all those nerves which in its ancestors had been
excited under the like conditions; that this partial excitement
has its accompanying painful consciousness, and that the vague
painful consciousness thus arising constitutes emotion
proper--<i>emotion undecomposable into specific experiences, and,
therefore, seemingly homogeneous"</i> (Essays, vol. i. p.
320.)</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">It is comforting to
know that the "unavoidable inference" is, after all, erroneous,
and that the nervous system in birds has not yet been organically
altered as a result of man's persecution; for in that case it
would take long to undo the mischief, and we should be indeed far
from that "better friendship" with the children of the air which
many of us would like to see.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER VI.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">PARENTAL AND EARLY
INSTINCTS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">UNDER this heading I
have put together several notes from my journals on subjects
which have no connection with each other, except that they relate
chiefly to the parental instincts of some animals I have
observed, and to the instincts of the young at a very early
period of life.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">While taking bats
one day in December, I captured a female of our common Buenos
Ayrean species (Molossus bonariensis), with her two young
attached to her, so large that it seemed incredible she should be
able to fly and take insects with such a weight to drag her down.
The young were about a third less in size than the mother, so
that she had to carry a weight greatly exceeding that of her own
body. They were fastened to her breast and belly, one on each
side, as when first born; and, possibly, the young bat does not
change its position, or move, like the young developed opossum,
to other parts of the body, until mature enough to begin an
independent life. On forcibly separating them from their parent,
I found that they were not yet able to fly, but when set free
fluttered feebly to the ground. This bat certainly appeared more
burdened with its young</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15"><b>102</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">than any animal I
had ever observed. I have seen an old female opossum (Didelphys
azarae) with eleven young, large as old rats--the mother being
less than a cat in size--all clinging to various parts of her
body; yet able to climb swiftly and with the greatest agility in
the higher branches of a tree. The actual weight was in this case
rela-</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-9.jpg" alt="h1-9.jpg" class="c22">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Didelphys azarae and
young.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">tively much greater
than in that of the female bat: but then the opossum never
quitted its hold on the tree, and it also supplemented its
hand-like feet, furnished with crooked claws, with its teeth and
long prehensile tail. The poor bat had to seek its living in the
empty air, pursuing its prey with the swiftness of a swallow, and
it seemed</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts.</i> 103</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">wonderful to me that
she should have been able to carry about that great burden with
her one pair of wings, and withal to be active enough to supply
herself and her young with food.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the end I
released her, and saw her fly away and disappear among the trees,
after which I put back the two young bats in the place I had
taken them from, among the thick-clustering foliage of a small
acacia tree. When set free they began to work their way upwards
through the leaves and slender twigs in the most adroit manner,
catching a twig with their teeth, then embracing a whole cluster
of leaves with their wings, just as a person would take up a
quantity of loose clothes and hold them tight by pressing them
against the chest. The body would then emerge above the clasped
leaves, and a higher twig would be caught by the teeth; and so on
successively, until they had got as high as they wished, when
they proceeded to hook themselves to a twig and assume the
inverted position side by side; after which, one drew in its head
and went to sleep, while the other began licking the end of its
wing, where my finger and thumb had pressed the delicate
membrane. Later in the day I attempted to feed them with small
insects, but they rejected my friendly attentions in the most
unmistakable manner, snapping viciously at me every time I
approached them. In the evening, I stationed myself close to the
tree, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing the mother
return, flying straight to the spot where I had taken her, and in
a few moments she was away again and over the trees with her
twins.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">104 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Assuming that these
two young bats had, before I found them, existed like parasites
clinging to the parent, their adroit actions when liberated, and
their angry demonstrations at my approach, were very astonishing;
for in all other mammals born in a perfectly helpless state, like
rodents, weasels, edentates, and even marsupials, the instincts
of self-preservation are gradually developed after the period of
activity begins, when the mother leads them out, and they play
with her and Avith each other. In the bat the instincts must
ripen to perfection without exercise or training, and while the
animal exists as passively as a fruit on its stem.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I have observed
that the helpless young of some of the mammals I have just
mentioned seem at first to have no instinctive understanding of
the language of alarm and fear in the parent, as all young-birds
have, even before their eyes are open. Nor is it necessary that
they should have such an instinct, since, in most cases, they are
well concealed in kennels or other safe places; but when, through
some accident, they are exposed, the want of such an instinct
makes the task of protecting them doubly hard for the parent. I
once surprised a weasel (Galictis barbara) in the act of removing
her young, or conducting them, rather; and when she was forced to
quit them, although still keeping close by, and uttering the most
piercing cries of anger and solicitude, the young continued
piteously crying out in their shrill voices and moving about in
circles, without making the slightest attempt to escape, or to
conceal themselves, as young birds do.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts.</i> 105</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Some field mice
breed on the surface of the ground in ill-constructed nests, and
their young are certainly the most helpless things in nature. It
is possible that where this dangerous habit exists, the parent
has some admirable complex instincts to safeguard her young, in
addition to the ordinary instincts of most animals of this kind.
This idea was suggested to me by the action of a female mouse
which I witnessed by chance. While walking in a field of stubble
one day in autumn, near Buenos Ayres, I suddenly heard, issuing
from near my feet, a chorus of shrill squealing voices--the
familiar excessively sharp little needles of sound emitted by
young, blind and naked mice, when they are disturbed or in pain.
Looking down, I saw close to my foot a nest of them--there were
nine in all, wriggling about and squealing; for the parent,
frightened at my step, had just sprung from them, overturning in
her hurry to escape the slight loosely-felted dome of fine grass
and thistledown which had covered them. I saw her running away,
but after going six or seven yards she stopped, and, turning
partly round so as to watch me, waited in fear and trembling. I
remained perfectly motionless--a sure way to allay fear and
suspicion in any wild creature,--and in a few moments she
returned, but with the utmost caution, frequently pausing to
start and tremble, and masking her approach with corn stumps and
little inequalities in the surface of the ground, until, reaching
the nest, she took one of the young in her mouth, and ran rapidly
away to a distance of eight or nine yards and concealed it in a
tuft of dry grass.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">106 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Leaving it, she
returned a second time, in the same cautious manner, and taking
another, ran with it to the same spot, and concealed it along
with the first. It was curious that the first young mouse had
continued squealing after being hidden by the mother, for I could
hear it distinctly, the air being very still, but when the second
mouse had been placed with it, the squealing ceased. A third time
the old mouse came, and then instead of going to the same spot,
as I had expected, she ran off in an opposite direction and
disappeared among the dry weeds; a fourth was carried to the same
place as the third; and in this way they were all removed to a
distance of some yards from the nest, and placed in couples,
until the last and odd one remained. In due time she came for it,
and ran away with it in a new direction, and was soon out of
sight; and although I waited fully ten minutes, she did not
return; nor could I afterwards find any of the young mice when I
looked for them, or even hear them squeal.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have frequently
observed newly-born lambs on the pampas, and have never failed to
be surprised at the extreme imbecility they display in their
actions; although this may be due partly to inherited degeneracy
caused by domestication. This imbecile condition continues for
two, sometimes for three days, during which time the lamb
apparently acts purely from instincts, which are far from
perfect; but after that, experience and its dam teach it a better
way. When born its first impulse is to struggle up on to its
feet; its second</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts*</i> 107</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">to suck, but here it
does not discriminate like the newly-hatched bird that picks up
its proper food, or it does not know what to suck. It will take
into its mouth whatever comes near, in most cases a tuft of wool
on its dam's neck; and at this it will continue sucking for an
indefinite time. It is highly probable that the strong-smelling
secretion of the sheep's udder attracts the lamb at length to
that part; and that without something of the kind to guide it, in
many cases it would actually starve without finding the teats. I
have often seen lambs many hours after birth still confining
their attention to the most accessible locks of wool on the neck
or fore legs of the dams, and believe that in such cases the long
time it took them to find the source of nourishment arose from a
defective sense of smell. Its next important instinct, which
comes into play from the moment it can stand on its feet, impels
it to follow after any object receding from it, and, on the other
hand, to run from anything approaching it. If the dam turns round
and approaches it from even a very short distance, it will start
back and run from her in fear, and will not understand her voice
when she bleats to it: at the same time it will confidently
follow after a man, dog, horse, or any other animal moving from
it. A very common experience on the pampas, in the sheep-country,
is to see a lamb start up from sleep and follow the rider,
running along close to the heels of the horse. This is
distressing to a merciful man, tor he cannot shake the little
simpleton off, and if he rides on, no matter how fast, it will
keep up him, or keep him in sight, for half a mile or
a</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">l08 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">mile, and never
recover its dam. The gaucho, who is not merciful, frequently
saves himself all trouble and delay by knocking it senseless with
a blow of his whip-handle, and without checking his horse. I have
seen a lamb, about two days old, start up from sleep, and
immediately start off in pursuit of a puff ball about as big as a
man's head, carried past it over the smooth turf by the wind, and
chase it for a distance of five hundred yards, until the dry ball
was brought to a stop by a tuft of coarse grass. This blundering
instiuct is quickly laid aside when the lamb has learned to
distinguish its dam from other objects, and its dam's voice from
other sounds. When four or five days old it will start from
sleep, but instead of rushing blindly away after any receding
object, it first looks about it, and will then recognize and run
to its dam.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I have often been
struck with the superiority of the pampa or creolla--the old
native breed of sheep--in the greater vigour of the young when
born over the improved European varieties. The pampa descends to
us from the first sheep introduced into La Plata about three
centuries ago, and is a tall, gaunt bony animal, with lean dry
flesh, like venison, and long straight wool, like goats' hair. In
their struggle for existence in a country subject to sudden great
changes of temperature, to drought, and failure of grass, they
have in a great measure lost the qualities which make the sheep
valuable to man as a food and wool-producing animal; but on the
other hand they have to some extent recovered the vigour of a
wild animal, being hardy enough to exist without any shelter, and
requiring from their</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">109</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">master man only
protection from the larger carnivores. They are keen-scented,
swift of foot and Wonderfully active, and thrive where other
breeds would quickly starve. I have often seen a lamb dropped on
the frosty ground in bitterly cold windy weather in midwinter,
and in less than five seconds struggle to its feet, and seem as
vigorous as any day-old lamb of other breeds. The dam,
impatient</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-10.jpg" alt="h1-10.jpg" class="c23">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font14"><b>Pampa
sheep.</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">at the short delay,
and not waiting to give it suck, has then started off at a brisk
trot after the flock, scattered and galloping before the wind
like huanacos rather than sheep, with the lamb, scarcely a minute
in the world, running freely at her side. Notwithstanding its
great vigour it has been proved that the pampa sheep has not so
far outgrown the domestic taint as to be able to maintain its own
existence when left entirely to itself. During the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font14"><b>110</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">first half of this
century, when cattle-breeding began to be profitable, and wool
was not worth the trouble of shearing, and the gaucho workman
would not eat mutton when beef was to be had, some of the
estancieros on the southern pampas determined to get rid of their
sheep, which were of no value to them; and many flocks were
driven a distance out and lost in the wilds. Out of many
thousands thus turned loose to shift for themselves, not one pair
survived to propagate a new race of feral sheep; in a short time
pumas, wild dogs, and other beasts of prey, had destroyed them
all. The sterling qualities of the pampa sheep had their value in
other times; at present the improved kinds are alone considered
worth having, and the original sheep of the country is now
rapidly disappearing, though still found in remote and poor
districts, especially in the province of Cordova; and probably
before long it will become extinct, together with the curious
pug-nosed cow of the pampas.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have had frequent
opportunities of observing the young, from one to three days old,
of the Cervus campestris--the common deer of the pampas, and the
perfection of its instincts at that tender age seem very
wonderful in a ruminant. When the doe with, fawn is approached by
a horseman, even when accompanied with dogs, she stands perfectly
motionless, gazing fixedly at the enemy, the fawn motionless at
her side; and suddenly, as if at a preconcerted signal, the fawn
rushes directly away from her at its utmost speed; and going to a
distance of six hundred to a thousand yards conceals</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">111</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">itself in a hollow
in the ground or among the long grass, lying down very close with
neck stretched out horizontally, and will thus remain until
sought by the dam. When very young if found in its hiding-place
it will allow itself to be taken, making no further effort to
escape. After the fawn has run away the doe still maintains her
statuesque attitude, as if resolved to await the onset, and only
when the dogs are close to her she also rushes away, but
invariably in a direction as nearly opposite to that taken by the
fawn as possible. At first she runs slowly, with a limping gait,
and frequently pausing, as if to entice her enemies on, like a
partridge, duck or plover when driven from its young; but as they
begin to press her more closely her speed increases, becoming
greater the further she succeeds in leading them from the
starting-point.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The alarm-cry of
this deer is a peculiar whistling bark, a low but far-reaching
sound; but when approaching a doe with young I have never been
able to hear it, nor have I seen any movement on the part of the
doe. Yet it is clear that in some mysterious way she inspires the
fawn with sudden violent fear; while the fawn, on its side,
instead of being affected like the young in other mammals, and
sticking closer to its mother, acts in a contrary way, and runs
from her.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Of the birds I am
acquainted with, the beautiful jacana (Parra jacana) appears to
come into the world with its faculties and powers in the most
advanced state. It is, in fact, ready to begin active</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">112 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">life from the very
moment of leaving the shell, as I once accidentally observed. I
found a nest on a small mound of earth in a shallow lagoon,
containing four eggs, with the shells already chipped by the
birds in them. Two yards from the small nest mound there was a
second mound covered with coarse grass. I got off my horse to
examine the nest, and the old birds, excited beyond measure,
fluttered round me close by pouring out their shrill
rapidly-reiterated cries in an unbroken stream, sounding very
much like a policeman's rattle. While I was looking closely at
one of the eggs lying on the palm of my hand, all at once the
cracked shell parted, and at the same moment the young bird
leaped from my hand and fell into the water. I am quite sure that
the young bird's sudden escape from the shell and my hand was the
result of a violent effort on its part to free itself; and it was
doubtless inspired to make the effort by the loud persistent
screaming of the parent birds, which it heard while in the shell.
Stooping to pick it up to save it from perishing, I soon saw that
my assistance was not required, for immediately on dropping into
the water, it put out its neck, and with the body nearly
submerged, like a wounded duck trying to escape observation, it
swam rapidly to the second small mound I have mentioned, and,
escaping from the water, concealed itself in the grass, lying
close and perfectly motionless like a young plover.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the case of the
pampa or creolla sheep, I have shown that during its long, rough
life in La Plata, this variety has in some measure recovered the
natural vigour and ability to maintain existence in</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts.</i> 113</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">adverse
circumstances of its wild ancestors. As much can be said of the
creolla fowl of the pampas; and some observations of mine on the
habits of this variety will perhaps serve to throw light on a
vexed question of Natural History--namely, the cackling of the
hen after laying, an instinct which has been described as
"useless" and "disadvantageous." In fowls that live unconfined,
and which are allowed to lay where they like, the instinct, as we
know it, is certainly detrimental, since egg-eating dogs and pigs
soon learn the cause of the outcry, and acquire a habit of
rushing off to find the egg when they hear it. The question then
arises: Does the wild jungle fowl possess the same pernicious
instinct?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">The creolla is no doubt
the descendant of the fowl originally introduced about three
centuries ago by the first colonists in La Plata, and has
probably not only been uncrossed with any other improved variety,
such as are now fast taking its place, and has lived a much freer
life than is usual with the fowl in Europe. It is a rather small,
lean, extremely active bird, lays about a dozen eggs, and hatches
them all, and is of a yellowish red colour--a hue which is
common, I believe, in the old barn-door fowl of England. The
creolla fowl is strong on the</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">wing, and much more
carnivorous and rapacious in habits than other breeds; mice,
frogs, and small snakes are eagerly hunted and devoured by it. At
my home on the pampas a number of these fowls were kept, and were
allowed to range freely about the plantation, which was large,
and the adjacent grounds, where there were thickets of giant
cardoon thistle, red-weed, thorn apple, &amp;c. They
always</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">114 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">nested at a distance
from the house, and it was almost impossible ever to find their
eggs, on account of the extreme circumspection they observed in
going to and from their nests; and when they succeeded in
escaping foxes, skunks, weasels, and opossums, which, strange to
say, they often did, they would rear their chickens away out of
sight and hearing of the house, and only bring them home when
winter deprived them of their leafy covering and made food
scarce. During the summer, in. my rambles about the plantation, T
would occasionally surprise one of these half-wild hens with her
brood; her distracted screams and motions would then cause her
chicks to scatter and vanish in all directions, and, until the
supposed danger was past, they would lie as close and
well-concealed as young partridges. These fowls in summer always
lived in small parties, each party composed of one cock and as
many hens as he could collect--usually three or four. Each family
occupied its own feeding ground, where it would pass a greater
portion of each day. The hen would nest at a considerable
distance from the feeding ground, sometimes as far as four or
five hundred yards away. After laying an egg she would quit the
nest, not walking from it as other fowls do, but flying, the
flight extending to a distance of from fifteen to about fifty
yards; after which, still keeping silence, she would walk or run,
until, arrived at the feeding ground, she would begin to cackle.
At once the cock, if within hearing, would utter a responsive
cackle, whereupon she would run to him and cackle no more.
Frequently the cackling call-note would not be uttered more than
two or three times, some-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Parental and Early
Instincts.</i> i 15</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">times only once,
and in a much lower tone than in fowls of other
breeds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">If we may assume
that these fowls, in their long, semi-independent existence in La
Plata, have reverted to the original instincts of the wild Gallus
bankiva, we can see here how advantageous the cackling instinct
must be in enabling the hen in dense tropical jungles to rejoin
the flock after laying an egg. If there are egg-eating animals in
the jungle intelligent enough to discover the meaning of such a
short, subdued cackling call, they would still be unable to find
the nest by going back on the bird's scent, since she flies from
the nest in the first place; and the wild bird probably flies
further than the creolla hen of La Plata. The clamorous cackling
of our fowls would appear then to be nothing more than a
perversion of a very useful instinct.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font26">12</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER VII</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">THE MEPHITIC
SKUNK.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">IT might possibly
give the reader some faint conception of the odious character of
this creature (for adjectives are weak to describo it) when I say
that, in talking to strangers from abroad, I have never thought
it necessary to speak of sunstroke, jaguars, or the assassin's
knife, but have never omitted to warn them of the skunk, minutely
describing its habits and personal appearance.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I knew an Englishman
who, on taking a first gallop across the pampas, saw one, and,
quickly dismounting, hurled himself bodily on to it to effect its
capture. Poor man! he did not know that the little animal is
never unwilling to be caught. Men have been blinded for ever by a
discharge of the fiery liquid full in their faces. On a mucous
membrane it burns like sulphuric acid, say the unfortunates who
have had the experience. How does nature protect the skunk itself
from the injurious effects of its potent fluid? I have not
unfrequently found individuals stone-blind, sometimes moving so
briskly about that the blindness must have been of long
standing--very possibly in some cases an accidental drop
discharged by the animal itself has caused the loss of sight.
When coming to close</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Mephitic Skunk,
11</i>7</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">quarters with a
skunk, by covering up the face, one's clothes only are ruined.
But this is not all one has to fear from an encounter; the worst
is that effluvium, after which crushed garlic is lavender, which
tortures the olfactory nerves, and appears to pervade the whole
system like a pestilent ether, nauseating one until sea-sickness
seems almost a pleasant sensation in comparison.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">To those who know
the skunk only from reputation, my words might seem too strong;
many, however, who have come to close quarters with the little
animal will think them ridiculously weak. And consider what must
the feelings be of one who has had the following experience--not
an uncommon experience on the pampas. There is to be a dance at a
neighbouring house a few miles away; he has been looking forward
to it, and, dressing himself with due care, mounts his horse and
sets out full of joyous anticipations. It is a dark windy
evening, but there is a convenient bridle-path through the dense
thicket of giant thistles, and striking it he puts his horse into
a swinging gallop. Unhappily the path is already occupied by a
skunk, invisible in the darkness, that, in obedience to the
promptings of its insane instinct, refuses to get out of it,
until the flying hoofs hit it and sand it like a well-kicked
football into the thistles. But the forefoot of the horse, up as
high as his knees perhaps, have been sprinkled, and the rider,
after coming out into the open, dismounts and walks away twenty
yards from his animal, and literally <i>smells</i> himself all
over, and with a feeling of profound relief pronounces himself
Not the minutest drop of the diabolical spray</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">118 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">has touched his
dancing shoes! Springing into the saddle he proceeds to his
journey's end, is warmly welcomed by his host, and speedily
forgetting his slight misadventure, mingles with a happy crowd of
friends. In a little while people begin exchanging whispers and
significant glances; men are seen smiling at nothing in
particular; the hostess wears a clouded face; the ladies cough
and put their scented handkerchiefs to their noses, and presently
they begin to feel faint and retire from the room. Our hero
begins to notice that there is something wrong, and presently
discovers its cause; he, unhappily, has been the last person in
the room to remark that familiar but most abominable odour,
rising like a deadly exhalation from the floor, conquering all
other odours, and every moment becoming more powerful. A drop
<i>has</i> touched his shoe after all; and fearing to be found
out, and edging towards the door, he makes his escape, and is
speedily riding home again; knowing full well that his sudden and
early departure from the scene will be quickly discovered and set
down to the right cause.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In that not always
trustworthy book <i>The Natural History of Chili,</i> Molina
tells us how they deal with the animal in the trans-Andine
regions. "When one appears," he says, "some of the company begiu
by caressing it, until an opportunity offers for one of them to
seize it by the tail. In this position the muscles become
contracted, the animal is unable to eject its fluid, and is
quickly despatched." One might just as well talk of caressing a
cobra de capello; yet this laughable fiction finds
believers</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Mephitic
Skunk.</i> 119</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">all over South and
North America. Professor Baird gravely introduces it into his
great work on the mammalia. I was once talking about animals in a
rancho, when a person present (an Argentine officer) told that,
while visiting an Indian encampment, he had asked the savages how
they contrived to kill skunks without making even a life in the
desert intolerable. A grave old Cacique informed him that the
secret was to go boldly up to the animal, take it by the tail,
and despatch it; for, he said, when you fear it not at all, then
it respects your courage and dies like a lamb--sweetly. The
officer, continuing his story, said that on quitting the Indian
camp he started a skunk, and, glad of an opportunity to test the
truth of what he had heard, dismounted and proceeded to put the
Indian plan in practice. Here the story abruptly ended, and when
I eagerly demanded to hear the sequel, the amateur hunter of furs
lit a cigarette and vacantly watched the ascending smoke. The
Indians aro grave jokers, they seldom smile; and this old
traditional skunk-joke, which has run the length of a continent,
finding its way into many wise books, is their revenge on a
superior race.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have shot a great
many eagles, and occasionally a carancho (Polyborus tharus), with
the plumage smelling strongly of skunk, which shows that these
birds, pressed by hunger, often commit the fearful mistake of
attacking the animal. My friend Mr. Ernest Gibson, of Buenos
Ayres, in a communication to the <i>Ibis,</i> describes an
encounter he actually witnessed between a carancho and a skunk.
Riding home one afternoon, he spied a skunk "shuffling</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">120 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">along in the erratic
manner usual to that odoriferous quadruped;" following it at a
very short distance was an eagle-vulture, evidently bent on
mischief. Every time the bird came near the bushy tail rose
menacingly; then the carancho would fall behind, and, after a few
moments' hesitation, follow on again. At length, growing bolder,
it sprung forward, seizing the threatening tail with its claw,
but immediately after "began staggering about with dishevelled
plumage, tearful eyes, and a profoundly woe-begone expression on
its vulture face. The skunk, after turning and regarding its
victim with an I-told-you-so look for a few moments, trotted
unconcernedly off."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I was told in
Patagonia by a man named Molinos, who was frequently employed by
the Government as guide to expeditions in the desert, that
everywhere throughout that country the skunk is abundant. Some
years ago he was sent with two other men to find and treat with
an Indian chief whose whereabouts were not known. Far in the
interior Molinos was overtaken by a severe winter, his horses
died of thirst and fatigue, and during the three bitterest months
of the year he kept himself and his followers alive by eating the
flesh of skunks, the only wild animal that never failed them. No
doubt, on those vast sterile plains where the skunk abounds, and
goes about by day and by night careless of enemies, the terrible
nature of its defensive weapon is the first lesson experience
teaches to every young eagle, fox, wild cat, and puma.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Dogs kill skunks
when made to do so, but it is not a sport they delight in. One
moonlight night,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Mephitic
Skunk.</i> 121</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">at home, I went out
to where the dogs, twelve in number, were sleeping: while I stood
there a skunk appeared and deliberately came towards me, passing
through the dogs where they lay, and one by one as he passed them
they rose up, and, with their tails between their legs, skulked
off. When made to kill skunks often they become seasoned; but
always perform the loathsome task expeditiously, then rush away
with frothing mouths to rub their faces in the wet clay and rid
themselves of the fiery sensation. At one time I possessed only
one dog that could be made to face a skunk, and as the little
robbers were very plentiful, and continually coining about the
house in their usual open, bold way, it was rather hard for the
poor brute. This dog detested them quite as strongly as the
others, only he was more obedient, faithful, and brave. Whenever
I bade him attack one of them he would come close up to me and
look up into my face with piteous pleading eyes, then, finding
that he was not to be let off from the repulsive task, he would
charge upon the doomed animal with a blind fury wonderful to see.
Seizing it between his teeth, he would shake it madly, crushing
its bones, then hurl it several feet from him, only to rush again
and again upon it to repeat the operation, doubtless with a
Caligula-like wish in his frantic breast that all the skunks on
the globe had but one backbone.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I was once on a
visit to a sheep-farming brother, far away on the southern
frontier of Buenos Ayres, and amongst the dogs I found there was
one most interesting creature, He was a great,
lumbering,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">122 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">stupid,
good-tempered brute, so greedy that when you offered him a piece
of meat he would swallow half your arm, and so obedient that at a
word he would dash himself against the horns of a bull, and face
death and danger in any shape. But, my brother told me, he would
not face a skunk--he would die first. One day I took him out and
found a skunk, and for upwards of half an hour I sat on my horse
vainly cheering on my cowardly follower, and urging him to
battle. The very sight of the enemy gave him a fit of the
shivers; and when the irascible little enemy began to advance
against us, going through the performance by means of which he
generally puts his foes to flight without resorting to malodorous
measures--stamping his little feet in rage, jumping up,
spluttering and hissing and flourishing his brush like a warlike
banner above his head--then hardly could I restrain my dog from
turning tail and flying home in abject terror. My cruel
persistence was rewarded at last. Continued shouts, cheers, and
hand-clappings began to stir the brute to a kind of frenzy. Torn
by conflicting emotions, he began to revolve about the skunk at a
lumbering gallop, barking, howling, and bristling up his hair;
and at last, shutting his eyes, and with a yell of desperation,
he charged. I fully expected to see the enemy torn to pieces in a
few seconds, but when the dog was still four or five feet from
him the fatal discharge came, and he dropped down as if shot
dead. For some time he lay on the earth perfectly motionless,
watched and gently bedewed by the victorious skunk; then he got
up and crept whining away. Gradually he quickened his
pace,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Mephitic
Skunk,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><b>123</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">finally breaking
into a frantic run. In vain I followed him, shouting at the top
of my lungs; he stayed not to listen, and very speedily vanished
from sight--a white speck on the vast level plain. At noon on the
following day he made his appearance, gaunt and befouled with
mud, staggering forward like a galvanized skeleton. Too worn
out</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-11.jpg" alt="h1-11.jpg" class="c24">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font14"><b>Skunk and
dog.</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">even to eat, he
flung himself down, and for hours lay like a dead thing, sleeping
off the effects of those few drops of perfume.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Dogs, I concluded,
like men, have their idiosyncrasies; but I had gained my point,
and proved once more--if any proof were needed--the truth of that
noble panegyric of Bacon's on our faithful servant and
companion.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER
VIII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">MIMICRY AND WARNING
COLOURS IN GRASSHOPPERS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">THERE is in La Plata
a large handsome grasshopper (Zoniopoda tarsata), the habits of
which in its larva and imago stages are in strange contrast, like
those in certain lepidoptera, in which the caterpillars form
societies and act in concert. The adult has a greenish protective
colouring, brown and green banded thighs, bright red hind wings,
seen only during flight. It is solitary and excessively shy in
its habits, living always in concealment among the dense foliage
near the surface of the ground. The yonng are intensely black,
like grasshoppers cut out of jet or ebony, and gregarious in
habit, living in bands of forty or fifty to three or four
hundred; and so little shy, that they may sometimes be taken up
by handfuls before they begin to scatter in alarm. Their
gregarious habits and blackness--of all hues in nature the most
obvious to the sight--would alone be enough to make them the most
conspicuous of insects; but they have still other habits which
appear as if specially designed to bring them more prominently
into notice. Thus, they all keep so close together at all times
as to have their bodies actually touching, and when</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mimicry and Warning
Colours in Grasshoppers.</i> 25</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">travelling, move so
slowly that the laziest snail might easily overtake and pass one
of their bands, and even disappear beyond their limited horizon
in a very short time.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">They often select an
exposed weed to feed on, clustering together on its summit above
the surrounding verdure, an exceedingly conspicuous object to
every eye in the neighbourhood. They also frequently change their
feeding-ground; at such times they deliberately cross wide roads
and other open spaces, barren of grass, where, moving so slowly
that they scarcely seem to move at all, they look at a distance
like a piece of black velvet lying on the ground. Thus in every
imaginable way they expose themselves and invite attack; yet, in
spite of it all, I have never detected birds preying on them, and
I have sometimes kept one of these black societies under
observation near my house for several days, watching them at
intervals, in places where the trees overhead were the resort of
Icterine and tyrant birds, Guira cuckoos, and other species, all
great hunters after grasshoppers. A young grasshopper is,
moreover, a morsel that seldom comes amiss to any bird, whether
insect or seed eater; and, as a rule, it is extremely shy,
nimble, and inconspicuous. It seems clear that, although the
young Zoniopoda does not mimic in its form any black protected
insect, it nevertheless owes its safety to its blackness,
together with the habit it possesses of exposing itself in so
open and bold a manner. Blackness is so common in large protected
insects, as, for instance, in the un-palatable leaf-cutting ants,
scorpions, mygale</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">126 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">spiders, wasps, and
other dangerous kinds, that it is manifestly a "warning colour,"
the most universal and best known in nature; and the grasshopper,
I believe, furthermore mimics the fearless demeanour of the
protected or venomous species, which birds and other
insect-eaters know and respect. It might be supposed that the
young Zoniopoda is itself unpalatable; but this is scarcely
probable, for when the deceptive black mask is once dropped, the
excessive shyness, love of concealment, and protective colouring
of the insect show that it is much sought after by
birds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">While setting this
down as an undoubted case of "mimicry," although it differs in
some respects from all other cases I have seen reported, I cannot
help remarking that this most useful word appears to be in some
danger of losing the meaning originally attached to it in
zoology. There are now very few cases of an accidental
resemblance found between two species in nature which are not set
down by someone to "mimicry," some in which even the wildest
imagination might well fail to see any possible benefit to the
supposed mimic. In cases where the outward resemblance of some
feeble animal to a widely different and well-protected species,
or to some object like a leaf or stick, and where such
resemblance is manifestly advantageous and has reacted on and
modified the life habits, it is conceivable that slight
spontaneous variations in the structure and colouring of the
unprotected species have been taken advantage of by the principle
of natural selection, and a case of "mimicry" set up, to become
more and more</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mimicry and Warning
Colours in Grasshoppers.</i> 127</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">perfect in time, as
successive casual variations in the same direction increased the
resemblance.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The stick-insect is
perhaps the most perfect example where resemblance to an
inanimate object has been the result aimed at, so to speak, by
nature; the resemblance of the volucella fly to the humble-bee,
on which it is parasitical, is the most familiar example of one
species growing like another to its own advantage, since only by
means of its deceptive likeness to the humble-bee is it able to
penetrate into the nest with impunity. These two cases, with
others of a similar character, were first called cases of
"mimicry" by Kirby and Spence, in their ever-delightful
<i>Introduction to Entomology--</i>an old book, but, curiously
enough in these days of popular treatises on all matters of the
kind, still the only general work on insects in the English
language which one who is not an entomologist can read with
pleasure.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">A second case of
mimicry not yet noticed by any naturalist is seen in another
grasshopper, also common in La Plata (Rhomalea speciosa of
Thun-berg). This is an extremely elegant insect; the head and
thorax chocolate, with cream-coloured markings; the abdomen
steel-blue or purple, a colour I have not seen in any other
insects of this family. The fore wings have a protective
colouring; the hind wings are bright red. When at rest, with the
red and purple tints concealed, it is only a very pretty
grasshopper, but the instant it takes wing it becomes the
fac-simile of a very common wasp of the genus Pepris. These wasps
vary greatly in size, some being as large as the
hornet;</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">128 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">they are solitary,
and feed on the honey of flowers and on fruit, and, besides being
furnished with stings like other wasps--though their sting is nok
so venomous as in other genera--they also, when angry, emit a
most abominable odour, and are thus doubly protected against
their enemies. Their excessive tameness, slow flight, and
indolent motions serve to show that they are not accustomed to be
interfered with. All these strong-smelling wasps have steel-blue
or purple bodies, and bright red wings. So exactly does the
Rhomalea grasshopper mimic the Pepris when flying, that I have
been deceived scores of times. I have even seen it on the leaves,
and, after it has flown and settled once more, I have gone to
look at it again, to make sure that my eyes had not deceived me.
It is curious to see how this resemblance has reacted on and
modified the habits of the grasshopper. It is a great flyer, and
far more aerial in its habits than any other insect I am
acquainted with in this family, living always in trees, instead
of on or near the surface of the ground. It is abundant in
orchards and plantations round Buenos Ayres, where its long and
peculiarly soft, breezy note may be heard all summer. If the
ancient Athenians possessed so charming an insect as this, their
great regard for the grasshopper was not strange: I only wish
that the "Athenians of South America," as my fellow-townsmen
sometimes call themselves in moments of exaltation, had a feeling
of the samo kind--the regard which does <i>not</i> impale its
object on a pin--for the pretty light-hearted songster of their
groves and gardens.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mimicry and Warning
Colours in Grasshoppers.</i> 129</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">When taken in the
hand, it has the habit, common to most grasshoppers, of pouring
out an inky fluid from its mouth; only the discharge is unusually
copious in this species. It has another habit in defending itself
which is very curious. When captured it instantly curls its body
round, as a wasp does to sting. The suddenness of this action has
more than once caused me to drop an insect I had taken, actually
thinking for the moment that I had taken hold of a wasp. Whether
birds would be deceived and made to drop it or not is a question
it would not be easy to settle; but the instinct certainly looks
like 'one of a series of small adaptations, all tending to make
the resemblance to a wasp more complete and effective.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font2">K</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER IX.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">DRAGON-FLY
STORMS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ONE of the most
curious things I have encountered in my observations on animal
life relates to a habit of the larger species of dragon-flies
inhabiting the Pampas and Patagonia. Dragon-flies are abundant
throughout the country wherever there is water. There are several
species, all more or less brilliantly coloured. The kinds that
excited my wonder, from their habits, are twice as large as the
common widely distributed insects, being three inches to four
inches in length, and as a rule they are sober-coloured, although
there is one species--the largest among them--entirely of a
brilliant scarlet. This kind is, however, exceedingly rare. All
the different kinds (of the large dragon-flies) when travelling
associate together, and occasionally, in a flight composed of
countless thousands, one of these brilliant-hued individuals will
catch the eye, appearing as conspicuous among the others as a
poppy or scarlet geranium growing alone in an otherwise
flowerless field. The most common species--and in some cases the
entire flight seems to be composed of this kind only--is the
Aeschna bonariensis Raml, the prevailing colour of which is pale
blue. But the really wonderful thing about them all alike
is,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Dragon-Fly
Storms.</i> 131</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">that they appear
only when flying before the southwest wind, called
<i>pampero--</i>the wind that blows from the interior of the
pampas. The pampero is a dry, cold wind, exceedingly violent. It
bursts on the plains very suddenly, and usually lasts only a
short time, sometimes not more than ten minutes; it comes
irregularly, and at all seasons of the year, but is most frequent
in the hot season, and after exceptionally sultry weather. It is
in summer and autumn that the large dragon-flies appear; not
<i>with</i> the wind, but--and this is the most curious part of
the matter--in advance of it; and inasmuch as these insects are
not seen in the country at other times, and frequently appear in
seasons of prolonged drought, when all the marshes and
water-courses for many hundreds of miles are dry, they must of
course traverse immense distances, flying before the wind at a
speed of seventy or eighty miles an hour. On some occasions they
appear almost simultaneously with the wind, going by like a
flash, and instantly disappearing from sight. You have scarcely
time to see them before the wind strikes you. As a rule, however,
they make their appearance from five to fifteen minutes before
the wind strikes; and when they are in great numbers the air, to
a height of ten or twelve feet above the surface of the ground,
is all at once seen to be full of them, rushing past with
extraordinary velocity in a north-easterly direction. In very
oppressive weather, and when the swiftly advancing pampero brings
no moving mountains of mingled cloud and dust, and is
consequently not expected, the sudden apparition of the
dragon-fly is a most welcome one,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">K 2 .</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">132 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">for then an
immediate burst of cold wind is confidently looked for. In the
expressive vernacular of the gauchos the large dragon-fly is
called <i>hijo del pampero--</i>son of the south-west
wind.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is clear that
these great and frequent dragonfly movements are not explicable
on any current hypothesis regarding the annual migrations of
birds, the occasional migrations of butterflies, or the
migrations of some mammals, like the reindeer and buffalo of
Arctic America, which, according to Rae and other observers,
perform long journeys north and south at regular seasons, "from a
sense of polarity." Neither this hypothetical sense in animals,
nor "historical memory" will account for the dragon-fly storms,
as the phenomenon of the pampas might be called, since the
insects do not pass and repass between "breeding and subsistence
areas," but all journey in a north-easterly direction; and of the
countless millions flying like thistledown before the great
pampero wind, not one solitary traveller ever returns.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The cause of the
flight is probably dynamical, affecting the insects with a sudden
panic, and compelling them to rush away before the approaching
tempest. The mystery is that they should fly from the wind before
it reaches them, and yet travel in the same direction with it.
When they pass over the level, treeless country, not one insect
lags behind, or permits the wind to overtake it; but, on arriving
at a wood or large plantation they swarm into it, as if seeking
shelter from some swift-pursuing enemy, and on such occasions
they sometimes remain clinging to the trees while the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<img src="images/h1-12.jpg" alt="h1-12.jpg" class="c25">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font12">STORM OF DRAGON
FLIES.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font12">[Page 132.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Dragon-Fly
Storms.</i> 133</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">wind spends its
force. This is particularly the case when the wind blows up at a
late hour of the day; then, on the following morning, the
dragon-flies are seen clustering to the foliage in such numbers
that many trees are covered with them, a large tree often
appearing as if hung with curtains of some brown glistening
material, too thick to show the green leaves beneath.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In Patagonia, where
the phenomenon of dragon-fly storms is also known, an Englishman
residing at the Rio Negro related to me the following occurrence
which he witnessed there. A race meeting was being held near the
town of El Carmen, on a high exposed piece of ground, when,
shortly before sunset, a violent pampero wind came up, laden with
dense dust-clouds. A few moments before the storm broke, the air
all at once became obscured with a prodigious cloud of
dragon-flies. About a hundred men, most of them on horseback,
were congregated on the course at the time, and the insects,
instead of rushing by in their usual way, settled on the people
in such quantities that men and horses were quickly covered with
clinging masses of them. My informant said--and this agrees with
my own observation--that he was greatly impressed by the
appearance of terror shown by the insects; they clung to him as
if for dear life, so that he had the greatest difficulty in
ridding himself of them.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Weissenborn, in
London's <i>Magazine of Natural History</i> (N. S. vol. iii.)
describes a great migration of dragon-flies which he witnessed in
Germany in 1839, and also mentions a similar
phenomenon</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">134</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">occurring in 1816,
and extending over a large portion of Europe. But in these cases
the movement took place at the end of May, and the insects
travelled due south; their migrations were therefore similar to
those of birds and butterflies, and were probably due to the same
cause. I have been unable to find any mention of a phenomenon
resembling the one with which we are so familiar on the pampas,
and which, strangely enough, has not been recorded by any
European naturalists who have travelled there.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER X.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">MOSQUITOES AND PARASITE
PROBLEMS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">THERE cannot be a
doubt that some animals possess an instinctive knowledge of their
enemies--or, at all events, of some of their enemies--though I do
not believe that this faculty is so common as many naturalists
imagine. The most striking example I am acquainted with is seen
in gnats or mosquitoes, and in the minute South American
sandflies (Simulia), when a dragon-fly appears in a place where
they are holding their aerial pastimes. The sudden appearance of
a ghost among human revellers could not produce a greater panic.
I have spoken in the last chapter of periodical storms or waves
of dragon-flies in the Plata region, and mentioned incidentally
that the appearance of these insects is most welcome in
oppressively hot weather, since they are known to come just in
advance of a rush of cool wind. In La Plata we also look for the
dragon-fly, and rejoice at its coming, for another reason. We
know that the presence of this noble insect will cause the clouds
of stinging gnats and flies, which make life a burden, to vanish
like smoke.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">When a flight of
dragon-flies passes over the country many remain along the route,
as I have</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">136 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">said, sheltering
themselves wherever trees occur; and, after the storm blows over,
these strangers and stragglers remain for some days hawking for
prey in the neighbourhood. It is curious to note that they do not
show any disposition to seek for watercourses. It may be that
they feel lost in a strange region, or that the panic they have
suffered, in their long flight before the wind, has unsettled
their instincts; for it is certain that they do not, like the
dragon-fly in Mrs. Browning's poem, "return to dream upon the
river." They lead instead a kind of vagabond existence, hanging
about the plantations, and roaming over the surrounding plains.
It is then remarked that gnats and sand-flies apparently cease to
exist, even in places where they have been most abundant. They
have not been devoured by the dragon-flies, which are perhaps
very few in number; they have simply got out of the way, and will
remain in close concealment until their enemies take their
departure, or have all been devoured by martins, tyrant birds,
and the big robber-flies or devil's dykes--no name is bad enough
for them--of the family Asilidaa. During these peaceful gnatless
days, if a person thrusts himself into the bushes or herbage in
some dark sheltered place, he will soon begin to hear the thin
familiar sounds, as of "horns of elf-land faintly blowing"; and
presently, from the ground and the under surface of every leaf,
the ghost-like withered little starvelings will appear in scores
and in hundreds to settle on him, fear not having blunted their
keen appetites.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">When riding over
the pampas on a hot still day,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems.</i> 137</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">with a pertinacious
cloud of gnats or sandflies hovering just above my head and
keeping me company for miles, I have always devoutly wished for a
stray dragon-fly to show himself. Frequently the wish has been
fulfilled, the dragon-fly, apparently "sagacious of his quarry
from afar," sweeping straight at his prey, and instantly, as if
by miracle, the stinging rain has ceased and the noxious cloud
vanished from overhead, to be re-formed no more. This has always
seemed very extraordinary to me; for in other matters gnats do
not appear to possess even that proverbial small dose of
intellect for which we give most insects credit. Before the
advent of the dragon-fly it has perhaps happened that I have been
vigorously striking at them, making it very unpleasant for them,
and also killing and disabling many hundreds--a larger number
than the most voracious dragon-fly could devour in the course of
a whole day; and yet, after brushing and beating them off until
my arms have ached with the exertion, they have continued to rush
blindly on their fate, exhibiting not the faintest symptom of
fear. I suppose that for centuries mosquitoes have, in this way,
been brushed and beaten away with hands and with tails, without
learning caution. It is not in their knowledge that there are
hands and tails. A large animal is simply a field on which they
confidently settle to feed, sounding shrill flourishes on their
little trumpets to show how fearless they are. But the dragon-fly
is very ancient on the earth, and if, during the Devonian epoch,
when it existed, it preyed on some blood-sucking insect from
which or Culicidae have come, then these stupid little</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">138 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">insects have
certainly had ample time in which to learn well at least one
lesson.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">There is not in all
organic nature, to my mind, any instance of wasted energy
comparable in magnitude with the mosquito's thirst for blood, and
the instincts and elaborate blood-pumping apparatus with which it
is related. The amount of pollen given off by some
wind-fertilized trees--so great in some places that it covers
hundreds of square miles of earth and water with a film of yellow
dust---strikes us as an amazing waste of material on the part of
nature; but in these cases we readily see that this excessive
prodigality is necessary to continue the species, and that a
sufficient number of flowers would not be impregnated unless the
entire trees were bathed for days in the fertilizing cloud, in
which only one out of many millions of floating particles can
ever hit the mark. The mosquito is able to procreate without ever
satisfying its ravenous appetite for blood. To swell its grey
thread-like abdomen to a coral bead is a delight to the insect,
but not necessary to its existence, like food and water to ours;
it is the great prize in the lottery of life, which few can ever
succeed in drawing. In a hot summer, when one has ridden perhaps
for half a day over a low-lying or wet district, through an
atmosphere literally obscured with a fog of mosquitoes, this fact
strikes the mind very forcibly, for in such places it frequently
is the case that mammals do not exist, or are exceedingly rare.
In Europe it is different. There, as Reaumur said, possibly one
gnat in every hundred may be able to</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems.</i> 139</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">gratify its appetite
for blood; but of the gnats in many districts in South America it
would be nearer the mark to say that only one in a hundred
millions can ever do so.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Curt&iacute;s
discovered that only the female mosquito bites or sucks blood,
the male being without tongue or mandibles; and he asks, What,
then, does the male feed on? He conjectures that it feeds on
flowers; but, had he visited some swampy places in hot countries,
where flowers are few and the insects more numerous than the
sands on the seashore, he would most probably have said that the
males subsist on decaying vegetable matter and moisture of slime.
It is, however, more important to know what the female subsists
on. We know that she thirsts for warm mammalian blood, that she
seeks it with avidity, and is provided with an admirable organ
for its extraction--only, unfortunately for her, she does not get
it, or, at all events, the few happy individuals that do get it
are swamped in the infinite multitude of those that are doomed by
nature to total abstinence.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I should like to
know whether this belief of Curt&iacute;s, shared by Westwood and
other distinguished entomologists, but originally put forward
merely as a conjecture, has ever been tested by careful
observation and experiment. If not, then it is strange that it
should have crept into many important works, where it is stated
not as a mere guess, but as an established fact. Thus, Van
Beneden, in his work on parasites, while classing female
mosquitoes with his "miserable wretches," yet says, "If blood
fails them, they live, like the males, on the juices
of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">140 <i>The Natziralist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">flowers." If this
be so, it is quite certain that the juices fail to satisfy them;
and that, like Dr. Tanner, who was ravenously hungry during his
forty days' fast, in spite of his frequent sips of water, the
mosquito still craves for something better than a cool vegetarian
diet. I cannot help thinking, though the idea may seem fanciful,
that mosquitoes feed on nothing. We know that the ephemerae take
no refreshment in the imago state, the mouth being aborted or
atrophied in these short-lived creatures; but we also know that
they belong to an exceedingly ancient tribe, and possibly, after
the earth had ceased to produce their proper nourishment there
came in their history a long hungry period, which did not kill
them, but lasted until their feeding instincts became obsolete,
the mouth lost its use, and their life in its perfect state
dwindled to its present length.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In any case, how
unsatisfactory is the mosquitoes' existence, and what a curious
position they occupy in nature! Let us suppose that, owing to
some great change in the conditions of the earth, rapacious birds
were no longer able to capture prey, and that, by a corresponding
change in their organizations, they were able to subsist on the
air they breathed, with perhaps an occasional green leaf and a
sip of water, and yet retained the old craving for solid food,
and the old predatory instincts and powers undiminished; they
would be in the position of mosquitoes in the imago state. And if
then fifty or a hundred individuals were to succeed every year in
capturing something and making one hearty meal, these few
fortunate diners would bear about</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems.</i> 141</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">the same proportion
to all the raptors on the globe as the mosquitoes that succeed in
sucking blood to their unsuccessful fellows. In the case of the
hawks, the effect of the few meals on the entire rapacious family
or order would certainly be <i>nil;</i> and it is impossible to
believe for a moment that the comparatively infinitesimal amount
of blood sucked by mosquitoes can. serve to invigorate the
species. The wonder is that the machinery, which accomplishes
nothing, should continue in such perfect working
order.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">When we consider
the insect's delicate organ, so admirably fitted for the purpose
to which it is applied, it becomes difficult to believe that it
could have been so perfected except in a condition of things
utterly unlike the present. There must have been a time when
mosquitoes found their proper nourishment, and when warm
mammalian blood was as necessary to their existence as honey is
to that of the bee, or insect food to the dragon-fly.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">This applies to
many blood-sucking insects besides mosquitoes, and with special
force to the tick tribes (Ixodes), which swarm throughout Central
and South America; for in these degraded spiders the whole body
has been manifestly modified to fit it for a parasitical life;
while the habits of the insect during its blind, helpless,
waiting existence on trees, and its sudden great development when
it succeeds in attaching itself to an animal body, also point
irresistibly to the same conclusion. In the sunny uplands they
act (writes Captain Burton) like the mosquitoes of the hot, humid
Beiramar. "The nuisance is general; it seems to be in the air;
every</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15"><b>142</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-13.jpg" alt="h1-13.jpg" class="c26">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">blade of grass has
its colony; clusters of hundreds adhere to the twigs; myriads are
found in the bush clumps. Lean and flat when growing to the
leaves, the tick catches man or beast brushing by, fattens
rapidly, and, at the end-of a week's good living, drops off,
<i>plena cruoris."</i> When on trees, Belt says, they
instinctively place themselves on the extreme tips of leaves and
shoots, with their hind legs stretching out, each foot armed with
two hooks or claws, with which to lay hold of any animal brushing
by. During this wretched, incom-plete existence (from which, in
most cases, it is never destined to emerge), its greatest length
is about one-fourth of an inch; but where it fastens itself to an
animal the abdomen increases to a globe as big as a medium-sized
Barcelona nut. Being silvery-grey or white in colour, it becomes,
when thus distended, very conspicuous on any dark surface. I have
frequently seen black, smooth-haired dogs with their coats,
turned into a perfect garden of these white spider-flowers or
mushrooms. The white globe is leathery, and nothing can injure
it; and the poor beast cannot rub, bite, or scratch it off, as it
is anchored to his flesh by eight sets of hooks and a triangle of
teeth.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The ticks inhabiting
regions rich in bird and insect life, but with few mammals, are
in the same condition as mosquitoes, as far as the supply of
blood goes; and, like the mosquitoes, they are compelled and able
to exist without the nourishment</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15 c27">Ixodes;. before and
after a blood diet.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems.</i> 43</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">best suited to
them. They are nature's miserable castaways, parasitical tribes
lost in a great dry wilderness where no blood is; and every
marsh-born mosquito, piping of the hunger gnawing its vitals, and
every forest tick, blindly feeling with its grappling-irons for
the beast that never brushes by, seems to tell us of a world
peopled with gigantic forms, mammalian and reptilian, which once
afforded abundant pasture to the parasite, and which the parasite
perhaps assisted to overthrow.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is almost
necessary to transport oneself to the vast tick-infested
wilderness of the New World to appreciate the full significance
of a passage in Belt's <i>Naturalist in Nicaragua,</i> in which
it is suggested that man's hairless condition was perhaps brought
about by natural selection in tropical regions, where he was
greatly troubled with parasites of this kind. It is certain that
if in such a country as Brazil he possessed a hairy coat,
affording cover to the tick and enabling it to get a footing on
the body, his condition would be a very sad one. Savages abhor
hairs on the body, and even pluck them off their faces. This
seems like a survival of an ancient habit acquired when the whole
body was clothed with hair; and if primitive man ever possessed
such a habit, nature only followed his lead in giving him a
hairless offspring.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">Is it not also probable
that the small amount of mammalian life in South America, and the
aquatic habits of nearly all the large animals in the warmer
districts, is due to the persecutions of the tick?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The only way in
which a large animal can rid itself of the pest is by going into
the water or wallowing</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">144 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">in the mud; and
this perhaps accounts for the more or less aquatic habits of the
jaguar, aguar&aacute;-guaz&uacute;, the large Cervus paluclosus,
tapir, capybara, and peccary. Monkeys, which are most abundant,
are a notable exception; but these animals have the habit of
attending to each other's skins, and spend a great deal of their
time in picking off the parasites. But how do birds escape the
ticks, since these parasites do not confine their attacks to any
one class of aninials, but attach themselves impartially to any
living thing coming within reach of their hooks, from snake to
man? My own observations bearing on this point refer less to the
Ixodes than to the minute b&eacute;te-rouge, which is excessively
abundant in the Plata district, where it is known as <i>bicho
colorado,</i> and in size and habits resembles the English Leptus
autumnalis. It is so small that, notwithstanding its bright
scarlet colour, it can only be discerned by bringing the eye
close to it; and being, moreover, exceedingly active and abundant
in all shady places in summer--making life a misery to careless
human beings--it must be very much more dangerous to birds than
the larger sedentary Ixodes. The b&eacute;te-rouge invariably
lodges beneath the wings of birds, where the loose scanty plumage
affords easy access to the skin. Domestic birds suffer a great
deal from its persecutions, and their young, if allowed to run
about in shady places, die of the irritation. Wild birds,
however, seem to be very little troubled, and most of those I
have examined have been almost entirely free from parasites.
Probably they are much more sensitive than the domestic birds,
and able to feel and pick off the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">insects with their
beaks before they have penetrated into the skin. I believe they
are also able to protect themselves in another way, namely, by
preventing the parasites from reaching their bodies at all. I was
out under the trees one day with a pet oven-bird (Furnarius
rufus), which had full liberty to range about at will, and
noticed that at short intervals it went through the motions of
picking something from its toes or legs, though I could see
nothing on them. At length I approached my eyes to within a few
inches of the bird's feet, and discovered that the large dry
branch on which it stood was covered with a multitude of
parasites, all running rapidly about like foraging ants, and
whenever one came to the bird's feet it at once ran up the leg.
Every time this happened, so far as I could see, the bird felt
it. and quickly and deftly picked it off with the point of its
bill. It seemed very astonishing that the horny covering of the
toes and legs should be so exquisitely sensitive, for the insects
are so small and light that they cannot be felt on the hand, even
when a score of them are running over it; but the fact is as I
have stated, and it is highly probable, I think, that most wild
birds keep themselves free from these little torments in the same
way.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Some observations
of mine on a species of Orni-thomyia--a fly parasitical on
birds--might possibly be of use in considering the question of
the anomalous position in nature of insects possessing the
instincts and aptitudes of parasites, and organs manifestly
modified to suit a parasitical mode of life, yet compelled and
able to exist free, feeding, perhaps, on</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c13">L</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">146</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>TIic Naturalist in
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">vegetable juices,
or, like the ephemerae, on nothing at all. For it must be borne
in mind that I do not assert that these "occasional" or
"accidental" parasites, as some one calls them, explaining
nothing, do not feed on such juices. I do not know what they feed
on. I only know that the joyful alacrity with which gnats and
stinging flies of all kinds abandon the leaves, supposed to
afford them pasture, to attack a warm-blooded animal, serves to
show how strong the impulse is, and how ineradicable the
instinct, which must have had an origin. Perhaps the habits of
the bird-fly I have mentioned will serve to show how, in some
cases, the free life of some blood-sucking flies and other
insects might have originated.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">Kirby and Spence, in
their <i>Introduction,</i> mention that one or two species of
Ornithomyia have been observed flying about and alighting on men;
and in one case the fly extracted blood and was caught, the
species being thus placed beyond doubt. This circumstance led the
authors to believe that the insect, when the bird it is
parasitical on dies, takes to flight and migrates from body to
body, occasionally tasting blood until, coming to the right
body--to wit, that of a bird, or of a particular species of
bird--it once more establishes itself permanently in the plumage.
I fancy that the insect sometimes leads a freer life and ranges
much more than the authors imagined; and I refer to Kirby and
Spence, with apologies to those who regard the
<i>Introduction</i> as out of date, only because I am not aware
that we have any later observations on the subject.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">There is in La Plata
a small very common</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems.</i> 147</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Dendrocolaptine
bird--Anumbius acuticaudatus--much infested by an Ornithomyia, a
pretty, pale insect, half the size of a house-fly, and elegantly
striped with green. It is a very large parasite for so small a
bird, yet so cunning and alert is it, and</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-14.jpg" alt="h1-14.jpg" class="c28">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15">Firewood-gatherer and
Bird-fly.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">so swiftly is it
able to swim through the plumage, that the bird is unable to rid
itself of so undesirable a companion. The bird lives with its
mate all the year round, much of the time with its grown-up
young, in its nest--a large structure, in L 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">148 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">which so much
building-material is used that the bird is called in the
vernacular Le&ntilde;atero, or Firewood-gatherer. On warm bright
days without wind, during the absence of the birds, I have
frequently seen a company of from half a dozen to a dozen or
fifteen of the parasitical fly wheeling about in the air above
the nest, hovering and gambolling together, just like house-flies
in a room in summer; but always on the appearance of the birds,
returning from their feeding-ground, they would instantly drop
down and disappear into the nest. How curious this instinct
seems! The fly regards the bird, which affords it the warmth and
food essential to life, as its only deadly enemy; and with an
inherited wisdom, like that of the mosquito with regard to the
dragon-fly, or of the horse-fly with regard to the Monedula wasp,
vanishes like smoke from its presence, and only approaches the
bird secretly from a place of concealment.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The parasitical
habit tends inevitably to degrade the species acquiring it,
dulling its senses and faculties, especially those of sight and
locomotion; but the Ornithomyia seems an exception, its dependent
life having had a contrary effect; the extreme sensitiveness,
keenness of sight, and quickness of the bird having reacted on
the insect, giving it a subtlety in its habits and motions almost
without a parallel even among free insects. A man with a
blood-sucking flat-bodied flying squirrel, concealing itself
among his clothing and gliding and dodging all over his body with
so much artifice and rapidity as to defeat all efforts made to
capturo</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems. 149</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">it or knock it off,
would be a case parallel to that of the bird-fly on the small
bird. It might be supposed that the Firewood-gatherer, like some
ants that keep domestic pets, makes a pet of the fly; for it is a
very pretty insect, barred with green, and with rainbow
reflections on its wings--and birds are believed by some
theorists to possess aesthetic tastes; but the discomfort of
having such a vampire on the body would, I imagine, be too great
to allow a kindly instinct of that nature to grow up. Moreover, I
have on several occasions seen the bird making frantic efforts to
capture one of the flies, which had incautiously flown up from
the nest at the wrong moment. Bird and fly seem to know each
other wonderfully well.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Here, then, we have
a parasitical insect specialized in the highest degree, yet
retaining all its pristine faculties unimpaired, its love of
liberty, and of associating in numbers together for sportive
exercises, and well able to take care of itself during its free
intervals. And probably when thrown on the world, as when nests
are blown down, or the birds get killed, or change their
quarters, as they often do, it is able to exist for some time
without avian blood. Let us then imagine some of these orphaned
colonies, unable to find birds, but through a slight change in
habits or organization able to exist in the imago state without
sucking blood until they laid their eggs; and succeeding
generations, still better able to stand the altered conditions of
life until they become practically independent (like gnats),
multiplying greatly, and disporting themselves in clouds over
forests, yet still retaining the old hunger</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">150 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">for blood and the
power to draw it, and ready at any moment to return to the
ancestral habit. It might be said that if such a result were
possible it would have occurred, but that we find no insect like
the Ornithomyia existing independently. With the bird-fly it has
not occurred, as far as we know; but in the past history of some
independent parasites it is possible that something similar to
the imaginary case I have sketched may have taken place. The
bush-tick is a more highly specialized, certainly a more
degraded, creature than the bird-fly, and the very fact of its
existence seems to show that it is possible for even the lowest
of the fallen race of parasites to start afresh in life under new
conditions, and to reascend in the scale of being, although still
bearing about it the marks of former degeneracy.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The connection
between the flea and the mammal it feeds on is even less close
than that which exists between the Ornithomyia and bird. The fact
that fleas are so common and universal--for in all lands we have
them, like the poor, always with us; and that they are found on
all mammals, from the king of beasts to the small modest
mouse--seems to show a great amount of variability and
adaptiveness, as well as a very high antiquity. It has often been
reported that fleas have been found hopping on the ground in
desert places, where they could not have been dropped by man or
beast; and it has been assumed that these "independent" fleas
must, like gnats and ticks, subsist on vegetable juices. There is
no doubt that they are able to exist and propagate</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems,</i> 151</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">for one or two years
after being deprived of their proper aliment; houses shut up for
a year or longer are sometimes found infested with them; possibly
in the absence of "vegetable juices" they flourish on dust. I
have never detected them hopping on the ground in uninhabited
places, although I once found them in Patagonia, in a hamlet
which had been attacked and depopulated by the Indians about
twenty months before my visit. On entering one of the deserted
huts I found the floor literally swarming with fleas, and in less
than ten seconds my legs, to the height of my knees, were almost
black with their numbers. This proves that they are able
toincrease greatly for a period without blood; but I doubt that
they can go on existing and increasing for an indefinite time;
perhaps their true position, with regard to the parasitical
habit, is midway between that of the strict parasite which never
leaves the body, and that of independent parasites like the Culex
and the Ixodes, and all those which are able to exist free for
ever, and are parasitical only when the opportunity
offers.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Entomologists regard
the flea as a degraded fly. Certainly it is very much more
degraded than the bird-borne Ornithomyia, with its subtle motions
and instinct, its power of flight and social pastimes. The poor
pulex has lost every trace of wings; nevertheless, in its fallen
condition it has developed some remarkable qualities and
saltatory powers, which give it a lower kind of glory; and,
compared with another parasite with which it shares the human
species, it is almost a noble insect. Darwin has some remarks
about the smallness of the brain</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15"><b>152</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">of an ant, assuming
that this insect possesses a very high intelligence, but I doubt
very much that the ant, which moves in a groove, is mentally the
superior of the unsocial flea. The last is certainly the most
teachable; and if fleas were generally domesticated and made pets
of, probably there would be as many stories about their
marvellous intelligence and fidelity to man as we now hear about
our over-praised "friend" the dog.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">With regard to size,
the flea probably started on its downward course as a
comparatively large insect, probably larger than the Ornithomyia.
That insect has been able to maintain its existence, without
dwindling like the Leptus into a mere speck, through the great
modification in organs and instinct, which adapt it so
beautifully to the feathery element in which it moves. The
bush-tick, wingless from the beginning, and diverging in another
direction, has probably been greatly increased in size by its
parasitical habit; this seems proven by the fact, that as long as
it is parasitical on nothing it remains small, but when able to
fasten itself to an animal it rapidly developes to a great size.
Again, the big globe of its abdomen is coriaceous and elastic,
and is probably as devoid of sensation as a ball of india-rubber.
The insect, being made fast by hooks and teeth to its victim, all
efforts to remove it only increase the pain it causes; and
animals that know it well do not attempt to rub, scratch, or bite
it off, therefore the great size and the conspicuous colour of
the tick are positive advantages to it. The flea, without the
subtlety and highly-specialized organs of the Ornithomyia, or the
stick-fast powers and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Mosquitoes and
Parasite Problems,</i> 153</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">leathery body of
the Ixodes, can only escape its vigilant enemies by making itself
invisible; hence every variation, i.e. increase in jumping-power
and diminished bulk, tending towards this result, has been taken
advantage of by natural selection.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XI</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">HUMBLE-BEES AND OTHER
MATTERS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Two humble-bees,
Bombus thoracicus and B. viola-ceus, are found on the pampas; the
first, with a primrose yellow thorax, and the extremity of the
abdomen bright rufous, slightly resembles the English B.
terrestris; the rarer species, which is a trifle smaller than the
first, is of a uniform intense black, the body having the
appearance of velvet, the wings being of a deep violaceous
blue.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">A census of the
humble-bees in any garden or field always shows that the yellow
bees outnumber the black in the proportion of about seven to one;
and I have also found their nests for many years in the same
proportion; about seven nests of the yellow to one nest of the
black species. In habits they are almost identical, and when two
species so closely allied are found inhabiting the same locality,
it is only reasonable to infer that one possesses some advantage
over the other, and that the least favoured species will
eventually disappear. In this case, where one so greatly
outnumbers the other, it might be thought that the rarer species
is dying out, or that, on the contrary, it is a new-comer
destined to supplant the older more numerous species. Yet, during
the twenty years I have ob-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Humble-Bees and
other Matters.</i> 155</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">served them, there
has occurred no change in their relative positions; though both
have greatly increased in numbers during that time, owing to the
spread of cultivation. And yet it would scarcely be too much to
expect some marked change in a period so long as that, even
through the slow-working agency of natural selection; for it is
not as if there had been an exact balance of power between them.
In the same period of time I have seen several species, once
common, almost or quite disappear, while others, very low down as
to numbers, have been exalted to the first rank. In insect life
especially, these changes have been numerous, rapid, and
widespread.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the district
where, as a boy, I chased and caught tinamous, and also chased
ostriches, but failed to catch them, the continued presence of
our two humble-bees, sucking the same flowers and making their
nests in the same situations, has remained a puzzle to my
mind.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The site of the nest
is usually a slight depression in the soil in the shelter of a
cardoon bush. The bees deepen the hollow by burrowing in the
earth; and when the spring foliage sheltering it withers up, they
construct a dome-shaped covering of small sticks, thorns, and
leaves bitten into extremely minute pieces. They sometimes take
possession of a small hole or cavity in the ground, and save
themselves the labour of excavation.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Their architecture
closely resembles that of B. terrestris. They make rudely-shaped
oval honey-cells, varying from half an inch to an inch and a half
in length, the smaller ones being the first</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">156</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">made; later in the
season the old cocoons are utilized for storing honey. The wax is
chocolate-coloured, and almost the only difference I can find in
the economy of the two species is that the black bee uses a large
quantity of wax in plastering the interior of its nest. The
egg-cell of the yellow bee always contains from twelve to sixteen
eggs; that of the black bee from ten to fourteen; and the eggs of
this species are the largest though the bee is smallest. At the
entrance on the edge of the mound one bee is usually stationed,
and, when approached, it hums a shrill challenge, and throws
itself into a menacing attitude. The sting is exceedingly
painful.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">One summer I was so
fortunate as to discover two nests of the two kinds within twelve
yards of each other, and I resolved to watch them very carefully,
in order to see whether the two species ever came into collision,
as sometimes happens with ants of different species living close
together. Several times I saw a yellow bee leave its own nest and
hover round or settle on the neighbouring one, upon which the
sentinel black bee would attack and drive it off. One day, while
watching, I was delighted to see a yellow bee actually enter its
neighbour's nest, the sentinel being off duty. In about five
minutes' time it came out again and flew away unmolested. I
concluded from this that humble-bees, like their relations of the
hive, occasionally plunder each other's sweets. On another
occasion I found a black bee dead at the entrance of the yellow
bees' nest; doubtless this individual had been caught in the act
of stealing honey, and, after</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humble-Bees and
other Matters,</i> 157</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">it had been stung
to death, it had been dragged out and left there as a warning to
others with like felonious intentions.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">There is one
striking difference between the two species. The yellow bee is
inodorous; the black bee, when angry and attacking, emits an
exceedingly powerful odour: curiously enough, this smell is
identical in character with that made when angry by all the wasps
of the South American genus Pepris--dark blue wasps with red
wings. This odour at first produces a stinging sensation on the
nerve of smell, but when inhaled in large measure becomes very
nauseating. On one occasion, while I was opening a nest, several
of the bees buzzing round my head and thrusting their stings
through the veil I wore for protection, gave out so pungent a
smell that I found it unendurable, and was compelled to
retreat.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It seems strange
that a species armed with a venomous sting and possessing the
fierce courage of the humble-bee should also have this repulsive
odour for a protection. It is, in fact, as incongruous as it
would be were our soldiers provided with guns and swords first,
and after with phials of assafoatida to be uncorked in the face
of an enemy.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Why, or how, animals
came to be possessed of the power of emitting pestiferous odours
is a mystery; we only see that natural selection has, in some
mstances, chiefly among insects, taken advantage of it to furnish
some of the weaker, more unprotected species with a means of
escape from their enemies. The most stinking example I know is
that</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">158 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">of a large hairy
caterpillar I have found on dry wood in Patagonia, and which,
when touched, emits an intensely nauseous effluvium. Happily it
is very volatile, but while it lasts it is even more detestable
than that of the skunk.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The skunk itself
offers perhaps the one instance amongst the higher vertebrates of
an animal in which all the original instincts of
self-preservation have died out, giving place to this lower kind
of protection. All the other members of the family it belongs to
are cunning, swift of foot, and, when overtaken, fierce-tempered
and well able to defend themselves with their powerful well-armed
jaws.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">For some occult
reason they are provided with a gland charged with a malodorous
secretion; and out of this mysterious liquor Nature has
elaborated the skunk's inglorious weapon. The skunk alone when
attacked makes no attempt to escape or to defend itself by
biting; but, thrown by its agitation into a violent convulsion,
involuntarily discharges its foetid liquor into the face of an
opponent. When this animal had once ceased to use so good a
weapon as its teeth in defending itself, degenerating at the same
time into a slow-moving creature, without fear and without
cunning, the strength and vileness of its odour would be
continually increased by the cumulative process of natural
selection: and how effective the protection has become is shown
by the abundance of the species throughout the whole American
continent. It is lucky for mankind--especially for naturalists
and sportsmen--that other species have not been improved in the
same direction.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humble-Bees and
other Matters.</i> 59</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">But what can we say
of the common deer of the pampas (Cervus campestris), the male of
which gives out an effluvium quite as far-reaching although not
so abominable in character as that of the Mephitis? It comes in
disagreeable whiffs to the human nostril when the perfumer of the
wilderness is not even in sight. Yet it is not a protection; on
the contrary, it is the reverse, and, like the dazzling white
plumage so attractive to birds of prey, a direct disadvantage,
informing all enemies for leagues around of its whereabouts. It
is not, therefore, strange that wherever pumas are found, deer
are never very abundant; the only wonder is that, like the
ancient horse of America, they have not become
extinct.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The gauchos of the
pampas, however, give <i>a reason</i> for the powerful smell of
the male deer; and, after some hesitation, I have determined to
set it down here, for the reader to accept or reject, as he
thinks proper. I neither believe nor disbelieve it; for although
I do not put great faith in gaucho natural history, my own
observations have not infrequently confirmed statements of
theirs, which a sceptical person would have regarded as wild
indeed. To give one instance: I heard a gaucho relate that while
out riding he had been pursued for a considerable distance by a
large spider; his hearers laughed at him for a romancer; but as I
myself had been attacked and pursued, both when on foot and on
horseback, by a large wolf-spider, common on the pampas, I did
not join in the laugh. They say that the effluvium of C.
campestris is abhorrent to snakes of all kinds, just</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">16o <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">as pyrethrum powder
is to most insects, and even go so far as to describe its effect
as fatal to them; according to this, the smell is therefore a
protection to the deer. In places where venomous snakes are
extremely abundant, as in the Sierra district on the southern
pampas of Buenos Ayres, the gaucho frequently ties a strip of the
male deer's skin, which retains its powerful odour for an
indefinite time, round the neck of a valuable horse as a
protection. It is certain that domestic animals are frequently
lost here through snake-bites. The most common poisonous
species--the Craspedo-cephalus alternatus, called <i>Vivora de la
Cruz</i> in the vernacular--has neither bright colour nor warning
rattle to keep off heavy hoofs, and is moreover of so sluggish a
temperament that it will allow itself to be trodden on before
stirring, with the result that its fangs are not infrequently
struck into the nose or foot of browsing beast. Considering,
then, the conditions in which C. campestris is placed--and it
might also be supposed that venomous snakes have in past times
been much more numerous than they are now--it is not impossible
to believe that the powerful smell it emits has been made
protective, especially when we see in other species how repulsive
odours have been turned to account by the principle of natural
selection.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">After all, perhaps
the wild naturalist of the pampas knows what he is about when he
ties a strip of deer-skin to the neck of his steed and turns him
loose to graze among the snakes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The gaucho also
affirms that the deer cherishes a wonderful animosity against
snakes; that it be-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humble-Bees and
other Matters.</i> 161</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">comes greatly
excited when it sees one, and proceeds at once to destroy it;
<i>they say,</i> by running round and round it in a circle,
emitting its violent smell in larger measure, until the snake
dies of suffocation. It is hard to believe that the effect can be
so great; but that the deer is a snake hater and killer is
certainly true: in North America, Ceylon, and other districts
deer have been observed excitedly leaping on serpents, and
killing them with their sharp cutting hoofs.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">A NOBLE
WASP.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>(Monedula
punctata.)</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">NATURALISTS, like
kings and emperors, have their favourites, and as my zoological
sympathies, which are wider than my knowledge, embrace all
classes of beings, there are of course several insects for which
I have a special regard; a few in each of the principal orders.
My chief favourite among the hymenopteras is the one
representative of the curious genus Monedula known in La Plata.
It is handsome and has original habits, but it is specially
interesting to me for another reason: I can remember the time
when it was extremely rare on the pampas, so rare that in boyhood
the sight of one used to be a great event to me; and I have
watched its rapid increase year by year till it has come to be
one of our commonest species. Its singular habits and
intelligence give it a still better claim to notice. It is a big,
showy, loud-buzzing insect, with pink head and legs, wings with
brown reflections, and body encircled with alternate bands of
black and pale gold, and has a preference for large composite
flowers, on the honey of which it feeds. Its young is, however,
an insect-eater; but the Monedula does not, like other burrowing
or</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>A noble Wasp.</i>
163</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">sand wasps, put
away a store of insects or spiders, partially paralyzed, as a
provision for the grub till it reaches the pupa state; it
actually supplies the grub with fresh-caught insects as long as
food is required, killing the prey it captures outright, and
bringing it in to its young; so that its habits, in this
particular, are more bird- than wasp-like.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The wasp lays its
solitary egg at the extremity of a hole it excavates for itself
on a bare hard piece of ground, and many holes are usually found
close together. When the grub--for I have never been able to find
more than one in a hole--has come out from the egg, the parent
begins to bring in insects, carefully filling up the mouth of the
hole with loose earth after every visit. Without this precaution,
which entails a vast amount of labour, I do not believe one grub
out of every fifty would survive, so overrun are these barren
spots of ground used as breeding-places with hunting spiders,
ants, and tiger-beetles. The grub is a voracious eater, but the
diligent mother brings in as much as it can devour. I have often
found as many as six or seven insects, apparently fresh killed,
and not yet touched by the pampered little glutton, coiled up in
the midst of them waiting for an appetite.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The Monedula is an
adroit fly-catcher, for though it kills numbers of fire-flies and
other insects, flies are always preferred, possibly because they
are so little encumbered with wings, and are also more easily
devoured. It occasionally captures insects on the wing, but the
more usual method is to pounce down on its prey when it is at
rest. At one time, before I had learnt their habits, I
used</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">164 <i>The Nauiralist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">frequently to be
startled by two or three or more of these wasps rushing towards
my face, and continuing hovering before it, loudly buzzing,
attending me in my walks about the fields. The reason of this
curious proceeding is that the Monedula preys largely on stinging
flies, having learnt from experience that the stinging fly will
generally neglect its own safety when it has once fastened on a
good spot to draw blood from. When a man or horse stands
perfectly motionless the wasps take no notice, but the moment any
movement is made of hand, tail, or stamping hoof, they rush to
the rescue, expecting to find a stinging fly. On the other hand,
the horse has learnt to know and value this fly-scourge, and will
stand very quietly with half a dozen loud Avasps hovering in an
alarming manner close to his head, well knowing that every fly
that settles on him will be instantly snatched away, and that the
boisterous Monedula is a better protection even than the
tail--which, by the way, the horse wears very long in Buenos
Ayres.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have, in
conclusion, to relate an incident I onco witnessed, and which
does not show the Monedula in a very amiable light. I was leaning
over a gate watching one of these wasps feeding on a sunflower. A
small leaf-cutting bee was hurrying about with its shrill busy
hum in the vicinity, and in due time came to the sunflower and
settled on it. The Monedula became irritated, possibly at the
shrill voice and bustling manner of its neighbour, and, after
watching it for a few moments on the flower, deliberately rushed
at and drove it off. The leaf-cutter quickly returned,
however--for bees</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>A noble Wasp.</i>
165</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c8">are always extremely
averse to leaving a flower unexplored--but was again driven away
with threats and demonstrations on the part of the Monedula. The
little thing went off and sunned itself on a leaf for a time,
then returned to the flower, only to be instantly ejected again.
Other attempts were made,</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-15.jpg" alt="h1-15.jpg" class="c29">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">A Bee's
Eevenge.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">but the big wasp now
kept a jealous watch on its neighbour's movements, and would not
allow it to come within several inches of the flower without
throwing itself into a threatening attitude. The defeated bee
retired to sun itself once more, apparently determined to wait
for the big tyrant to go away; but the other seemed to know what
was</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">166 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">wanted, and
spitefully made up its mind to stay where it was. The leaf-cutter
then gave up the contest. Suddenly rising up into the air, it
hovered, hawk-like, above the Monedula for a moment, then pounced
down on its back, and clung there, furiously biting, until its
animosity was thoroughly appeased; then it flew off, leaving the
other master of the field certainly, but greatly discomposed, and
perhaps seriously injured about the base of the wings. I was
rather surprised that they were not cut quite off, for a
leaf-cutting bee can use its teeth as deftly as a tailor can his
shears.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Doubtless to bees,
as to men, revenge is sweeter than honey. But, in the face of
mental science, can a creature as low down in the scale of
organization as a leaf-cutting bee be credited with anything so
intelligent and emotional as deliberate anger and revenge, "which
implies the need of retaliation to satisfy the feelings of the
person (or bee) offended?" According to Bain <i>(Mental and Moral
Science)</i> only the highest animals--stags and bulls he
mentions-can be credited with the developed form of anger, which,
he describes as an excitement caused by pain, reaching the
centres of activity, and containing an impulse knowingly to
inflict suffering on another sentient being. Here, if man only is
meant, the spark is perhaps accounted for, but not the barrel of
gunpowder. The explosive material is, however, found in the
breast of nearly every living creature. The bull--ranking high
according to Bain, though I myself should place him nearly on a
level mentally</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>A noble Wasp.</i>
167</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">with the majority
of the lower animals, both vertebrate and insect--is capable of a
wrath exceeding that of Achilles; and yet the fact that a red rag
can manifestly have no associations, personal or political, for
the bull, shows how uniutcllectual his anger must be. Another
instance of misdirected anger in nature, not quite so familiar
as that of the bull and red rag, is used as an illustration by
one of the prophets: "My heritage is unto me as a speckled bird;
the birds round, about are against it." I have frequently seen
the birds of a thicket gather round some singularly marked
accidental visitor, and finally drive him with great anger from
the neighbourhood. Possibly association comes in a little here,
since any bird, even a small one, strikingly coloured or marked,
might be looked on as a bird of prey.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The flesh-fly
laying its eggs on the carrion-flower is only a striking instance
of the mistakes all instincts are liable to, never more markedly
than in the inherited tendency to fits of frenzied excitement:
the feeling is frequently excited by the wrong object, and
explodes at inopportune moments.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER
XIII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c30">NATURE'S NIGHT
LIGHTS. <i>(Remarks about Fireflies and other
matters.)</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">IT was formerly
supposed that the light of the firefly (in any family possessing
the luminous power) was a safeguard against the attacks of other
insects, rapacious and nocturnal in their habits. This was Kirby
and Spence's notion, but it might just as well be Pliny's for all
the attention it would receive from modern entomologists: just at
present any observer who lived in the pre-Darwin days is regarded
as one of the ancients. The reasons given for the notion or
theory in the celebrated <i>Introduction to Entomology</i> were
not conclusive; nevertheless it was not an improbable supposition
of the authors'; while the theory which has taken its place in
recent zoological writings seems in every way even less
satisfactory.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Let us first examine
the antiquated theory, as it must now be called. By bringing a
raptorial insect and a firefly together, we find that the
flashing light of the latter does actually scare away the former,
and is therefore, for the moment, a protection as effectual as
the camp-fire the traveller lights in a district abounding with
beasts of prey. Notwith-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Nature's Night
Lights.</i> 169</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">standing this fact,
and assuming that we have here the whole reason of the existence
of the light-emitting power, a study of the firefly's habits
compels us to believe that the insect would be just as well off
without the power as with it. Probably it experiences some
pleasure in emitting flashes of light during its evening
pastimes, but this could scarcely be considered an advantage in
its struggle for existence, and it certainly does not account for
the possession of the faculty.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">About the habits of
Pyrophorus, the large tropical firefly which has the seat of its
luminosity on the upper surface of the thorax, nothing definite
appears to be known; but it has been said that this instinct is
altogether nocturnal. The Pyrophorus is only found in the
sub-tropical portion of the Argentine country, and I have never
met with it. With the widely-separated Cratomorphus, and the
tortoise-shaped Aspisoma, which emit the light from the abdomen,
I am familiar; one species of Cratomorphus--a long slender insect
with yellow wing-cases marked with two parallel black lines--is
"the firefly" known to every one and excessively abundant in the
southern countries of La Plata. This insect is strictly diurnal
in its habits--as much so, in fact, as diurnal butterflies. They
are seen flying about, wooing their mates, and feeding on
composite and umbelliferous flowers at all hours of the day, and
are as active as wasps during the full glare of noon. Birds do
not feed on them, owing to the disagreeable odour, resembling
that of phosphorus, they emit, and probably because they are to
be uneatable; but their insect enemies are</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">170 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">not so squeamish,
and devour them readily, just as they also do the blister-fly,
which one would imagine a morsel fitted to disagree with any
stomach. One of their enemies is the Monedula wasp; another, a
fly, of the rapacious Asilidas family; and this fly is also a
wasp in appearance, having a purple body and bright red wings,
like a Pepris, and this mimetic resemblance doubtless serves it
as a protection against birds. A majority of raptorial insects
are, however, nocturnal, and from all these enemies that go about
under cover of night, the firefly, as Kirby and Spence rightly
conjectured, protects itself, or rather is involuntarily
protected, by means of its frequent flashing light. We are thus
forced to the conclusion that, while the common house fly and
many other diurnal insects spend a considerable portion of the
daylight in purely sportive exercises, the firefly, possessing in
its light a protection from nocturnal enemies, puts off its
pastimes until the evening; then, when its carnival of two or
three hours' duration is over, retires also to rest, putting out
its candle, and so exposing itself to the dangers which surround
other diurnal species during the hours of darkness. I have spoken
of the firefly's pastimes advisedly, for I have really never been
able to detect it doing anything in the evening beyond flitting
aimlessly about, like house flies in a room, hovering and
revolving in company by the hour, apparently for amusement. Thus,
the more closely we look at the facts, the more unsatisfactory
does the explanation seem. That the firefly should have become
possessed of so elaborate a machinery, producing incidentally
such splendid results, merely as</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Nature's Night
Lights.</i> <b>171</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">a protection
against one set of enemies for a portion only of the period
during which they are active, is altogether
incredible.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The current theory,
which we owe to Belt, is a prettier one. Certain insects (also
certain Batrachians, reptiles, &amp;c.) are unpalatable to the
rapacious kinds; it is therefore a direct advantage to these
unpalatable species to be distinguishable from all the
persecuted, and the more conspicuous and well-known they are, the
less likely are they to be mistaken by birds, insectivorous
mammals, &amp;c., for eatable kinds and caught or injured. Hence
we find that many such species have acquired for their protection
very brilliant or strongly-contrasted colours--warning
colours--which insect-eaters come to know.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The firefly, a
soft-bodied, slow-flying insect, is easily caught and injured,
but it is not fit for food, and, therefore, says the theory, lest
it should be injured or killed by mistake, it has a fiery spark
to warn enemies---birds, bats, and rapacious insects--that it is
uneatable.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The theory of
warning colours is an excellent one, but it has been pushed too
far. We have seen that one of the most common fireflies is
diurnal in habits, or, at any rate, that it performs all the
important business of its life by day, when it has neither bright
colour nor light to warn its bird enemies; and out of every
hundred species of insect-eating birds at least ninety-nine are
diurnal. Raptorial insects, as I have said, feed freely on
fireflies, so that the supposed warning is not for them, and it
would be hard to believe that the magnificent</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">172 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">display made by
luminous insects is useful only in preventing accidental injuries
to them from a few crepuscular bats and goatsuckers. And to
believe even this we should first have to assume that bats and
goatsuckers are differently constituted from all other creatures;
for in other animals--insects, birds, and mammalians--the
appearance of fire by night seems to confuse and frighten, but it
certainly cannot be said to <i>warn,</i> in the sense in which
that word is used when we speak of the brilliant colours of some
butterflies, or even of the gestures of some venomous snakes, and
of the sounds they emit.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Thus we can see
that, while the old theory of Kirby and Spence had some facts to
support it, the one now in vogue is purely fanciful. Until some
better suggestion is made, it would perhaps be as well to
consider the luminous organ as having "no very close and direct
relation to present habits of life." About their present habits,
however, especially their crepuscular habits, there is yet much
to learn. One thing I have observed in them has always seemed
very strange to me. Occasionally an individual insect is seen
shining with a very large and steady light, or with a light which
very gradually decreases and increases in power, and at such
times it is less active than at others, remaining for long
intervals motionless on the leaves, or moving with a very slow
flight. In South America a firefly displaying this abnormal
splendour is said to be dying, and it is easy to imagine how such
a notion originated. The belief is, however, erroneous, for
sometimes, on very rare occasions, all the insects in
one</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Nature's Night
Lights.</i> 173</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">place are
simultaneously affected in the same way, and at such times they
mass themselves together in myriads, as if for migration, or for
some other great purpose. Mr. Bigg-Wither, in South Brazil, and
D'Albertis, in New Guinea, noticed these firefly gatherings; I
also once had the rare good fortune to witness a phenomenon of
the kind on a very grand scale. Riding on the pampas one dark
evening an hour after sunset, and passing from high ground
overgrown with giant thistles to a low plain covered with long
grass, bordering a stream of water, I found it all ablaze with
myriads of fireflies. I noticed that all the insects gave out an
exceptionally large, brilliant light, which shone almost
steadily. The long grass was thickly studded with them, while
they literally swarmed in the air, all moving up the valley with
a singularly slow and languid flight. When I galloped down into
this river of phosphorescent fire, my horse plunged and snorted
with alarm. I succeeded at length in quieting him, and then rode
slowly through, compelled to keep my mouth and eyes closed, so
thickly did the insects rain on to my face. The air was laden
with the sickening phosphorous smell they emit, but when I had
once got free of the broad fiery zone, stretching away on either
hand for miles along the moist valley, I stood still and gazed
back for some time on a scene the most wonderful and enchanting I
have ever witnessed.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c31">The fascinating and
confusing effect which the appearance of fire at night has on
animals is a most</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">174 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">interesting subject;
and although it is not probable that anything very fresh remains
to be said about it, I am tempted to add here the results of my
own experience.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">When travelling by
night, I have frequently been struck with the behaviour of my
horse at the sight of natural fire, or appearance of fire, always
so different from that caused by the sight of fire artificially
created. The steady gleam from the open window or door of a
distant house, or even the unsteady wind-tossed flame of some
lonely camp-fire, has only served to rouse a fresh spirit in him
and the desire to reach it; whereas those infrequent displays of
fire which nature exhibits, such as lightning, or the ignis
fatuus, or even a cloud of fireflies, has always produced a
disquieting effect. Experience has evidently taught the domestic
horse to distinguish a light kindled by man from all others; and,
knowing its character, he is just as well able as his rider to go
towards it without experiencing that confusion of mind caused by
a glare in the darkness, the origin and nature of which is a
mystery. The artificially-lighted fire is to the horse only the
possible goal of the journey, and is associated with the thought
of rest and food. Wild animals, as a rule, at any rate in
thinly-settled districts, do not know the meaning of any fire; it
only excites curiosity and fear in them; and they are most
disturbed at the sight of fires made by man, which are brighter
and steadier than most natural fires. We can understand this
sensation in animals, since we ourselves experience a similar one
(although in a less degree and not associated</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Nature's Night
Lights.</i> 175</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">with fear) in the
effect which mere brightness has on us, both by day and
night.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">On riding across
the monotonous grey Patagonian uplands, where often for hours one
sees not the faintest tinge of bright colour, the intense glowing
crimson of a cactus-fruit, or the broad shining white bosom of
the Patagonian eagle-buzzard (Buteo erythronotus), perched on the
summit of a distant bush, has had a strangely fascinating effect
on me, so that I have been unable to take my eyes off it as long
as it continued before me. Or in passing through extensive
desolate marshes, the dazzling white plumage of a stationary
egret has exercised the same attraction. At night we experience
the sensation in a greater degree, when the silver sheen of the
moon makes a broad path on the water; or when a meteor leaves a
glowing track across the sky; while a still more familiar
instance is seen in the powerful attraction on the sight of
glowing embers in a darkened room. The mere brightness, or
vividness of the contrast, fascinates the mind; but the effect on
man is comparatively weak, owing to his fiery education and to
his familiarity with brilliant dyes artificially obtained from
nature. How strong this attraction of mere brightness, even where
there is no mystery about it, is to wild animals is shown by
birds of prey almost invariably singling out white or
bright-plumaged birds for attack where bright and sober-coloured
kinds are mingled together. By night the attraction is
immeasurably greater than by day, and the light of a fire
steadily gazed at quickly confuses the mind. The fires which,
travellers make</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">176 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">for their protection
actually serve to attract the beasts of prey, but the confusion
and fear caused by the bright glare makes it safe for the
traveller to lie down and sleep in the light. Mammals do not lose
their heads altogether, because they are walking on firm ground
where muscular exertion and an exercise of judgment are necessary
at every step; whereas birds floating buoyantly and with little
effort through the air are quickly bewildered. Incredible numbers
of migratory birds kill them-selves by dashing against the
windows of lighthouses; on bright moonlight nights the voyagers
are comparatively safe; but during dark cloudy weather the
slaughter is very great; over six hundred birds were killed by
striking a lighthouse in Central America in a single night. On
insects the effect is the same as on the higher animals: on the
ground they are attracted by the light, but keep, like wolves and
tigers, at a safe distance from it; when rushing through the air
and unable to keep their eyes from it they fly into it, or else
revolve about it, until, coming too close, their wings are
singed.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I find that when I
am on horseback, going at a swinging gallop, a bright light
affects me far more powerfully than when I am trudging along on
foot. A person mounted on a bicycle and speeding over a level
plain on a dark night, with nothing to guide him except the idea
of the direction in his mind, would be to some extent in the
position of the migratory bird. An exceptionally brilliant ignis
fatuus flying before him would affect him as the gleam of a lamp
placed high above the surface</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Natures Night
Lights.</i> 177</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">affects the
migrants: he would not be able to keep his eyes from it, but
would quickly lose the sense of direction, and probably end his
career much as the bird does, by breaking his machine and perhaps
his bones against some unseen obstruction in the way.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">N</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XIV.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">FACTS AND THOUGHTS
ABOUT SPIDERS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">SOME time ago, while
turning over a quantity of rubbish in a little-used room, I
disturbed a large black spider. Rushing forth, just in time to
save itself from destruction through the capsizing of a pile of
books, it paused for one moment, took a swift comprehensive
glance at the position, then scuttled away across the floor, and
was lost in an obscure corner of the room. This incident served
to remind me of a fact I was nearly forgetting, that England is
not a spiderless country. A foreigner, however intelligent,
coming from warmer regions, might very easily make that mistake.
In Buenos Ayres, the land of my nativity, earth teems with these
interesting little creatures. They abound in and on the water,
they swarm in the grass and herbage, which everywhere glistens
with the silvery veil they spin over it. Indeed it is scarcely an
exaggeration to say that there is an atmosphere of spiders, for
they are always floating about invisible in the air; their filmy
threads are unfelt when they fly against you; and often enough
you are not even aware of the little arrested aeronaut hurrying
over your face with feet lighter than the lightest
thistledown.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
aboitt Spiders.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is somewhat
strange that although, where other tribes of living creatures are
concerned, I am something of a naturalist, spiders I have always
observed and admired in a non-scientific spirit, and this must be
my excuse for mentioning the habits of some spiders without
giving their specific names--an omission always vexing to the
severely-technical naturalist. They have ministered to the love
of the beautiful, the grotesque, and the marvellous in me; but I
have never <i>collected</i> a spider, and if I wished to preserve
one should not know how to do it. I have been "familiar with the
face" of these monsters so long that I have even learnt to love
them; and I believe that if Emerson rightly predicts that spiders
are amongst the things to be expelled from earth by the perfected
man of the future, then a great charm and element of interest
will be lost to nature. Though loving them, I cannot, of course,
feel the same degree of affection towards all the members of so
various a family. The fairy gossamer, scarce seen, a creature of
wind and sunshine; the gem-like Epeira in the centre of its
Starry web; even the terrestrial Salticus, with its puma-like
strategy, certainly appeal more to our aesthetic feelings than
does the slow heavy Mygale, looking at a distance of twenty yards
away, as he approaches you, like a gigantic cockroach mounted on
stilts. The rash fury with which the female wolf-spider defends
her young is very admirable; but the admiration she excites is
mingled with other feelings when we remember that the brave
mother proves to her consort a cruel and cannibal
spouse.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Possibly my
affection for spiders is due in a great</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c3">N 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">180 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">measure to the
compassion I have always felt for them. Pity, 'tis said, is akin
to love; and who can help experiencing that tender emotion that
considers the heavy affliction nature has laid on the spiders in
compensation for the paltry drop of venom with which she,
unasked, endowed them! And here, of course, I am alluding to the
wasps. These insects, with a refinement of cruelty, prefer not to
kill their victims outright, but merely maim them, then house
them in cells where the grubs can vivisect them at leisure. This
is one of those revolting facts the fastidious soul cannot escape
from in warm climates; for in and out of open windows and doors,
all day long, all the summer through, comes the busy beautiful
mason-wasp. A long body, wonderfully slim at the waist, bright
yellow legs and thorax, and a dark crimson abdomen,--what object
can be prettier to look at? But in her life this wasp is not
beautiful. At home in summer they were the pests of my life, for
nothing would serve to keep them out. One day, while we were
seated at dinner, a clay nest, which a wasp had succeeded in
completing unobserved, detached itself from the ceiling and fell
with a crash on to the table, where it was shattered to pieces,
scattering a shower of green half-living spiders round it. I
shall never forget the feeling of intense repugnance I
experienced at the sight, coupled with detestation of the pretty
but cruel little architect. There is, amongst our wasps, even a
more accomplished spider-scourge than the mason-wasp, and I will
here give a brief account of its habits. On the grassy pampas,
dry bare spots of soil are resorted to by a class of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Thoughts about
Spiders.</i> 181</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">spiders that either
make or take little holes in the ground to reside in, and from
which they rush forth to seize their prey. They also frequently
sit inside their dens and patiently wait there for the intrusion
of some bungling insect. Now, in summer, to a dry spot of ground
like this, comes a small wasp, scarcely longer than a blue-bottle
fly, body and wings of a deep shining purplish blue colour, with
only a white mark like a collar on the thorax. It flirts its blue
wings, hurrying about here and there, and is extremely active,
and of a slender graceful figure--the type of an assassin. It
visits and explores every crack and hole in the ground, and, if
you watch it attentively, you will at length see it, on arriving
at a hole, give a little start backwards. It knows that a spider
lies concealed within. Presently, having apparently matured a
plan of attack, it disappears into the hole and remains there for
some time. Then, just when you are beginning to think that the
little blue explorer has been trapped, out it rushes, flying in
terror, apparently, from the spider who issues close behind in
hot pursuit; but, before they are three inches away from the
hole, quick as lightning the wasp turns on its follower, and the
two become locked together in a deadly embrace. Looking like one
insect, they spin rapidly round for a few moments, then up
springs the wasp--victorious. The wretched victim is not dead;
its legs move a little, but its soft body is paralyzed, and lies
collapsed, flabby, and powerless as a stranded jellyfish. And
this is the invariable result of every such conflict. In other
classes of beings, even the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><b>182</b> <i>The
Naturalist in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">weakest hunted thing
occasionally succeeds in inflicting pain on its persecutor, and
the small trembling mouse, unable to save itself, can sometimes
make the cat shriek with paiu; but there is no weak spot in the
wasp's armour, no fatal error of judgment, not even an accident,
ever to save the wretched victim from its fate. And now comes the
most iniquitous part of the proceeding. When the wasp has
sufficiently rested after the struggle, it deliberately drags the
disabled spider back into its own hole, and, having packed it
away at the extremity, lays an egg alongside of it, then, coming
out again, gathers dust and rubbish with which it fills up and
obliterates the hole; and, having thus concluded its
Machiavellian task, it flies cheerfully off in quest of another
victim.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The extensive Epeira
family supply the mason-wasps and other spider-killers with the
majority of their victims. These spiders have soft, plump,
succulent bodies like pats of butter; they inhabit trees and
bushes chiefly, where their geometric webs-betray their
whereabouts; they ar&eacute; timid, comparatively innocuous, and
reluctant to quit the shelter of their green bower, made of a
rolled-up leaf; so that there are many reasons why they should be
persecuted. They exhibit a great variety of curious forms; many
are also very richly coloured; but even their brightest
hues--orange, silver, scarlet --have not been given without
regard to the colouring of their surroundings. Green-leafed
bushes arc frequented by vividly green Epeiras, but the imitative
resemblance does not quite end here. The green spider's method of
escape, when the bush is</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 183</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">roughly shaken, is
to drop itself down on the earth, where it lies simulating death.
In falling, it drops just as a green leaf would drop, that is,
not quite so rapidly as a round, solid body like a beetle or
spider. Now in the bushes there is another Epeira, in size and
form like the last, but differing in colour; for instead of a
vivid green, it is of a faded yellowish white--the exact hue of a
dead, dried-up leaf. This spider, when it lets itself drop--for
it has the same protective habit as the other--falls not so
rapidly as a green freshly broken off leaf or as the green spider
would fall, but with a slower motion, precisely like a leaf
withered up till it has become almost light as a feather. It is
not difficult to imagine how this comes about: either a thicker
line, or a greater stiffness or tenacity of the viscid fluid
composing the web and attached to the point the spider drops
from, causes one to fall slower than the other. But how many
tentative variations in the stiffness of the web material must
there have been before the precise degree was attained enabling
the two distinct species, differing in colour, to complete their
resemblance to falling leaves--a fresh green leaf in one case and
a dead, withered leaf in the other!</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The Tetragnatha--a
genus of the Epeira family, and known also in England--are small
spiders found on the margin of streams. Their bodies are slender,
oblong, and resembling a canoe in shape; and when they sit
lengthwise on a stem or blade of grass, their long, hair-like
legs arranged straight before and behind them, it is difficult to
detect them, so closely do they resemble a discoloured stripe on
the herbage. A species of Tetragnatha</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">184 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">with a curious
modification of structure abounds on the pampas. The long leg of
this spider is no thicker than a bristle from a pig's back, but
at the extremity it is flattened and broad, giving it a striking
resemblance to an oar. These spiders are only found in herbage
overhanging the borders of streams: they are very numerous, and,
having a pugnacious temper, are incessantly quarrelling; and it
frequently happens that in these encounters, or where they are
pursuing each other through the leaves, they drop into the water
below. I believe, in fact, that they often drop themselves
purposely into it as the readiest means of escape when hard
pressed. When this happens, the advantage of the modified
structure of the legs is seen. The fallen spider, sitting
boat-like on the surface, throws out its long legs, and, dipping
the broad ends into the water, literally rows itself rapidly to
land.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The
gossamer-spider, most spiritual of living things, of which there
are numerous species, some extremely beautiful in colouring and
markings, is the most numerous of our spiders. Only when the
declining sun flings a broad track of shiny silver light on the
plain does one get some faint conception of the unnumbered
millions of these buoyant little creatures busy weaving their
gauzy veil over the earth and floating unseen, like an ethereal
vital dust, in the atmosphere.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">This spider carries
within its diminutive abdomen a secret which will possibly serve
to vex subtle intellects for a long time to come; for it is hard
to believe that merely by mechanical force, even aided by
currents of air, a creature half as big as a barley</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 185</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">grain can
instantaneously snoot out filaments twenty or thirty inches long,
and by means of which it floats itself in the air.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Naturalists are now
giving a great deal of attention to the migrations of birds in
different parts of the world: might not insect and spider
migrations be included with advantage to science in their
observations? The common notion is that the gossamer makes use of
its unique method of locomotion, only to shift its quarters,
impelled by want of food or unfavourable conditions--perhaps only
by a roving disposition. I believe that besides these incessant
flittings about from place to place throughout the summer the
gossamer-spiders have great periodical migrations which are, as a
rule, in-visible, since a single floating web cannot be remarked,
and each individual rises and floats away by itself from its own
locality when influenced by the instinct. When great numbers of
spiders rise up simultaneously over a large area, then,
sometimes, the movement forces itself on our attention; for at
such times the whole sky may be filled with visible masses of
floating web. All the great movements of gossamers I have
observed have occurred in the autumn, or, at any rate, several
weeks after the summer solstice; and, like the migrations of
birds at the same season of the year, have been in a northerly
direction. I do not assert or believe that the migratory instinct
in the gossamer is universal. In a moist island, like England,
for instance, where the condition of the atmosphere is seldom
favourable, and where the little voyagers would often be blown by
adverse winds to perish</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">186 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">far out at sea, it
is difficult to believe that such migrations take place. But
where they inhabit a vast area of land, as in South America,
extending without interruption from the equator to the cold
Magellanic regions, and where there is a long autumn of dry, hot
weather, then such an instinct as migration might have been
developed. For this is not a faculty merely of a few birds: the
impulse to migrate at certain seasons affects birds, insects, and
even mammals. In a few birds only is it highly developed, but the
elementary feeling, out of which the wonderful habit of the
swallow has grown, exists widely throughout animated nature. On
the continent of Europe it also seems probable that a great
autumnal movement of these spiders takes place; although, I must
confess, I have no grounds for this statement, except that the
floating gossamer is called in Germany "Der fliegender
Summer"--the flying or departing summer.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I have stated that
all migrations of gossamers I have witnessed have been in the
autumn; excepting in one instance, these flights occurred when
the weather was still hot and dry. The exceptionally late
migration was on March 22--a full month after the departure of
martins, humming-birds, flycatchers, and most other true
bird-migrants. It struck me as being so remarkable, and seems to
lend so much force to the idea I have suggested, that I wish to
give here an exact copy of the entries made at the time and on
the spot in my notebook.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">"March 22. This
afternoon, while I was out shooting, the gossamer-spiders
presented an appearance quite new to me. Walking along a
stream</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 187</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">(the Conchitas, near
Buenos Ayres), I noticed a broad white line skirting the low wet
ground. This I found was caused by gossamer web lying in such
quantities over the earth as almost to hide the grass ad thistles
under it. The white zone was about twenty yards wide, and outside
it only a few scattered webs were visible on the grass; its exact
length I did not ascertain, but followed it for about two miles
without finding the end. The spiders were so numerous that they
continually baulked one another in their efforts to rise in the
air. As soon as one threw out its lines they would become
entangled with those of another spider, lanced out at the same
moment; both spiders would immediately seem to know the cause of
the trouble, for as soon as their lines fouled they would rush
angrily towards each other, each trying to drive the other from
the elevation. Notwithstanding these difficulties, numbers were
continually floating off on the breeze which blew from the
south.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">"I noticed three
distinct species: one with a round scarlet body; another, velvet
black, with large square cephalothorax and small pointed abdomen;
the third and most abundant kind were of different shades of
olive green, and varied greatly in size, the largest being fully
a quarter of an inch in length. Apparently these spiders had been
driven up from the low ground along the stream where it was wet,
and had congregated along the borders of the dry ground in
readiness to migrate.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">"25th. Went again to
visit the spiders, scarcely expecting to find them, as, since
first seeing them, we have had much wind and rain. To my
surprise</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">188 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I found them in
greatly increased numbers: on the tops of cardoons, posts, and
other elevated situations they were literally lying together in
heaps. Most of them were large and of the olive-coloured species;
their size had probably prevented them from getting away earlier,
but they were now floating off in great numbers, the weather
being calm and tolerably dry. To-day I noticed a new species with
a grey body, elegantly striped with black, and pink legs--a very
pretty spider.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">"26th. Went again
to-day and found that the whole vast army of gossamers, with the
exception of a few stragglers sitting on posts and dry stalks,
had vanished. They had taken advantage of the short spell of fine
weather we are now having, after an unusually wet and boisterous
autumn, to make their escape."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Here it seemed to me
that a conjunction of circumstances--first, the unfavourable
season preventing migration at the proper time, and secondly, the
strip of valley out of which the spiders had been driven to the
higher ground till they were massed together--only served to make
visible and evident that a vast annual migration takes place
which we have only to look closely for to discover.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">One of the most
original spiders in Buenos Ayres--mentally original, I mean--is a
species of Pholcus; a quiet, inoffensive creature found in
houses, and so abundant that they literally swarm where they are
not frequently swept away from ceilings and obscure corners.
Certainly it seems a poor spider after the dynamical and
migratory gossamer; but it happens, curiously enough, that
a</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders,</i> 189</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">study of the habits
of this dusty domestic creature leads us incidentally into the
realms of fable and romance. It is remarkable for the extreme
length of its legs, and resembles in colour and general
appearance a crane fly, but is double the size of that insect. It
has a singular method of protecting itself: when attacked or
approached even, gathering its feet together and fastening them
to the centre of its web, it swings itself round and round with
the velocity of a whirligig, so that it appears like a mist on
the web, offering no point for an enemy to strike at. When a fly
is captured the spider approaches it cautiously and spins a web
round it, continually narrowing the circle it describes, until
the victim is inclosed in a cocoon-like covering. This is a
common method with spiders; but the intelligence--for I can call
it by no other word--of the Pholcus has supplemented this
instinctive procedure with a very curious and unique habit. The
Pholcus, in spite of its size, is a weak creature, possessing
little venom to despatch its prey with, so that it makes a long
and laborious task of killing a fly. A fly when caught in a web
is a noisy creature, and it thus happens that when the
Daddylonglegs--as Anglo-Argentines have dubbed this
species--succeeds in snaring a captive the shrill outrageous
cries of the victim are heard for a long time--often for ten or
twelve minutes. This noise greatly excites other spiders in the
vicinity, and presently they are seen quitting their webs and
flurrying to the scene of conflict. Sometimes the captor is
driven off, and then the strongest or most daring spider carries
away the fly. But where a</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">190 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">large colony are
allowed to continue for a long time in undisturbed possession of
a ceiling, when one has caught a fly he proceeds rapidly to throw
a covering of web over it, then, cutting it away, drops it down
and lets it hang suspended by a line at a distance of two or
three feet from the ceiling. The other spiders arrive on the
scene, and after a short investigation retreat to their own webs,
and when the coast is clear our spider proceeds to draw up the
captive fly, which is by this time exhausted with its
struggles.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Now, I have
repeatedly remarked that all spiders, when the shrill humming of
an insect caught in a web is heard near them, become agitated,
like the Pholcus, and will, in the same way, quit their own webs
and hurry to the point the sound proceeds from. This fact
convinced me many years ago that spiders are attracted by the
sound of musical instruments, such as violins, concertinas,
guitars, &amp;c., simply because the sound produces the same
effect on them as the shrill buzzing of a captive fly. I have
frequently seen spiders come down walls or from ceilings,
attracted by the sound of a guitar, softly played; and by gently
touching metal strings, stretched on a piece of wood, I have
succeeded in attracting spiders on to the strings, within two or
three inches of my fingers; and I always noticed that the spiders
seemed to be eagerly searching for something which they evidently
expected to find there, moving about in an excited manner and
looking very hungry and fierce. I have no doubt that Pelisson's
historical spider in the Bastille came down in a mood and with a
manner just as ferocious</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 191</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">when the prisoner
called it with musical sounds to be fed.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The spiders I have
spoken of up till now are timid, inoffensive creatures, chiefly
of the Epeira family; but there are many others exceedingly
high-spirited and, like some of the most touchy hymenopteras.
always prepared to "greatly quarrel" over matters of little
moment. The Mygales, of</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-16.jpg" alt="h1-16.jpg" class="c32">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Mygale fueoa,
threatening.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">which we have
several species, are not to be treated with contempt. One is
extremely abundant on the pampas, the Mygale fusca, a veritable
monster, covered with dark brown hair, and called in the
vernacular <i>aranea peluda--</i>hairy spider. In the hot month
of December these spiders take to roaming about on the open
plain, and are then everywhere seen travelling in a straight line
with a slow</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">192 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">even pace. They are
very great in attitudes, and when one is approached it
immediately throws itself back, like a pugilist preparing for an
encounter, and stands up so erect on its four hind feet that the
under surface of its body is displayed. Humble-bees are commonly
supposed to carry the palm in attitudinizing; and it is wonderful
to see the grotesque motions of these irascible insects when
their nest is approached, elevating their abdomens and two or
three legs at a time, so that they resemble a troupe of acrobats
balancing themselves on their heads or hands, and kicking their
legs about in the air. And to impress the intruder with the
dangerous significance of this display they hum a shrill warning
or challenge, and stab at the air with their naked stings, from
which limpid drops of venom are seen to exude. These threatening
gestures probably have an effect. In the case of the hairy
spider, I do not think any creature, however stupid, could
mistake its meaning when it stands suddenly up, a figure horribly
grotesque; then, dropping down on all eights, charges violently
forwards. Their long, shiny black, sickle-shaped falces are
dangerous weapons. I knew a native woman who had been bitten on
the leg, and who, after fourteen years, still suffered at
intervals acute pains in the limb.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The king of the
spiders on the pampas is, however, not a Mygale, but a Lycosa of
extraordinary size, light grey in colour, with a black ring round
its middle. It is active and swift, and irritable to such a
degree that one can scarcely help thinking that in this species
nature has overshot her mark.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 193</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">When a person passes
near one--say, within three or four yards of its
lurking-place--it starts up and gives chase, and will often
follow for a distance of thirty or forty yards. I came once very
nearly being bitten by one of these savage creatures Riding at an
easy trot over the dry grass, I suddenly observed a spider
pursuing me, leaping swiftly along and keeping up with my beast.
I aimed a blow with my whip, and the point of the lash struck the
ground close to it, when it instantly leaped upon and ran up the
lash, and was actually within three or four inches of my hand
when I flung the whip from me.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">The gauchos have a
very quaint ballad which tells that the city of Cordova was once
invaded by an army of monstrous spiders, and that the townspeople
went out with beating drums and flags flying to repel the
invasion, and that after firing several volleys they were forced
to turn and fly for their lives. I have no doubt that a sudden
great increase of the man-chasing spiders, in a year
exceptionally favourable to them, suggested this fable to some
rhyming satirist of the town.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">In conclusion of
this part of my subject, I will describe a single combat of a
very terrible nature I once witnessed between two little spiders
belong-ing to the same species. One had a small web against a
wall, and of this web the other coveted possession. After vainly
trying by a series of strategic movements to drive out the lawful
owner, it rushed on to the web, and the two envenomed httle
duellists closed in mortal combat. They did nothing so vulgar and
natural as to make use of</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c3">0</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">194 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">their falces, and
never once actually touched each other, but the fight was none
the less deadly. Rapidly revolving about, or leaping over, or
passing under, each other, each endeavoured to impede or entangle
his adversary, and the dexterity with which each avoided the
cunningly thrown snare, trying at the same time to entangle its
opponent, was wonderful to see. At length, after this equal
battle had raged for some time, one of the combatants made some
fatal mistake, and for a moment there occurred a break in his
motions; instantly the other perceived his advantage, and began
leaping backwards and forwards across his struggling adversary
with such rapidity as to confuse the sight, producing the
appearance of two spiders attacking a third one lying between
them. He then changed his tactics, and began revolving round and
round his prisoner, and very soon the poor vanquished wretch--the
aggressor, let us hope, in the interests of justice--was closely
wrapped in a silvery cocoon, which, unlike the cocoon the
caterpillar weaves for itself, was also its
winding-sheet.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the foregoing
pages I have thrown together some of the most salient facts I
have noted; but the spider-world still remains to me a wonderland
of which I know comparatively nothing. Nor is any very intimate
knowledge of spiders to be got from books, though numberless
lists of new species are constantly being printed; for they have
not yet had, like the social bees and ants, many loving and
patient chroniclers of their ways. The Hubens and</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">rs</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 195</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Lubbocks have been
many; the Moggridges few. But even a very slight study of these
most versatile and accomplished of nature's children gives rise
to some interesting reflections. One fact that strikes the mind
very forcibly is the world-wide distribution of groups of species
possessing highly developed instincts. One is the zebra-striped
Salticus, with its unique strategy--that is to say, unique
amongst spiders. It is said that the Australian savage approaches
a kangaroo in the open by getting up in sight of its prey and
standing perfectly motionless till he is regarded as an inanimate
object, and every time the animal's attention wanders advancing a
step or two until sufficiently near to hurl his spear. The
Salticus approaches a fly in the same manner, till near enough to
make its spring. Another is the Trapdoor spider. Another the
Dolomedes, that runs over the surface of the water in pursuit of
its prey, and dives down to escape from its enemies; and,
strangest of all, the Argyroneta, that has its luminous dwelling
at the bottom of streams; and just as a mason carries bricks and
mortar to its building, so does this spider carry down bubbles of
air from the surface to enlarge its mysterious house, in which it
lays its eggs and rears its young. Community of descent must be
supposed of species having such curious and complex instincts;
but how came these feeble creatures, unable to transport
themselves over seas and continents like the aerial gossamer, to
be so widely distributed, and inhabiting regions with such
different conditions? This can only be attributed to the enormous
antiquity of the species, and of this antiquity the earliness in
which</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font3 c3">o 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">196 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the instinct
manifests itself in the young spiders is taken as
evidence.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">A more important
matter, the intelligence of spiders, has not yet received the
attention it deserves. The question of insect
intelligence--naturalists are agreed that insects do possess
intelligence--is an extremely difficult one; probably some of our
conclusions on this matter will have to be reconsidered. For
instance, we regard the Order Hymenoptera as the most intelligent
because most of the social insects are included in it; but it has
not yet been proved, probably never will be proved, that the
social instincts resulted from intelligence which has "lapsed."
Whether ants and bees were more intelligent than other insects
during the early stages of their organic societies or not, it
will hardly be disputed by any naturalist who has observed
insects for long that many solitary species display more
intelligence in their actions than those that live in
communities.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The nature of the
spider's food and the difficulties in the way of providing for
their wants impose on them a life of solitude: hunger, perpetual
watchfulness, and the sense of danger have given them a character
of mixed ferocity and timidity. But these very conditions, which
have made it impossible for them to form societies like some
insects and progress to a state of things resembling civilization
in men, have served to develop the mind that is in a spider,
making of him a very clever barbarian-The spider's only weapon of
defence---his falces--are as poor a protection against the
assaults of his insect foes as are teeth and finger-nails in
man</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 197</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">employed against
wolves, bears, and tigers. And the spider is here even worse off
than man, since his enemies are winged and able to sweep down
instantly on him from above; they are also protected with an
invulnerable shield, and are armedwith deadly stings. Like man,
also, the spider has a soft, unprotected body, while his muscular
strength, compared with that of the insects he has to contend
with, is almost <i>nil.</i> His position in nature then, with
relation to his enemies, is like that of man; only the spider has
this disadvantage, that he cannot combine with others for
protection. That he does protect himself and maintains his place
in nature is due, not to special instincts, which are utterly
insufficient, but to the intelligence which supplements them. At
the same time this superior cunning is closely related with, and
probably results indirectly from, the web he is provided with,
and which is almost of the nature of an artificial aid. Let us
take the imaginary case of a man-like monkey, or of an arboreal
man, born with a cord of great length attached to his waist,
which could be either dragged after him or carried in a coil.
After many accidents, experience would eventually teach him to
put it to some use; practice would make him more and more skilful
in handling it, and, indirectly, it would be the means of
developing his latent mental faculties. He would begin by using
it, as the monkey does its prehensile tail, to swing himself from
branch to branch, and finally, to escape from an enemy or in
pursuit of his prey, he would be able by means of his cord to
drop himself with safety from the tallest trees, or fly down the
steepest precipices. He would</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">198 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">coil up his cord to
make a bed to lie on, and also use it for binding branches
together when building himself a refuge. In a close fight, he
would endeavour to entangle an adversary, and at last he would
learn to make a snare with it to capture his prey. To all these,
and to a hundred other uses, the spider has put his web. And when
we see him spread his beautiful geometric snare, held by lines
fixed to widely separated points, while he sits concealed in his
web-lined retreat amongst the leaves where every touch on the
far-reaching structure is telegraphed to him by the communicating
line faithfully as if a nerve had been touched, we must admire
the wonderful perfection to which he has attained in the use of
his cord. By these means he is able to conquer creatures too
swift and strong for him, and make them his prey. When we see him
repairing damages, weighting his light fabric in windy weather
with pebbles or sticks, as a fisher weights his net, and cutting
loose a captive whose great strength threatens the destruction of
the web, then we begin to suspect that he has, above his special
instinct, a reason that guides, modifies, and in many ways
supplements it. It is not, however, only on these great
occasions, when the end is sought by unusual means, that spiders
show their intelligence; for even these things might be
considered by some as merely parts of one great complex instinct;
but at all times, in all things, the observer who watches them
closely cannot fail to be convinced that they possess a guiding
principle which is not mere instinct. What the stick or stone was
to primitive man, when he had made the dis-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Facts and Thoughts
about Spiders.</i> 199</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">covery that by
holding it in his hand he greatly increased the force of his
blow, the possession of a web has been to the spider in
developing that spark of intellect which it possesses in common
with all animal organisms.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XV.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">THE DEATH-FEIGNING
INSTINCT.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">MOST people are
familiar with the phenomenon of "death-feigning," commonly seen
in coleopterous insects, and in many spiders. This highly curious
instinct is also possessed by some vertebrates. In insects it is
probably due to temporary paralysis occasioned by sudden
concussion, for when beetles alight abruptly, though voluntarily,
they assume that appearance of death, which lasts for a few
moments. Some species, indeed, are so highly sensitive that the
slightest touch, or even a sudden menace, will instantly throw
them into this motionless, death-simulating condition. Curiously
enough, the same causes which produce this trance in slow-moving
species, like those of Scarabseus for example, have a precisely
contrary effect on species endowed with great activity. Rapacious
beetles, when disturbed, scuttle quickly out of sight, and some
water-beetles spin about the surface, in circles or zigzag lines,
so rapidly as to confuse the eye. Our common long-legged spiders
(Pholcus) when approached draw their feet together in the middle
of the web, and spin the body round with such velocity as to
resemble a whirligig.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Certain mammals and
birds also possess the death-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Death-feigning
Instinct.</i> 201</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">simulating instinct,
though it is hardly possible to believe that the action springs
from the same immediate cause in vertebrates and in insects. In
the latter it appears to be a purely physical instinct, the
direct result of an extraneous cause, and resembling the motions
of a plant. In mammals and birds it is evident that violent
emotion, and not the rough handling experienced, is the final
cause of the swoon.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Passing over
venomous snakes, skunks, and a few other species in which the
presence of danger excites only anger, fear has a powerful, and
in some cases a disabling, effect on animals; and it is this
paralyzing effect of fear on which the death-feigning instinct,
found only in a few widely-separated species, has probably been
built up by the slow cumulative process of natural
selection.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have met with some
curious instances of the paralyzing effect of fear. I was told by
some hunters in an outlying district of the pampas of its effect
on a jaguar they started, and which took refuge in a dense clump
of dry reeds. Though they could see it, it was impossible to
throw the lasso over its head, and, after vainly trying to
dislodge it, they at length set fire to the reeds. Still it
refused to stir, but lay with head erect, fiercely glaring at
them through the flames. Finally it disappeared from sight in the
black smoke; and when the fire had burnt itself out, it was
found, dead and charred, in the same spot.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">On the pampas the
gauchos frequently take the black-necked swan by frightening it.
When the birds are feeding or resting on the grass, two or three
men or boys on horseback go quietly to lee-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">2O2 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ward of the flock,
and when opposite to it suddenly wheel and charge it at full
speed, uttering loud shouts, by which the birds are thrown into
such terror that they are incapable of flying, and are quickly
despatched.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have also seen
gaucho boys catch the Silver-bill (Lichenops perspicillata) by
hurling a stick or stone at the bird, then rushing at it, when it
sits perfectly still, disabled by fear, and allows itself to be
taken. I myself once succeeded in taking a small bird of another
species in the same way.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Amongst mammals our
common fox (Canis azarae), and one of the opossums (Didelphys
azarae), are strangely subject to the death-simulating swoon. For
it does indeed seem strange that animals so powerful, fierce, and
able to inflict such terrible injury with their teeth should also
possess this safeguard, apparently more suited to weak inactive
creatures that cannot resist or escape from an enemy and to
animals very low down in the scale of being. When a fox is caught
in a trap or run down by dogs he fights savagely at first, but
by-and-by relaxes his efforts, drops on the ground, and
apparently yields up the ghost. The deception is so well carried
out, that dogs are constantly taken in by it, and no one, not
previously acquainted with this clever trickery of nature, but
would at once pronounce the creature dead, and worthy of some
praise for having perished in so brave a spirit. Now, when in
this condition of feigning death, I am quite sure that the animal
does not altogether lose consciousness. It is exceedingly
difficult to discover any evidence of life in the opossum; but
when one with-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Death-feigning
Instinct,</i> 203</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">draws a little way
from the feigning fox, and watches him very attentively, a slight
opening of the eye may be detected; and, finally, when left to
himself, he does not recover and start up like an animal that has
been stunned, but slowly and cautiously raises his head first,
and only gets up when his foes are at a safe distance. Yet I have
seen gauchos, who are very cruel to animals, practise the most
barbarous experiments on a captive fox without being able to
rouse it into exhibiting any sign of life. This has greatly
puzzled me, since, if death-feigning is simply a cunning habit,
the animal could not suffer itself to be mutilated without
wincing. I can only believe that the fox, though not insensible,
as its behaviour on being left to itself appears to prove, yet
has its body thrown by extreme terror into that benumbed
condition which simulates death, and during which it is unable to
feel the tortures practised on it.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The swoon sometimes
actually takes place before the animal has been touched, and even
when the exciting cause is at a considerable distance. I was once
riding with a gaucho, when we saw, on the open level ground
before us, a fox, not yet fully grown, standing still and
watching our approach. All at once it dropped, and when we came
up to the spot it was lying stretched out, with eyes closed, and
apparently dead. Before passing on my companion, who said it was
not the first time he had seen such a thing, lashed it vigorously
with his whip for some moments, but without producing the
slightest effect.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The death-feigning
instinct is possessed in a very marked degree by the spotted
tinamou or common</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">204 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">partridge of the
pampas (Nothura maculosa). When captured, after a few violent
struggles to escape, it drops its head, gasps two or three times,
and to all appearances dies. If, when you have seen this, you
release your hold, the eyes open instantly, and, with startling
suddenness and a noise of wings, it is up and away, and beyond
your reach for ever. Possibly, while your grasp is on the bird it
does actually become insensible, though its recovery from that
condition is almost instantaneous. Birds when captured do
sometimes die in the hand, purely from terror. The tinamou is
excessively timid, and sometimes when birds of this species are
chased--for gaucho boys frequently run them down on
horseback--and when they find no burrows or thickets to escape
into, they actually drop down dead on the plain. Probably, when
they feign death in their captor's hand, they are in reality very
near to death.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XVI.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font16">HUMMING-BIRDS.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">HUMMING-BIRDS are
perhaps the very loveliest things in nature, and many celebrated
writers have exhausted their descriptive powers in vain efforts
to picture them to the imagination. The temptation was certainly
great, after describing the rich setting of tropical foliage and
flower, to speak at length of the wonderful gem contained within
it; but they would in this case have been wise to imitate that
modest novel-writer who introduced a blank space on the page
where the description of his matchless heroine should have
appeared. After all that has been written, the first sight of a
living humming-bird, so unlike in its beauty all other beautiful
things, comes like a revelation to the mind. To give any true
conception of it by means of mere word-painting is not more
impossible than it would be to bottle up a supply of the "living
sunbeams" themselves, and convey them across the Atlantic to
scatter them in a sparkling shower over the face of
England.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">Doubtless many who
have never seen them in a state of nature imagine that a
tolerably correct idea of their appearance can be gained from
Gould's colossal monograph. The pictures there, however, only
represent dead humming-birds. A dead robin</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">206 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">is, for purposes of
bird-portraiture, as good as a live robin; the same may be said
of even many brilliant-plumaged species less aerial in their
habits than humming-birds. In butterflies the whole beauty is
seldom seen until the insect is dead, or, at any rate, captive.
It was not when Wallace saw the Ornithoptera croesus flying
about, but only when he held it in his hands, and opened its
glorious wings, that the sight of its beauty overcame him so
powerfully. The special kind of beauty which makes the first
sight of a humming-bird a revelation depends on the swift
singular motions as much as on the intense gem-like and metallic
brilliancy of the plumage.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The minute exquisite
form, when the bird hovers on misty wings, probing the flowers
with its coral spear, the fan-like tail expanded, and poising
motionless, exhibits the feathers shot with many hues; and the
next moment vanishes, or all but vanishes, then reappears at
another flower only to vanish again, and so on successively,
showing its splendours not continuously, but like the intermitted
flashes of the firefly--this forms a picture of airy grace and
loveliness that baffles description. All this glory disappears
when the bird is dead, and even when it alights to rest on a
bough. Sitting still, it looks like an exceedingly attenuated
kingfisher, without the pretty plumage of that bird, but
retaining its stiff artificial manner. No artist has been so bold
as to attempt to depict the bird as it actually appears, when
balanced before a flower the swift motion of the wings
obliterates their form, making them seem like a mist encircling
the body;</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Humming-Birds.</i>
207</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">yet it is precisely
this formless cloud on which the glittering body hangs suspended,
which contributes most to give the humming-bird its wonderful
sprite-like or extra-natural appearance. How strange, then, to
find bird-painters persisting in their efforts to show the
humming-bird flying! When they draw it stiff and upright on its
perch the picture is honest, if ugly; the more ambitious
representation is a delusion and a mockery.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Coming to the actual
colouring--the changeful tints that glow with such intensity on
the scale-like feathers, it is curious to find that Gould seems
to have thought that all difficulties here had been successfully
overcome. The "new process" he spoke so confidently about might
no doubt be used with advantage in reproducing the coarser
metallic reflections on a black plumage, such as we see in the
corvine birds; but the glittering garment of the humming-bird,
like the silvery lace woven by the Epeira, gemmed with dew and
touched with rainbow-coloured light, has never been and never can
be imitated by art.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">On this subject one
of the latest observers of humming-birds, Mr. Everard im Thurn,
in his work on British Guiana, has the following
passage:--"Hardly more than one point of colour is in reality
ever visible in any one humming-bird at one and the same time,
for each point only shows its peculiar and glittering colour when
the light falls upon it from a particular direction. A true
representation of one of these birds would show it in somewhat
sombre colours, except just at the one point which, when the bird
is in the position chosen</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">208 <i>The Naturalist
tn La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">for representation,
meets the light at the requisite angle, and that point alone
should be shown in full brilliance of colour. A flowery shrub is
sometimes seen surrounded by a cloud of humming-birds, all of one
species, and each, of course, in a different position. If someone
would draw such a scene as that, showing a different detail of
colour in each bird, according to its position, then some idea of
the actual appearance of the bird might be given to one who had
never seen an example."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is hardly to be
expected that anyone will carry out the above suggestion, and
produce a monograph with pages ten or fifteen feet wide by
eighteen feet long, each one showing a cloud of humming-birds of
one species flitting about a flowery bush; but even in such a
picture as that would be, the birds, suspended on unlovely
angular projections instead of "hazy semicircles of
indistinctness," and each with an immovable fleck of brightness
on the otherwise sombre plumage, would be as unlike living
humming-birds as anything in the older monographs.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Whether the
glittering iridescent tints and singular ornaments for which this
family is famous result from the cumulative process of conscious
or voluntary sexual selection, as Darwin thought, or are merely
the outcome of a superabundant vitality, as Dr. A. R.. Wallace so
strongly maintains, is a question which science has not yet
answered satisfactorily. The tendency to or habit of varying in
the direction of rich colouring and beautiful or fantastic
ornament, might, for all we know to the contrary, have descended
to humming-birds from</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humming-Birds.</i>
209</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">some diminutive,
curiously-shaped, bright-tinted, flying reptile of arboreal
habits that lived in some far-off epoch in the world's history.
It is not, at all events, maintained by anyone that <i>all</i>
birds sprang originally from one reptilian stock; and the true
position of humming-birds in a natural classification has not yet
been settled, for no intermediate forms exist connecting them
with any other group, To the ordinary mind they appear utterly
unlike all other feathered creatures, and as much entitled to
stand apart as, for instance, the pigeon and ostrich families. It
has been maintained by some writers that they are anatomically
related to the swifts, although the differences separating the
two families appear so great as almost to stagger belief in this
notion. Now, however, the very latest authority on this subject,
<b>Dr.</b> Schufeldt, has come to the conclusion that swifts are
only greatly modified Passeres, and that the humming-birds should
form an order by themselves.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Leaving this
question, and regarding them simply with the ornithological eye
that does not see far below the surface of things, when we have
sufficiently admired the unique beauty and marvellous velocity of
humming-birds, there is little more to be said about them. They
are lovely to the eye--indescribably so; and it is not strange
that Gould wrote rapturously of the time when he was at length
"permitted to revel in the delight of seeing the humming-bird in
a state of nature." The feeling, he wrote, which animated him
with regard to these most wonderful works of creation it was
impossible to describe, and could only be appreciated by
those</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">P</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">210 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">who have made
natural history a study, and who "pursue the investigations of
her charming mysteries with ardour and delight." This we can
understand; but to what an astonishing degree the feeling was
carried in him, when, after remarking that enthusiasm and
excitement with regard to most things in life become lessened and
eventually deadened by time in most of us, he was able to add,
"not so, however, I believe, with those who take up the study of
the Family of Humming-birds!" It can only be supposed that he
regarded natural history principally as a "science of dead
animals--a <i>necrology,"</i> and collected humming-birds just as
others collect Roman coins, birds' eggs, old weapons, or blue
china, their zeal in the pursuit and faith in its importance
increasing with the growth of their treasures, until they at last
come to believe that though all the enthusiasms and excitements
which give a zest to the lives of other men fade and perish with
time, it is not so with their particular pursuit. The more
rational kind of pleasure experienced by the ornithologist in
studying habits and disposition no doubt results in a great
measure from the fact that the actions of the feathered people
have a savour of intelligence in them. Whatever his theory or
conviction about the origin of instincts may happen to be, or
even if he has no convictions on the subject, it must
nevertheless seem plain to him that intelligence is, after all,
in most cases, the guiding principle of life, supplementing and
modifying habits to bring them into closer harmony with the
environment, and enlivening every day with countless little acts
which result from judgment</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humming-Birds.</i>
211</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">and experience, and
form no part of the inherited complex instincts. The longer he
observes any one species or individual, the more does he find in
it to reward his attention; this is not the case, however, with
humming-birds, which possess the avian body but do not rank
mentally with birds. The pleasure one takes in their beauty soon
evaporates, and is succeeded by no fresh interest, so monotonous
and mechanical are all their actions; and we accordingly find
that those who are most familiar with them from personal
observation have very little to say about them. A score of
hummingbirds, of as many distinct species, are less to the
student of habits than one little brown-plurnaged bird haunting
his garden or the rush-bed of a neighbouring stream; and,
doubtless, for a reason similar to that which makes a lovely
human face uninformed by intellect seem less permanently
attractive than many a homelier countenance. He grows tired of
seeing the feathered fairies perpetually weaving their aerial
ballet-dance about the flowers, and finds it a relief to watch
the little finch or wren or flycatcher of shy temper and obscure
protective colouring. Perhaps it possesses a graceful form and
melodious voice to give it aesthetic value, but even without such
accessories he can observe it day by day with increasing interest
and pleasure; and it only adds piquancy to the feeling to know
that the little bird also watches him with a certain amount of
intelligent curiosity and a great deal of suspicion, and that it
studiously endeavours to conceal from him all the little secrets
its life which he is bent on discovering. p <i>2</i></span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">212 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It has frequently
been remarked that humming birds are more like insects than birds
in disposition. Some species, on quitting their perch, perform
wide bee-like circles about the tree before shooting away in a
straight line. Their aimless attacks on other species approaching
or passing near them, even on large birds like hawks and pigeons,
is a habit they have in common with many solitary wood-boring
bees. They also, like dragon-flies and other insects, attack each
other when they come together while feeding; and in this case
their action strangely resembles that of a couple of butterflies,
as they revolve about each other and rise vertically to a great
height in the air. Again, like insects, they are undisturbed at
the presence of man while feeding, or even when engaged in
building and incubation; and like various solitary bees, wasps,
&amp;c., they frequently come close to a person walking or
standing, to hover suspended in the air within a few inches of
his face; and if then struck at they often, insect-like, return
to circle round his head. All other birds, even those which
display the least versatility, and in districts where man is
seldom seen, show as much caution as curiosity in his presence;
they recognize in the upright unfamiliar form a living being and
a possible enemy. Mr. Whiteley, who observed humming-birds in
Peru, says it is an amusing sight to watch the Lesbia nuna
attempting to pass to a distant spot in a straight line during a
high wind, which, acting on the long tail feathers, carries it
quite away from the point aimed at. Insects presenting a large
surface to the wind are always blown from their course in
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Humming-Birds,</i>
213</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">same way, for even
in the most windy districts they never appear to learn to guide
themselves; and I have often seen a butterfly endeavouring to
reach an isolated flower blown from it a dozen times before it
finally succeeded or gave up the contest. Birds when shaping
their course, unless young and inexperienced, always make
allowance for the force of the wind. Humming-birds often fly into
open rooms, impelled apparently by a fearless curiosity, and may
then be chased about until they drop exhausted or are beaten down
and caught, and, as Gould says, "if then taken into the hand,
they almost immediately feed on any sweet, or pump up any liquid
that may be offered to them, without betraying either fear or
resentment at the previous treatment." Wasps and bees taken in
the same way endeavour to sting their captor, as most people know
from experience, nor do they cease struggling violently to free
themselves; but the dragon-fly is like the humming-bird, and is
no sooner caught after much ill-treatment, than it will greedily
devour as many flies and mosquitoes as one likes to offer it.
Only in beings very low in the scale of nature do we see the
instinct of self-preservation in this extremely simple condition,
unmixed with reason or feeling, and so transient in its effects.
The same insensibility to danger is seen when humming-birds are
captured and confined in a room, and when, before a day is over,
they will flutter about their captor's face and even take nectar
from his lips.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Some observers have
thought that hummingbirds come nearest to humble-bees in their
actions. I do not think so. Mr. Bates writes: "They do</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">214 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">not proceed in that
methodical manner which bees follow, taking the flowers seriatim,
but skip about from one part of a tree to another in the most
capricious manner." I have observed humble-bees a great deal, and
feel convinced that they arc among the most highly intelligent of
the social hymenoptera. Humming-birds, to my mind, have a much
closer resemblance to the solitary wood-boring bees and to
dragon-flies. It must also be borne in mind that insects have
very little time in which to acquire experience, and that a large
portion of their life, in the imago state, is taken up with the
complex business of reproduction.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The Trochilidae,
although confined to one continent, promise to exceed all other
families--even the cosmopolitan finches and warblers--in number
of species. At present over five hundred are known, or as many as
all the species of birds in Europe together; and good reasons
exist for believing that very many more--not less perhaps than
one or two hundred species--yet remain to be discovered. The most
prolific region, and where humming-birds are most highly
developed, is known to be West Brazil and the eastern slopes of
the Bolivian and Peruvian Andes. This is precisely the least
known portion of South America; the few naturalists and
collectors who have reached it have returned laden with spoil, to
tell us of a region surpassing all others in the superabundance
and beauty of its bird life. Nothing, however, which can be said
concerning these vast unexplored areas of tropical mountain and
forest so forcibly impresses us with the idea of the unknown
riches</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humming-
Birds.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">215</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">contained in them
as the story of the Loddigesia mirabilis. This is perhaps the
most wonderful humming-bird known, and no one who had not
previously seen it figured could possibly form an idea of what it
is like from a mere description. An outline sketch of it would
probably be taken by most people as a fantastic design
representing a</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-17.jpg" alt="h1-17.jpg" class="c33">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Loddigesia
Mirabilis,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">bird-form in
combination with leaves, in size and shape resembling poplar
leaves, but on leaf-stalks of an impossible length, curving and
crossing each other so as to form geometrical figures unlike
anything in nature. Yet this bird (a single specimen) was
obtained in Peru half a century ago, and for upwards of twenty
years after its discovery</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">2i6 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Gould tried to
obtain others, offering as much as fifty pounds for one; but no
second specimen ever gladdened his eyes, nor was anything more
heard of it until Stolzmann refound it in the year
1880.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The addition of many
new species to the long list would, however, be a matter of small
interest, unless fresh facts concerning their habits and
structure were at the same time brought to light; but we can
scarcely expect that the as yet unknown species will supply any
link connecting the Trochilidae with other existing families of
birds. The eventual conclusion will perhaps be that this family
has come down independently from an exceedingly remote past, and
with scarcely any modification. While within certain very narrow
limits humming-birds vary more than other families, outside of
these limits they appear relatively stationary; and, conversely,
other birds exhibit least variability in the one direction in
which humming-birds vary excessively. On account of a trivial
difference in habit they have sometimes been separated in two
sub-families: the Phaethornithinae, found in shady tropical
forests; and the Trochilinae, comprising humming-birds which
inhabit open sunny places--and to this division they mostly
belong. In both of these purely arbitrary groups, however, the
aerial habits and manner of feeding poised in the air are
identical, although the birds living in shady forests, where
flowers are scarce, obtain their food principally from the under
surfaces of leaves. In their procreant habits the uniformity is
also very great. In all cases the nest is small, deep,
cup-shaped, or conical, composed of soft felted mate-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Humming-Birds. 2
1</i>7</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">rials, and lined
inside with vegetable down. The eggs are white, and never exceed
two in number. Broadly speaking, they resemble each other as
closely in habits as in structure; the greatest differences in
habit in the most widely separated genera being no greater than
may be found in two wrens or sparrows of the same
genus.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">This persistence of
character in humming-birds, both as regards structure and habit,
seems the more remarkable when we consider their very wide
distribution over a continent so varied in its conditions, and
where they range from the lowest levels to the limit of perpetual
snow on the Andes, and from the tropics to the wintry Magellanic
district; also that a majority of genera inhabit very
circumscribed areas--these facts, as Dr. Wallace remarks, clearly
pointing to a very high antiquity.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is perhaps a law
of nature that when a species (or group) fits itself to a place
not previously occupied, and in which it is subject to no
opposition from beings of its own class, or where it attains so
great a perfection as to be able easily to overcome all
opposition, the character eventually loses its original
plasticity, or tendency to vary, since improvement in such a case
would be superfluous, and becomes, so to speak, crystallized in
that form which continues thereafter unaltered. It is, at any
rate, clear that while all other birds rub together in the
struggle for existence, the humming-bird, owing to its aerial
life and peculiar manner of seeking its food, is absolutely
untouched by this kind of warfare, and is accordingly as far
removed</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">218 <i>The Naturalist
in Li Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">from all competition
with other birds as the solitary savage is removed from the
struggle of life affecting and modifying men in crowded
communities. The lower kind of competition affecting
hummingbirds, that with insects and, within the family, of
species with species, has probably only served to intensify their
unique characteristics, and, perhaps, to lower their
intelligence.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Not only are they
removed from that indirect struggle for existence which acts so
powerfully on other families, but they are also, by their habits
and the unequalled velocity of their flight, placed out of reach
of that direct war waged on all other small birds by the
rapacious kinds--birds, mammals, and reptiles. One result of this
immunity is that humming-birds are excessively numerous, albeit
such slow breeders; for, as we have seen, they only lay two eggs,
and not only so, but the second egg is often dropped so long
after incubation has begun in the first that only one is really
hatched. Yet Belt expressed the opinion that in Nicaragua, where
he observed humming-birds, they out-numbered all the other birds
together. Considering how abundant birds of all kinds are in that
district, and that most of them have a protective colouring and
lay several eggs, it would be impossible to accept such a
statement unless we believed that humming-birds have,
practically, no enemies.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Another result of
their immunity from persecution is the splendid colouring and
strange and beautiful feather ornaments distinguishing them above
all other birds; and excessive variation in this direction is
due, it seems to me, to the very</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Humming-Birds.</i>
219</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">causes which serve
to check variation in all other directions. In their plumage, as
Martin long ago wrote, nature has strained at every variety of
effect and revelled in an infinitude of modifications. How
wonderful their garb is, with colours so varied, so intense, yet
seemingly so evanescent!--the glittering mantle of powdered gold;
the emerald green that changes to velvet black; ruby reds and
luminous scarlets; dull bronze that brightens and burns like
polished brass, and pale neutral tints that kindle to rose and
lilac-coloured flame. And to the glory of prismatic colouring are
added feather decorations, such as the racket-plumes and downy
muffs of Spathura, the crest and frills of Lophornis, the
sapphire gorget burning on the snow-white breast of
Oreotrochilus, the fiery tail of Cometes, and, amongst grotesque
forms, the long pointed crest-feathers, representing horns, and
flowing-white beard adorning the piebald goat-like face of
Oxypogon.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Excessive variation
in this direction is checked in nearly all other birds by the
need of a protective colouring, few kinds so greatly excelling in
strength and activity as to be able to maintain their existence
without it. Bright feathers constitute a double danger, for not
only do they render their possessor conspicuous, but, just as the
butterfly chooses the gayest flower, so do hawks deliberately
single out from many obscure birds the one with brilliant
plumage; but the rapacious kinds do not waste their energies in
the vain pursuit of hummingbirds. These are in the position of
neutrals, free to range at will amidst the combatants,
insulting</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">220 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">all alike, and
flaunting their splendid colours with impunity. They are nature's
favourites, endowed with faculties bordering on the miraculous,
and all other kinds, gentle or fierce, ask only to be left alone
by them.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER
XVII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">THE CRESTED
SCREAMER.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>(Chalina
chavarria.)</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">AMONGST the
feathered notables from all parts of the world found gathered at
the Zoological Gardens in London is the Crested Screamer from
South America. It is in many respects a very singular species,
and its large size, great strength, and majestic demeanour, with
the surprising docility and intelligence it displays when
domesticated, give it a character amongst birds somewhat like
that of the elephant amongst mammals. Briefly and roughly to
describe it: in size it is like a swan, in shape like a lapwing,
only with a powerful curved gallinaceous beak. It is adorned with
a long pointed crest and a black neck-ring, the plumage being
otherwise of a pale slaty blue, while the legs and the naked skin
about the eyes are bright red. On each wing, in both sexes, there
are two formidable spurs; the first one, on the second joint, is
an inch and a half long, nearly straight, triangular, and
exceedingly sharp; the second spur, on the last joint, being
smaller, broad, and curved, and roughly resembling in shape and
size a lion's claw. There is another stinking peculiarity. The
skin is <i>emphy-</i></span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">222 7726' <i>Naturalist
in La Piafa.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font22 c3"><i>sematous</i>--that is, bloated and yielding to
pressure. It crackles when touched, and the surface, when the
feathers are removed, presents a swollen bubbly appearance; for
under the skin there is a layer of air-bubbles extending over the
whole body and even down the legs under the horny tesselated skin
to the toes, the legs thus having a somewhat massive
appearance.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">And now just a few
words about the position of the screamer in systematic zoology.
It is placed in the Family Palamedeidae, which contains only
three species, but about the Order it belongs to there is much
disagreement. It was formerly classed with the rails, and in
popular books of Natural History still keeps its place with them.
"Now the rail-tribe," says Professor Parker, speaking on this
very matter, "has for a long time been burdened (on paper) with a
very false army list. Everything alive that has had the
misfortune to be possessed of large unwieldy feet has been added
to this feeble-minded cowardly group, until it has become a mixed
multitude with discordant voices and with manners and customs
having no consonance or relation." He takes the screamer from the
rail-tribe and classes it with the geese (as also does Professor
Huxley), and concludes his study with these words:--"Amongst
living birds there is not one possessing characters of higher
interest, none that I am acquainted with come nearer, in some
important points, to the lizard; and there are parts of the
organization which make it very probable that it is one of the
nearest living relations of the marvellous
<i>Archaeopteryx</i>"--an intermediate form</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Crested
Screamer.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">between birds and
reptiles belonging to the Upper Jurassic period.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">The screamer's
right to dwell with the geese has not been left unchallenged. The
late Professor Garrod finds that "from considerations of
pterylosis, visceral anatomy, myology, and osteology the screamer
cannot be placed along with the Anserine birds." He finds that in
some points it resembles the ostrich and rhea, and concludes: "It
seems therefore to me that, summing these results, the screamer
must have sprung from the primary avian stock as an independent
offshoot at much the same time as did most of the other important
families." This time, he further tells us, was when there
occurred a general break-up of the ancient terrestrial bird-type,
when the acquisition of wings brought many intruders into domains
already occupied, calling forth a new struggle for existence, and
bringing out many special qualities by means of natural
selection.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c3">With this
archaeological question I have little to do, and only quote the
above great authorities to show that the screamer appears to be
nearly the last descendant of an exceedingly ancient family, with
little or no relationship to other existing families, and that
its pedigree has been hopelessly lost in the night of an
incalculable antiquity. I have only to speak of the bird as a
part of the visible world and as it appears to the non-scientific
lover of nature; for, curiously enough, while anatomists nave
been laboriously seeking for the screamer's affinities in that
"biological field which is as wide as the earth and deep as the
sea," travellers and</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">224 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">ornithologists have
told us almost nothing about its strange character and
habits.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Though dressed with
Quaker-like sobriety, and without the elegance of form
distinguishing the swan or peacock, this bird yet appeals to the
aesthetic feelings in man more than any species I am acquainted
with. Voice is one of its strong points, as one might readily
infer from the name: never-</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-18.jpg" alt="h1-18.jpg" class="c34">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18">Crested
Screamer.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">theless the name is
not an appropriate one, for though the bird certainly does
scream, and that louder than the peacock, its scream is only a
powerful note of alarm uttered occasionally, while the notes
uttered at intervals in the night, or in the day-time, when it
soars upwards like the lark of some far-off imaginary epoch in
the world's history when all tilings, larks included, were on a
gigantic scale, are. properly speaking, singing notes and
in</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Crested
Screamer.</i> 225</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">quality utterly
unlike screams. Sometimes when walking across Regent's Park I
bear the resounding cries of the bird confined there attempting
to sing; above the concert of cranes, the screams of eagles and
macaws, the howling of dogs and wolves and the muffled roar of
lions, one can hear it all over the park. But those loud notes
only sadden me. Exile and captivity have taken all joyousness
from the noble singer, and a moist climate has made him hoarse;
the long clear strains are no more, and he hurries through his
series of confused shrieks as quickly as possible, as if ashamed
of the performance. A lark singing high up in a sunny sky and a
lark singing in a small cage hanging against a shady wall in a
London street produce very different effects; and the spluttering
medley of shrill and harsh sounds from the street singer scarcely
seems to proceed from the same kind of bird as that matchless
melody filling the blue heavens. There is even a greater
difference in the notes of the crested screamer when heard in
Regent's Park and when heard on the pampas, where the bird soars
upwards until its bulky body disappears from sight, and from that
vast elevation pours down a perpetual rain of jubilant
sound.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3"><i>Screamer</i>
being a misnomer, I prefer to call the bird by its vernacular
name of <i>chaj&aacute;,</i> or <i>chakar,</i> a more convenient
spelling.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">With the chakar the
sexes are faithful, even in very large flocks the birds all being
ranged in couples. When one bird begins to sing its partner
immediately joins, but with notes entirely different in quality.
Both birds have some short deep notes,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">Q</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">226 <i>The Naturalist
in La Piala.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the other notes of
the female being long powerful notes with a trill in them; but
over them sounds the clear piercing voice of the male, ringing
forth at the close with great strength and purity. The song
produces the effect of harmony, but, comparing it with human
singing, it is less like a <i>duo</i> than a <i>terzetto</i>
composed of bass, contralto, and soprano.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">At certain times, in
districts favourable to them, the chakars often assemble in
immense flocks, thousands of individuals being sometimes seen
congregated together, and in these gatherings the birds
frequently all sing in concert. They invariably--though without
rising--sing at intervals during the night, "counting the hours,"
as the gauchos say; the first song being at about nine o'clock,
the second at midnight, and the third just before dawn, but the
hours vary in different districts.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I was once
travelling with a party of gauchos when, about midnight, it being
intensely dark, a couple of chakars broke out singing right ahead
of us, thus letting us know that we were approaching a
watercourse, where we intended refreshing our horses. We found it
nearly dry, and when we rode down to the rill of water meandering
over the broad dry bed of the river, a flock of about a thousand
chakars set up a perfect roar of alarm notes, all screaming
together, with intervals of silence after; then they rose up with
a mighty rush of wings. They settled down again a few hundred
yards off, and all together burst forth in one of their grand
midnight songs, making the plains echo for miles
around.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">There is something
strangely impressive in these</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Crested
Screamer.</i> 227</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">spontaneous
outbursts of a melody so powerful from one of these large flocks,
and though accustomed to hear these birds from childhood, I have
often been astonished at some new effect produced by a large
multitude singing under certain conditions. Travelling alone one
summer day, I carne at noon to a lake on the pampas called
Kakel--a sheet of water narrow enough for one to see across.
Chakars in countless numbers were gathered along its shores, but
they were all ranged in well-defined flocks, averaging about five
hundred birds in each flock. These flocks seemed to extend all
round the lake, and had probably been driven by the drought from
all the plains around to this spot. Presently one flock near me
began singing, and continued their powerful chant for three or
four minutes; when they ceased the next flock took up the
strains, and after it the next, and so on until the notes of the
flocks on the opposite shore came floating strong and clear
across the water--then passed away, growing fainter and fainter,
until once more the sound approached me travelling round to my
side again. The effect was very curious, and I was astonished at
the orderly way with which each flock waited its turn to sing,
instead of a general outburst taking place after the first flock
had given the signal. On another occasion I was still more
impressed, for here the largest number of birds I have ever found
congregated at one place all sung together. This was on the
southern pampas, at a place called Gualicho, where I had ridden
for an hour before sunset over a marshy plain where there was
still much standing</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">Q 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">228 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">water in the rushy
pools, though it was at the height of the dry season. This whole
plain was covered with an endless flock of chakars, not in close
order, but scattered about in pairs and small groups. In this
desolate spot I found a small rancho inhabited by a gaucho and
his family, and I spent the night with them. The birds were all
about the house, apparently as tame as the domestic fowls, and
when I went out to look for a spot for my horse to feed on, they
would not fly away from me, but merely moved, a few steps out of
my path About nine o'clock we were eating supper in the rancho
when suddenly the entire multitude of birds covering the marsh
for miles around burst forth into a tremendous evening song. It
is impossible to describe the effect of this mighty rush of
sound; but let the reader try to imagine half-a-million voices,
each far more powerful than that one which makes itself heard all
over Regent's Park, bursting forth on the silent atmosphere of
that dark lonely plain. One peculiarity was that in this mighty
noise, which sounded louder than the sea thundering on a rocky
coast, I seemed to be able to distinguish hundreds, even
thousands, of individual voices. Forgetting my supper, I sat
motionless and overcome with astonishment, while the air, and
even the frail rancho, seemed to be trembling in that tempest of
sound. When it ceased my host remarked with a smile, "We are
accustomed to this, se&ntilde;or--every evening we have this
concert." It was a concert well worth riding a hundred miles to
hear. But the chakar country is just now in a transitional state,
and the precise conditions which</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Crested
Screamer.</i> 229</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">made it possible
for birds so large in size to form such immense congregations are
rapidly passing away. In desert places, the bird subsists chiefly
on leaves and seeds of aquatic plants; but when the vast level
area of the pampas was settled by man, the ancient stiff
grass-vegetation gave place to the soft clovers and grasses of
Europe, and to this new food the birds took very kindly. Other
circumstances also favoured their increase. They were never
persecuted, for the natives do not eat them, though they are
really very good--the flesh being something like wild goose in
flavour. A <i>higher</i> civilization is changing all this: the
country is becoming rapidly overrun with emigrants, especially by
Italians, the pitiless enemies of all bird-life.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The chakars, like
the skylark, love to soar upwards when singing, and at such times
when they have risen till their dark bulky bodies appear like
floating specks on the blue sky, or until they disappear from
sight altogether, the notes become wonderfully etherealized by
distance to a soft silvery sound, and it is then very delightful
to listen to them.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It seems strange
that so ponderous a fowl with only six feet and a half spread of
wings should possess a power of soaring equal to that of vultures
and eagles. Even the vulture with its marvellous wing power soars
chiefly from necessity, and when its crop is full finds no
pleasure in "scaling the heavens by invisible stairs." The chakar
leaves its grass-plot after feeding and soars purely for
recreation, taking so much pleasure in its aerial</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">230 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">exercises that in
bright warm weather, in winter and spring, it spends a great part
of the day in the upper regions of the air. On the earth its air
is grave and its motions measured and majestic, and it rises with
immense labour, the wings producing a sound like a high wind. But
as the bird mounts higher, sweeping round as it ascends, just as
vultures and eagles do, it gradually appears to become more
buoyant, describing each succeeding circle with increasing grace.
I can only account for this magnificent flight, beginning so
laboriously, by supposing that the bubble space under the skin
becomes inflated with an air lighter than atmospheric air,
enabling a body so heavy with wings disproportionately short to
float with such ease and evident enjoyment at the vast heights to
which the bird ascends. The heavenward flight of a large bird is
always a magnificent spectacle; that of the chakar is peculiarly
fascinating on account of the resounding notes it sings while
soaring, and in which the bird seems to exult in its sublime
power and freedom.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I was once very much
surprised at the behaviour of a couple of chakars during a
thunderstorm. On a still sultry day in summer I was standing
watching masses of black cloud coming rapidly over the sky, while
a hundred yards from me stood the two birds also apparently
watching the approaching storm with interest. Presently the edge
of the cloud touched the sun, and a twilight gloom fell on the
earth. The very moment the sun disappeared the birds rose up and
soon began singing their long' resounding notes, though it was
loudly thundering</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Crested
Screamer.</i> 231</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">at the time, while
vivid flashes of lightning lit the black cloud overhead at short
intervals. I watched their flight and listened to their notes,
till suddenly as they made a wide sweep upwards they disappeared
in the cloud, and at the same moment their voices became muffled,
and seemed to come from an immense distance. The cloud continued
emitting sharp flashes of lightning, but the birds never
reappeared, and after six or seven minutes once more their notes
sounded loud and clear above the muttering thunder. I suppose
they had passed through the cloud into the clear atmosphere above
it, but I was extremely surprised at their fearlessness; for as a
rule when soaring birds see a storm coming they get out of its
way, flying before it or stooping to the earth to seek shelter of
some kind, for most living things appear to have a wholesome
dread of thunder and lightning.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">When taken young the
chakar becomes very tame and attached to man, showing no
inclination to go back to a wild life. There was one kept at an
estancia called Mangrullos, on the western frontier of Buenos
Ayres, and the people of the house gave me a very curious account
of it. The bird was a male, and had been reared by a soldier's
wife at a frontier outpost called La Esperanza, about twenty-five
miles from Mangrullos. Four years before I saw the bird the
Indians had invaded the frontier, destroying the Esperanza
settlement and all the estancias for some leagues around. For
some weeks after the invasion the chakar wandered about the
country, visiting all the ruined estancias, apparently in quest
of human beings, and on arriving</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">232 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">at Mangrullos, which
had not been burnt and was still inhabited, it settled down at
ones and never afterwards showed any disposition to go away. It
was extremely tame, associating by day with the poultry, and
going to roost with them at night OH a high perch, probably for
the sake of companionship, for in a wild state the bird roosts on
the ground. It was friendly towards all the members of the
household except one, a peon, and against this person from the
first the bird always displayed the greatest antipathy,
threatening him with its wings, puffing itself out, and hissing
like an angry goose. The man had a swarthy, beardless face, and
it was conjectured that the chakar associated him in its mind
with the savages who had destroyed its early home.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Close to the house
there was a lagoon, never dry, which was frequently visited by
flocks of wild chakars. Whenever a flock appeared the tame bird
would go out to join them; and though the chakars are
mild-tempered birds and very rarely quarrel, albeit so well
provided with formidable weapons, they invariably attacked the
visitor with great fury, chasing him back to the house, and not
ceasing their persecutions till the poultry-yard was reached.
They appeared to regard this tame bird that dwelt with man as a
kind of renegade, and hated him accordingly.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Before he had been
long at the estancia it began to be noticed that he followed the
broods of young chickens about very assiduously, apparently
taking great interest in their welfare, and even trying to entice
them to follow him. A few newly-hatched</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Crested
Screamer.</i> 233</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">chickens were at
length offered to him as an experiment, and he immediately took
charge of them with every token of satisfaction, conducting them
about in search of food and imitating all the actions of a hen.
Finding him so good a nurse, large broods were given to him, and
the more the foster-chickens were the better he seemed pleased.
It was very curious to see this big bird with thirty or forty
little animated balls of yellow cotton following him about, while
he moved majestically along, setting down his feet with the
greatest care not to tread on them, and swelling himself up with
jealous anger at the approach of a cat or dog.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The intelligence,
docility, and attachment to man displayed by the chakar in a
domestic state, with perhaps other latent aptitudes only waiting
to be developed by artificial selection, seem to make this
species one peculiarly suited for man's protection, without which
it must inevitably perish. It is sad to reflect that all our
domestic animals have descended to us from those ancient times
which we are accustomed to regard as dark or barbarous, while the
effect of our modern so-called humane civilization has been
purely destructive to animal life. Not one type do we rescue from
the carnage going on at an ever-increasing rate over all the
globe. To Australia and America, North and South, we look in vain
for new domestic species, while even from Africa, with its
numerous fine mammalian forms, and where England has been the
conquering colonizing power for nearly a century, we take
nothing. Even the sterling qualities of the elephant, the unique
beauty of the zebra, appeal</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">234 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">to us in vain. We
are only teaching the tribes of that vast continent to
exterminate a hundred noble species they would not tame. With
grief and shame, even with dismay, we call to mind that our
country is now a stupendous manufactory of destructive engines,
which we are rapidly placing in the hands of all the savage and
semi-savage peoples of the earth, thus ensuring the speedy
destruction of all the finest types in the animal
kingdom.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c35">CHAPTER
XVIII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c35">THE WOODHEWER
FAMILY.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font22 c35"><i>(Dendrocolaptidae.)</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">THE South American
Tree-creepers, or Woodhewers, as they are sometimes called,
although confined exclusively to one continent, their range
extending from Southern Mexico to the Magellanic islands, form
one of the largest families of the order Passeres; no fewer than
about two hundred and ninety species (referable to about
forty-six genera) having been already described. As they are
mostly small, inconspicuous, thicket-frequenting birds, shy and
fond of concealment to excess, it is only reasonable to suppose
that our list of this family is more incomplete than of any other
family of birds known. Thus, in the southern Plata and north
Pata-gonian districts, supposed to be exhausted, where my
observations have been made, and where, owing to the open nature
of the country, birds are more easily remarked than in the
forests and marshes of the tropical region, I have made notes on
the habits of five species, of which I did not preserve
specimens, and which, as far as I know, have never been described
and named. Probably long before the whole of South America has
been "exhausted," there will be not less than four to five
hundred Dendrocolaptine</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">236 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">species known. And
yet with the exception of that dry husk of knowledge, concerning
size, form and colouration, which classifiers and cataloguers
obtain from specimens, very little indeed--scarcely anything, in
fact--is known about the Tree-creepers; and it would not be too
much to say that there are many comparatively obscure and
uninteresting species in Europe, any one of which has a larger
literature than the entire Tree-creeper family. No separate work
about these birds has seen the light, even in these days of
monographs; but the reason of this comparative neglect is not far
to seek. In the absence of any knowledge, except of the most
fragmentary kind, of the life-habits of exotic species, the
monograph-makers of the Old World naturally take up only the most
important groups--i.e. the groups which most readily attract the
traveller's eye with their gay conspicuous colouring, and which
have acquired a wide celebrity. We thus have a succession of
splendid and expensive works dealing separately with such groups
as woodpeckers, trogons, humming-birds, tanagers, king-fishers,
and birds of paradise; for with these, even if there be nothing
to record beyond the usual dreary details and technicalities
concerning geographical distribution, variations in size and
markings of different species, &amp;c., the little interest of
the letter-press is compensated for in the accompanying plates,
which are now produced on a scale of magnitude, and with so great
a degree of perfection, as regards brilliant colouring, spirited
attitudes and general fidelity to nature, that leaves little
further improvement in this direction to be looked for. The
Tree-creepers, being</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 237</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">without the inferior
charm of bright colour, offer no attraction to the bird-painter,
whose share in the work of the pictorial monograph is, of course,
all-important. Yet even the very slight knowledge we possess of
this family is enough to show that in many respects it is one
richly endowed, possessing characters of greater interest to the
student of the instincts and mental faculties of birds, than any
of |the gaily-tinted families I have mentioned.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">There is, in the
Dendrocolaptidae, a splendid harvest for future observers of the
habits of South American birds: some faint idea of its richness
may perhaps be gathered from the small collection of the most
salient facts known to us about them I have brought together and
put in order in this place. And I am here departing a little from
the plan usually observed in this book, which is chiefly occupied
with matters of personal knowledge, seasoned with a little
speculation; but in this case I have thought it best to
supplement my own observations with those of others who have
collected and observed birds in South America,* so as to give as
comprehensive a survey of the family as I could.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is strange to
find a Passerine family, numerous as the Tree-creepers, uniformly
of one colour, or nearly so; for, with few exceptions, these
birds have a brown plumage, without a particle of bright colour.
But although they possess no brilliant or metallic tints, in some
species, as we shall see, there are tints approaching to
brightness. Notwithstand-</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21">* Azara; D'Orbigny;
Darwin; Bridges; Frazer; Leotaud; Gaumer; Wallace; Bates;
Cunningham; Stolzmann; Jelski; Durnford; Gibson; Burrows;
Doering; White, &amp;c.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">238 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ing this family
likeness in colour, any person, not an ornithologist, looking at
a collection of specimens comprising many genera, would hear with
surprise and almost incredulity that they all belonged to one
family, so great is the diversity exhibited in their structure.
In size they vary from species smaller than the golden-crested
wren to others larger than the woodcock; but the differences in
size are as nothing compared with those shown in the form of the
beak. Between the minute, straight, conical, tit-like beaks of
the Laptasthenura--a tit in appearance and habits--and the
extravagantly long, sword-shaped bill of Nasica, or the
excessively attenuated, sickle-shaped organ in Xiphorynchus, the
divergence is amazing, compared with what is found in other
families; while between these two extremes there is a
heterogeneous assemblage of</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">birds with beaks
like creepers, nuthatches, finches, tyrant-birds, woodpeckers,
crows, and even curlews and ibises. In legs, feet and tails,
there are corresponding differences. There are tails of all
lengths and all forms; soft and stiff, square, acuminated, broad
and fan-like, narrow and spine-like, and many as in the
woodpeckers, and used as in that bird to support the body in
climbing. An extremely curious modification is found in
Sittosoma: the tail-feathers in this genus are long and
graduated, and the shafts, projecting beyond the webs at the
ends, curve downwards and form stiff hooks. Concerning the habits
of these birds, it has only been reported that they climb on the
trunks of trees: probably they are able to run vertically up or
down with equal facility, and even to suspend
themselves</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">239</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">by their
feather-hooks when engaged in dislodging insects. Another curious
variation is found in Sylviothorhynchus, a small wren-like bird
and the</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-19.jpg" alt="h1-19.jpg" class="c36">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Some Woodhewers'
beaks.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">only member known
of the genus, with a tail resembling that of the lyre-bird, the
extravagantly long feathers being so narrow as to appear
almost</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font4">240</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">like shafts
destitute of webs. This tail appears to be purely
ornamental.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">This extreme variety
in structure indicates a corresponding diversity in habits; and,
assuming it to be a true doctrine that habits vary first and
structure afterwards, anyone might infer from a study of their
forms alone that these birds possess a singular plasticity, or
tendency to vary, in their habits--or, in other words, that they
are exceptionally intelligent; and that such a conclusion would
be right I believe a study of their habits will serve to
show.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The same species is
often found to differ in its manner of life in different
localities. Some species of Xenops and Magarornis, like
woodpeckers, climb vertically on tree-trunks in search of insect
prey, but also, like tits, explore the smaller twigs and foliage
at the extremity of the branches; so that the whole tree, from
its root to its topmost foliage, is hunted over by them. The
Sclerurus, although an inhabitant of the darkest forest, and
provided with sharply-curved claws, never seeks its food on
trees, but exclusively on the ground, among the decaying fallen
leaves; but, strangely enough, when alarmed it flies to the trunk
of the nearest tree, to which it clings in a vertical position,
and, remaining silent and motionless, escapes observation by
means of its dark protective colour. The Drymornis, a large bird,
with feet and tail like a woodpecker, climbs on tree-trunks to
seek its food; but also possesses the widely-different habit of
resorting to the open plain, especially after a shower, to feed
on larvae and earthworms, extracting them from a depth of
three</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodkewer
Family.</i> 241</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">or four inches
beneath the surface with its immense curved probing
beak.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Again, when we
consider a large number of species of different groups, we find
that there is not with the Tree-creepers, as with most families,
any special habit or manner of life linking them together; but
that, on the contrary, different genera, and, very frequently,
different species belonging to one genus, possess habits
peculiarly their own. In other families, even where the
divergence is greatest, what may be taken as the original or
ancestral habit is seldom or never quite obsolete in any of the
members. This we see, for instance, in the woodpeckers, some of
which have acquired the habit of seeking their food exclusively
on the ground in open places, and even of nesting in the banks of
streams. Yet all these wanderers, even those which have been
structurally modified in accordance with their altered way of
life, retain the primitive habit of clinging vertically to the
trunks of trees, although the habit has lost its use. With the
tyrant birds--a family showing an extraordinary amount of
variation--it is the same; for the most divergent kinds are
frequently seen reverting to the family habit of perching on an
elevation, from which to make forays after passing insects,
returning after each capture to the same stand. The thrushes,
ranging all over the globe, afford another striking example.
Without speaking of their nesting habits, their relationship
appears in their love of fruit, in their gait, flight, statuesque
attitudes, and abrupt motions.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">With the numerous
Dendrocolaptine groups, so</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">242 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">widely separated
and apparently unrelated, it would be difficult indeed to say
which, of their most striking habits is the ancestral one. Many
of the smaller species live in trees or bushes, and in their
habits resemble tits, warblers, wrens, and other kinds that
subsist on small caterpillars, spiders, &amp;c., gleaned from the
leaves and smaller twigs. The Anumbius nests on trees, but feeds
exclusively on the ground in open places; while other
ground-feeders seek their food among dead leaves in dense gloomy
forests. Coryphistera resembles the lark and pipit in its habits;
Cinclodes, the wagtail; Geobates a Saxicola; Limnornis lives in
reed beds growing in the water; Henicornis in reed beds growing
out of the water; and many other ground species exist concealed
in the grass on dry plains; Homorus seeks its food by digging in
the loose soil and dead leaves about the roots of trees; while
Geo-sitta, Furnarius, and Upercerthia obtain a livelihood chiefly
by probing in the soil. It would not be possible within the
present limits to mention in detail all the different modes of
life of those species or groups which do not possess the
tree-creeping habit; after them comes a long array of genera in
which this habit is ingrained, and in which the greatly modified
feet and claws are suited to a climbing existence. As these
genera comprise the largest half of the family, also the largest
birds in it, we might expect to find in the tree-creeping the
parental habit of the Dendrocolaptidae, and that from these
tropical forest groups have sprung the widely-diverging thicket,
ground, marsh, sea-beach, and rock-frequenting groups. It
happens, however,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 243</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">that these birds
resemble each other only in their climbing feet; in the form of
their beaks they are as wide apart as are nuthatches,
woodpeckers, crows, and curlews. They also differ markedly in the
manner of seeking their food. Some dig like woodpeckers in
decayed wood; others probe only in soft rotten wood; while the
humming-bird-billed Xiphorhynchus, with a beak too long and
slender for probing, explores the interior of deep holes in the
trunks to draw out nocturnal insects, spiders, and centipedes
from their concealment. Xiphoco-laptes uses its sword-like beak
as a lever, thrusting it under and forcing up the loose bark;
while Dendrornis, with its stout corvine beak, tears the bark
off.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In the nesting
habits the diversity is greatest. Some ground species excavate in
the earth like kingfishers, only with greater skill, making
cylindrical burrows often four to five feet deep, and terminating
in a round chamber. Others build a massive oven-shaped structure
of clay on a branch or other elevated site. Many of those that
creep on trees nest in holes in the wood. The marsh-frequenting
kinds attach spherical or oval domed nests to the reeds; and in
some cases woven grass and clay are so ingeniously combined that
the structure, while light as a basket, is perfectly impervious
to the wet and practically indestructible. The most curious
nests, however, are the large stick structures on trees and
bushes, in the building and repairing of which the birds are in
many cases employed more or less constantly all the year round.
These stick nests vary greatly in form,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">244 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">size, and in other
respects. Some have a spiral passage-way leading from the
entrance to the nest cavity, and the cavity is in many cases only
large enough to accommodate the bird; but in the gigantic
structure of Homorus gutturalis it is so large that, if the upper
half of the nest or dome were removed, a condor could comfortably
hatch her eggs and rear her young in it. This nest is spherical.
The allied Homorus lophotis builds a nest equally large, but with
a small cavity for the eggs inside, and outwardly resembling a
gigantic powder-flask, lying horizontally among the lower
branches of a spreading tree. Pracellodomtis sibila-trix, a bird
in size like the English house sparrow, also makes a huge nest,
and places it on the twigs at the terminal end of a horizontal
branch from twelve to fifteen feet above the ground; but when
finished, the weight of the structure bears down the branch-end
to within one or two feet of the surface. Mr. Barrows, who
describes this nest, says: "When other branches of the same tree
are similarly loaded, and other trees close at hand bear the same
kind of fruit, the result is very picturesque." Synallaxis
phryganophila makes a stick nest about a foot in depth, and from
the top a tubular passage, formed of slender twigs interlaced,
runs down the entire length of the nest, like a rain-pipe on the
wall of a house, and then becoming external slopes upward, ending
at a distance of two to three feet from the nest. Throughout
South America there are several varieties of these fruit-and-stem
or watering-pot shaped nests; they are not, however, all built by
birds of one genus, while in the genus</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 245</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Synallaxis many
species have no tubular passageways attached to their nests. One
species--erythro thorax--in Yucatan, makes so large a nest of
sticks, that the natives do not believe that so small a bird can
be the builder. They say that when the <i>tzapatan</i> begins to
sing, all the birds in the forest repair to it, each one carrying
a stick to add to the structure; only one, a tyrant-bird, brings
two sticks, one for itself and one for the <i>urub&uacute;</i> or
vulture, that bird being considered too large, heavy, and
ignorant of architecture to assist personally in the
work.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In the southern
part of South America, where scattered thorn trees grow on a dry
soil, these big nests are most abundant. "There are plains," Mr.
Barrows writes, "within two miles of the centre of this town
(Concepcion, Argentine Republic), where I have stood and counted,
from one point within a radius of twenty rods, over two hundred
of these curious nests, varying in size from that of a small
pumpkin to more than the volume of a barrel. Often a single tree
will contain half a dozen nests or more; and, not unfrequently,
the nests of several different species are seen crowding each
other out of shape on the same bush or tree."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It would be a
mistake to think that the widely different nesting habits I have
mentioned are found in different genera. I have just spoken of
the big stick nests, with or without passage-ways, of the
Synallaxes, yet the nest of one member of this group is simply a
small straight tube of woven grass, the aperture only large
enough to admit the finger, and open at both ends, so that
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">246 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">bird can pass in
and out without turning round. Another species scoops a circular
hollow in the soil, and builds over it a dome of fine woven
grass. It should be mentioned that the nesting habits of only
about fifteen out of the sixty-five species comprised in this
genus are known to us. In the genus Furnarius the oven-shaped
clay structure is known to be made by three species; a fourth
builds a nest of sticks in a tree; a fifth burrows in the side of
a bank, like a kingfisher.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The explanation of
the most striking features of the Dendrocolaptidae, their
monotonous brown plumage, diversity of structure, versatile
habits, and the marvellous development of the nest-making
instinct which they exhibit is to be found, it appears to me, in
the fact that they are the most defenceless of birds. They are
timid, unresisting creatures, without strength or weapons; their
movements arc less quick and vigorous than those of other kinds,
and their flight is exceedingly feeble. The arboreal species flit
at intervals from one tree to another; those that frequent
thickets refuse to leave their chosen shelter; while those
inhabiting grassy plains or marshes study concealment, and, when
forced to rise, flutter away just above the surface, like
flying-fish frightened from the water, and, when they have gone
thirty or forty yards, dip into the grass or reeds again. Their
life is thus one of perpetual danger in a far greater
degree than with other passerine families, such as warblers,
tyrants, finches, thrushes, &amp;c.; while an exclusively insect
diet, laboriously extracted from secret places, and inability to
change their climate, contribute to make</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 247</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">their existence a
hard one. It has been with these birds as with human beings, bred
in "misfortune's school," and subjected to keen competition. One
of their most striking characteristics is a methodical, plodding,
almost painful diligence of manner while seeking their food, so
that when viewed side by side with other species, rejoicing in a
gayer plumage and stronger flight, they seem like sober labourers
that never rest among holiday people bent only on enjoyment. That
they are able not only to maintain their existence, but to rise
to the position of a dominant family, is due to an intelligence
and adaptiveness exceeding that of other kinds, and which has
been strengthened, and perhaps directly results from the hard
conditions of their life.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">How great their
adaptiveness and variability must be when we find that every
portion of the South American continent is occupied by them; for
there is really no climate, and no kind of soil or vegetation,
which does not possess its appropriate species, modified in
colour, form, and habits to suit the surrounding conditions. In
the tropical region, so rich in bird life of all kinds, in
forest, marsh, and savanna, they are everywhere abundant--food is
plentiful there; but when we go to higher elevations avd cold
sterile deserts, where their companion families of the tropics
dwindle away and disappear, the creepers are still present, for
they are evidently able to exist where other kinds would starve.
On the stony plateaus of the Andes, and on the most barren spots
in Patagonia, where no other bird is seen, there are small
species of Synallaxis, which, in their obscure colour and
motions</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">248 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">on the ground,
resemble mice rather than birds; indeed, the Quichua name for one
of these Synallaxes is <i>ukatchtuka,</i> or mouse-bird. How
different is the life habit here from what we see in the tropical
groups--the large birds with immense beaks, that run vertically
on the trunks of the great forest trees!</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">At the extreme
southern extremity of the South American continent we find
several species of Cin-clodes, seeking a subsistence like
sandpipers on the beach; they also fly out to sea, and run about
on the floating kelp, exploring the fronds for the small marine
animals on which they live. In the dreary forests of Tierra del
Fuego another creeper, Uxyurus, is by far the commonest bird.
"Whether high up or low down, in the most gloomy, wet, and
scarcely penetrable ravines," says Darwin, "this little bird is
to be met with;" and Dr. Cunningham also relates that in these
wintry, savage woods he was always attended in his walks by
parties of these little creepers, which assembled to follow him
out of curiosity.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">To birds placed at
so great a disadvantage, by a feeble flight and other adverse
circumstances, in the race of life bright colours would certainly
prove fatal. It is true that brown is not in itself a protective
colour, and the clear, almost silky browns and bright chestnut
tints in several species are certainly not protective; but these
species are sufficiently protected in other ways, and can afford
to be without a strictly adaptive colour, so long as they are not
conspicuous. In a majority of cases, however, the colour is
undoubtedly protective, the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodkewer
Family. 2</i>49</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">brown hue being of a
shade that assimilates very closely to the surroundings. There
are pale yellowish browns, lined and mottled, in species living
amidst a sere, scanty vegetation; earthy browns, in those
frequenting open sterile or stony places; while the species that
creep on trees in forests are dark brown in colour, and in many
cases the feathers are mottled in such a manner as to make them
curiously resemble the bark of a tree. The genera Lochmias and
Sclerurus are the darkest, the plumage in these birds being
nearly or quite black, washed or tinged with rhubarb yellow.
Their black plumage would render them conspicuous in the
sunshine, but they pass their lives in dense tropical forests,
where the sun at noon sheds only a gloomy twilight.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">If "colour is ever
tending to increase and to appear where it is absent," as Dr.
Wallace believes, then we ought to find it varying in the
direction of greater brightness in some species in a family so
numerous and variable as the Dendrocolaptidae, however feeble and
in need of a protective colouring these birds may be in a
majority of pases. And this in effect we do find. In many of the
dark-plumaged species that live in perpetual shade some parts are
a very bright chestnut; while in a few that live in such close
concealment as to be almost independent of protective colouring,
the lower plumage has become pure white. A large number of
species have a bright or nearly bright guiar spot. This is most
remarkable in Synallaxis phryganophila, the chin being
sulphur-yellow, beneath which is a spot of velvet-black, and on
either side a white</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">2 5O <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">patch, the throat
thus having three strongly contrasted colours, arranged in four
divisions. The presence of this bright throat spot in so many
species cannot very well be attributed to voluntary sexual
selection, although believers in that theory are of course at
liberty to imagine that when engaged in courtship, the male bird,
or rather male and female both, as both sexes possess the spot,
hold up their heads vertically to exhibit it. Perhaps it would be
safer to look on it as a mere casual variation, which, like the
exquisitely pencilled feathers and delicate tints on the
concealed sides and under surfaces of the wings of many species
possessing outwardly an obscure protective colouring, is neither
injurious nor beneficial in any way, either to the birds or to
the theory. It is more than probable, however, that in such small
feeble-winged, persecuted birds, this spot of colour would prove
highly dangerous on any conspicuous part of the body. In some of
the more vigorous, active species, we can see a tendency towards
a brighter colouring on large, exposed surfaces. In Auto-malus
the tail is bright satiny rufous; in Pseudo-colaptes the entire
under surface is rufous of a peculiar vivid tint, verging on
orange or red; in Magarornis the bosom is black, and beautifully
ornamented with small leaf-shaped spots of a delicate
straw-colour. There are several other very pretty birds in this
homely family; but the finest of all is Thripodectes flammulatus,
the whole body being tortoise-shell colour, the wings and tail
bright chesnut. The powerful tanager-like beak of this species
seems also to show that it has diverged</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 251</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">from its timid
shade-loving congeners in another direction by becoming a seed
and fruit eater.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Probably the sober
and generally protective colouring of the tree-creepers, even
with the variability and adaptiveness displayed in their habits
superadded, would be insufficient to preserve such feeble birds
in the struggle of life without the further advantage derived
from their wonderful nests. It has been said of domed nests that
they are a danger rather than a protection, owing to their large
size, which makes it easy for carnivorous species that prey on
eggs and young birds to find them; while small open nests are
usually well concealed. This may be the case with covered nests
made of soft materials, loosely put together; but it cannot be
said of the solid structure the tree-creeper bnilds, and which,
as often as not, the bird erects in the most conspicuous place it
can find, as if, writes Azara, it desired all the world to admire
its work. The annual destruction of adult birds is very
great--more than double that, I believe, which takes place in
other passerine families. Their eggs and young are, however,
practically safe in their great elaborate nests or deep burrows,
and, as a rule, they lay more eggs than other kinds, the full
complement being seldom less than five in the species I am
acquainted with, while some lay as many as nine. Their nests are
also made so as to keep out a greater pest than their carnivorous
or egg-devouring enemies--namely, the parasitical starlings
(Molo-thrus), which are found throughout South America, and are
excessively abundant and destructive to birds' nests in some
districts. In most cases, in the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">252 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">big, strong-domed
nest or deep burrow, all the eggs are hatched and all the young
reared, the thinning, out process commencing only after the brood
has been led forth into a world beset with perils. With other
families, on the contrary, the greatest amount of destruction
falls on the eggs or fledglings. I have frequently kept a dozen
or twenty pairs of different species--warblers, finches, tyrants,
starlings, &amp;c.--under observation during the breeding season,
and have found that in some cases no young-were reared at all; in
other cases one or two young; while, as often as not, the young
actually reared were only parasitical starlings after
all.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have still to
speak of the voice of the tree-creepers, an important point in
the study of these birds; for, though not accounted singers, some
species emit remarkable sounds; moreover, language in birds is
closely related to the social instinct. They seem to be rather
solitary than gregarious; and this seems only natural in birds so
timid, weak-winged, and hard pressed. It would also be natural to
conclude from what has been said concerning their habits that
they are comparatively silent; for, as a rule, vigorous social
birds are loquacious and loud-voiced, while shy solitary kinds
preservo silence, except in the love season. Nevertheless the
creepers are loquacious and have loud resonant voices; this fact,
however, does not really contradict a well-known principle, for
the birds possess the social disposition in an eminent degree,
only the social habit is kept down in them by the conditions of a
life which makes solitude necessary. Thus, a large proportion of
species are found to pair for</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 253</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c13">life; and the only
reasonable explanation of this habit in birds--one which is not
very common in the mammalia--is that such species possess the
social temper or feeling, and live in pairs only because they
cannot afford to live in flocks. Strictly gregarious species pair
only for the breeding season. In the creepers the attachment
between the birds thus mated for life is very great, and, as
Azara truly says of Anumbi&uuml;s, so fond of each other's
society are these birds, that when one incubates the other sits
at the entrance to the nest, and when one carries food to its
young the other accompanies it, even if it has found nothing to
cany. In these species that live in pairs, when the two birds are
separated they are perpetually calling to each other, showing how
impatient of solitude they are; while even from the more solitary
kind, a high-pitched call-note is constantly heard in the woods,
for these birds, debarred from associating together, satisfy
their instinct by conversing with one another over long
distances.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c13">The foregoing
remarks apply to the Dendrocolap-tidae throughout the temperate
countries of South America--the birds inhabiting extensive grassy
plains and marshes, and districts with a scanty or scattered tree
and bush vegetation. In the forest areas of the hotter regions it
is different; there the birds form large gatherings or "wandering
bands," composed of all the different species found in each
district, associated with birds of other families--wood-peckers,
tyrant-birds, bush shrikes, and many others. These miscellaneous
gatherings are not of rare occurrence, but out of the breeding
season are</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">254 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">formed daily, the
birds beginning to assemble at about nine or ten o'clock in the
morning, their number increasing through the day until it reaches
its maximum between two and four o'clock in the afternoon, after
which it begins to diminish, each bird going off to its customary
shelter or dwelling-place. Mr. Bates, who first described these
wandering bands, says that he could always find the particular
band belonging to a district any day he wished, for when he
failed to meet with it in one part of the forest he would try
other paths, until he eventually found it. The great Amazonian
forests, he tells us, appear strangely silent and devoid of bird
life, and it is possible to ramble about for whole days without
seeing or hearing birds. But now and then the surrounding trees
and bushes appear suddenly swarming with them. "The bustling
crowd loses no time, and, always moving in concert, each bird is
occupied on its own account in searching bark, or leaf, or twig.
In a few moments the host is gone, and the forest path remains
deserted and silent as before." Stolzmann, who observed them in
Peru, says that the sound caused by the busy crowd searching
through the foliage, and the falling of dead leaves and twigs,
resembles that produced by a shower of rain. The Indians of the
Amazons, Mr. Bates writes, have a curious belief to explain these
bird armies; they say that the Papa-uira, supposed to be a small
grey bird, fascinates all the others, and leads them on a weary
perpetual dance through the forest. It seems very wonderful that
birds, at other times solitary, should thus combine daily in
large numbers, includ-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 255</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c13">ing in their bands
scores of widely different species, and in size ranging from
those no larger than a wren to others as big as a magpie. It is
certainly very advantageous to them. As Belt remarks, they play
into each other's hands; for while the larger creepers explore
the trunks of big trees, others run over the branches and cling
to the lesser twigs, so that every tree in their route, from its
roots to the topmost foliage, is thoroughly examined, and every
spider and caterpillar taken, while the winged insects, driven
from their lurking-places, are seized where they settle, or
caught flying by the tyrant birds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c13">I have observed the
wandering bands only in Patagonia, where they are on a very small
scale compared with those of the tropical forests. In the
Patagonia thickets the small tit-like creeper, Laptas-thenura, is
the prime mover; and after a considerable number of these have
gathered, creepers of other species and genera unite with them,
and finally the band, as it moves through the thickets, draws to
itself other kinds--flycatchers, finches, &amp;c.--many of the
birds running or hopping on the ground to search for insects in
the loose soil or under dead leaves, while others explore the
thorny bushes. My observations of these small bands lead me to
believe that everywhere in South America the Dendrocolaptidae are
the first in combining to act in concert, and that the birds of
other families follow their march and associate with them,
knowing from experience that a rich harvest may be thus reaped.
In the same way birds of various kinds follow the movements of a
column of hunting</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">256 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">ants, to catch the
insects flying up from the earth to escape from their enemies;
swallows also learn to keep company with the traveller on
horseback, and, crossing and recrossing just before the hoofs,
they catch the small twilight moths driven up from the
grass.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">To return to the
subject of voice. The tree-creepers do not possess melodious, or
at any rate mellow notes, although in so numerous a family there
is great variety of tone, ranging from a small reedy voice like
the faint stridulation of a grasshopper, to the resounding,
laughter-like, screaming concerts of Homorus, which may be heard
distinctly two miles away. As a rule, the notes are loud ringing
calls; and in many species the cry, rapidly reiterated, resembles
a peal of laughter. With scarcely an exception, they possess no
set song; but in most species that live always in pairs there are
loud, vehement, gratulatory notes uttered by the two birds in
concert when they meet after a brief separation. This habit they
possess in common with birds of other families, as, for instance,
the tyrants; but, in some creepers, out of this confused outburst
of joyous sound has been developed a musical performance very
curious, and perhaps unique among birds. On meeting, the male and
female, standing close together and facing each other, utter
their clear ringing concert, one emitting loud single measured
notes, while the notes of its fellow are rapid, rhythmical
triplets; their voices have a joyous character, and seem to
accord, thus producing a kind of harmony. This manner of singing
is perhaps most perfect in the oven-bird,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 257</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Furnarias, and it
is very curious that the young birds, when only partially
fledged, are constantly heard in the nest or oven apparently
practising these duets in the intervals when the parents are
absent; single measured notes, triplets, and long concluding
trills are all repeated with wonderful fidelity, although these
notes are in character utterly unlike the hunger cry, which is
like that of other fledglings. I cannot help thinking that this
fact of the young birds beginning to sing like the adults, while
still confined in their dark cradle, is one of very considerable
significance, especially when we consider the singular character
of the performance; and that it might even be found to throw some
light on the obscure question of the comparative antiquity of the
different and widely separated Dendrocolaptine groups. It is a
doctrine in evolutionary science that the early maturing of
instincts in the young indicates a high antiquity for the species
or group; and there is no reason why this principle should not be
extended, in the case of birds at any rate, to language. It is
true that Daines Barrington's notion that young song-birds learn
to sing only by imitating the adults still holds its ground; and
Darwin gives it his approval in his <i>Descent of Man.</i> It is
perhaps one of those doctrines which are partially true, or which
do not contain the whole truth; and it is possible to believe
that, while many singing birds do so learn their songs, or
acquire a greater proficiency in them from hearing the adults, in
other species the song comes instinctively, and is, like other
instincts and habits, purely an "inherited memory."</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">258 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The case of a
species in another order of birds--Crypturi--strikes me as being
similar to this of the oven-bird, and seems to lend some force to
the suggestion I have made concerning the early development of
voice in the young.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Birds peculiar to
South America are said by anatomists to be less specialized,
lower, more ancient, than the birds of the northern continents,
and among those which are considered lowest and most ancient are
the Tinamous (rail and partridge like in their habits), birds
that lead a solitary, retiring life, and in most cases have sweet
melancholy voices. Rhynchotus rufescens, a bird the size of a
fowl, inhabiting the pampas, is perhaps the sweetest-voiced, and
sings with great frequency. Its song or call is heard oftenest
towards the evening, and is composed of five modulated notes,
flute-like in character, very expressive, and uttered by many
individuals answering each other as they sit far apart concealed
in the grass. As we might have expected, the faculties and
instincts of the young of this species mature at a very early
period; when extremely small, they abandon their parents to shift
for themselves in solitude; and when not more than one-fourth the
size they eventually attain, they acquire the adult plumage and
are able to fly as well as an old bird. I observed a young bird
of this species, less than a quail in size, at a house on the
pampas, and was told that it had been taken from the nest when
just breaking the shell; it had, therefore, never seen or heard
the parent birds. Yet this small chick, every day at the approach
of evening, would retire to the darkest corner of the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Woodhewer
Family.</i> 259</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">dining room, and,
concealed under a piece of furniture, would continue uttering its
evening song for an hour or longer at short intervals, and
rendering it so perfectly that I was greatly surprised to hear
it; for a thrush or other songster at the same period of life,
when attempting to sing, only produces a chirping
sound.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The early singing
of the oven-bird fledgling is important, owing to the fact that
the group it belongs to comprises the least specialized forms in
the family. They are strong-legged, square-tailed, terrestrial
birds, generally able to perch, have probing beaks, and build the
most perfect mud or stick nests, or burrow in the ground. In the
numerous tree-creeping groups, which, seem as unrelated to the
oven-bird as the woodpecker is to the hoopoe, we find a score of
wonderfully different forms of beak; but many of them retain the
probing character, and are actually used to probe in rotten wood
on trees, and to explore the holes and deep crevices in the
trunk. We have also seen that some of these tree-creepers revert
to the ancestral habit (if I may so call it) of seeking their
food by probing in the soil. In others, like Dendrornis, in which
the beak has lost this character, and is used to dig in the wood
or to strip off the bark, it has not been highly specialized,
and, compared with the woodpecker's beak, is a very imperfect
organ, considering the purpose for which it is used. Yet, on the
principle that "similar functional requirements frequently lead
to the development of similar structures in animals which are
otherwise very distinct"--as we see in the tubular tongue
in</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">260 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">honey-eaters and
humming birds--we might have expected to find in the
Dendrocolaptidae a better imitation of the woodpecker in so
variable an organ as the beak, if not in the tongue.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Probably the
oven-birds, and their nearest relations--generalized, hardy,
builders of strong nests, and prolific--represent the parental
form; and when birds of this type had spread over the entire
continent they became in different districts frequenters of
marshes, forests, thickets and savannas. With altered life-habits
the numerous divergent forms originated; some, like Xiphorynchus,
retaining a probing beak in a wonderfully modified form,
attenuated in an extreme degree, and bent like a sickle; others
diverging more in the direction of nuthatches and
woodpeckers.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">This sketch of the
Dendrocolaptidae, necessarily slight and imperfect, is based on a
knowledge of the habits of about sixty species, belonging to
twenty-eight genera: from personal observation I am acquainted
with less than thirty species. It is astonishing to find how
little has been written about these most interesting birds in
South America. One tree-creeper only, Furnarius rufus, the
oven-bird <i>par excellence,</i> has been mentioned, on account
of its wonderful architecture, in almost every general work of
natural history published during the present century; yet the
oven-bird does not surpass, or even equal in interest, many
others in this family of nearly three hundred members.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XIX.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">MUSIC AND DANCING IN
NATURE.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">IN reading books of
Natural History we meet with numerous instances of birds
possessing the habit of assembling together, in many cases always
at the same spot, to indulge in antics and dancing performances,
with or without the accompaniment of music, vocal or
instrumental.; and by instrumental music is here meant all sounds
other than vocal made habitually and during the more or less
orderly performances; as, for instance, drumming and tapping
noises; smiting of wings; and humming, whip-cracking,
fan-shutting, grinding, scraping, and horn-blowing sounds,
produced as a rule by the quills.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">There are human
dances, in which only one person performs at a time, the rest of
the company looking on; and some birds, in widely separated
genera, have dances of this kind. A striking example is the
Rupicola, or cock of-the-rock, of tropical South America. A mossy
level spot of earth surrounded by bushes is selected for a
dancing-place, and kept well cleared of sticks and stones; round
this area the birds assemble, when a cock-bird, with vivid
orange-scarlet crest and plumage, steps into it, and, with
spreading wings and tail,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">262 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">begins a series of
movements as if dancing a minuet; finally, carried away with
excitement, he leaps and gyrates in the most astonishing manner,
until, becoming exhausted, he retires, and another bird takes his
place.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In other species
all the birds in a company unite in the set performances, and
seem to obey an impulse which affects them simultaneously and in
the same degree; but sometimes one bird prompts the others and
takes a principal part. One of the most curious instances I have
come across in reading is contained in Mr. Bigg-Wither's
<i>Pioneering in South Brazil.</i> He relates that one morning in
the dense forest his attention was roused by the unwonted sound
of a bird singing--songsters being rare in that district. His
men, immediately they caught the sound, invited him to follow
them, hinting that he would probably witness a very curious
sight. Cautiously making their way through the dense undergrowth,
they finally came in sight of a small stony spot of ground, at
the end of a tiny glade; and on this spot, some on the stone and
some on the shrubs, were assembled a number of little birds,
about the size of tom-tits, with lovely blue plumage and red
top-knots. One was perched quite still on a twig, singing
merrily, while the others were keeping time with wings and feet
in a kind of dance, and all twittering an accompaniment. He
watched them for some time, and was satisfied that they were
having a ball and concert, and thoroughly enjoying themselves;
they then became alarmed, and the performance abruptly
terminated, the birds all going off in different directions. The
natives told</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 26^</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">him that these
little creatures were known as the "dancing birds."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">This species was
probably solitary, except when assembling for the purpose of
display; but in a majority of cases, especially in the Passerine
order, the solitary species performs its antics alone, or with no
witness but its mate. Azara, describing a small finch, which he
aptly named <i>Oscilador,</i> says that early and late in the day
it mounts up vertically to a moderate height; then, flies off to
a distance of twenty yards, describing a perfect curve in its
passage; turning, it flies back over the imaginary line it has
traced, and so on repeatedly, appearing like a pendulum swung in
space by an invisible thread.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">Those who seek to
know the cause and origin of this kind of display and of song in
animals are referred to Darwin's <i>Descent of Man</i> for an
explanation. The greater part of that work is occupied with a
laborious argument intended to prove that the love-feeling
inspires the animals engaged in these exhibitions, and that
sexual selection, or the voluntary selection of mates by the
females, is the final cause of all set musical and dancing
performances, as well as of bright and harmonious colouring, and
of ornaments.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">The theory, with
regard to birds is, that in the love-season, when the males are
excited and engage in courtship, the females do not fall to the
strongest and most active, nor to those that are first in the
field; but that in a large number of species they are endowed
with a faculty corresponding to the aesthetic feeling or taste in
man, and deliberately</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">264 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">select males for
their superiority in some aesthetic quality, such as graceful or
fantastic motions, melody of voice, brilliancy of colour, or
perfection of ornaments. Doubtless all birds were originally
plain-coloured, without ornaments and without melody, and it is
assumed that so it would always have been in many cases but for
the action of this principle, which, like natural selection, has
gone on accumulating countless small variations, tending to give
a greater lustre to the species in each case, and resulting in
all that we most admire in the animal world--the Rupicola's
flame-coloured mantle, the peacock's crest and starry train, the
joyous melody of the lark, and the pretty or fantastic dancing
performances of birds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">My experience is
that mammals and birds, with few exceptions--probably there are
really no exceptions--possess the habit of indulging frequently
in more or less regular or set performances, with or without
sound, or composed of sound exclusively; and that these
performances, which in many animals are only discordant cries and
choruses, and uncouth, irregular motions, in the more aerial,
graceful, and melodious kinds take immeasurably higher, more
complex, and more beautiful forms. Among the mammalians the
instinct appears almost universal; but their displays are, as a
rule, less admirable than those seen in birds. There are some
kinds, it is true, like the squirrels and monkeys, of arboreal
habits, almost birdlike in their restless energy, and in the
swiftness and certitude of their motions, in which the slightest
impulse can be instantly expressed in graceful or fantastic
action; others, like</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 265</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">the Chinchillidae
family, have greatly developed vocal organs, and resemble birds
in loquacity; but mammals generally, compared with birds, are
slow and heavy, and not so readily moved to exhibitions of the
kind I am discussing.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The terrestrial
dances, often very elaborate, of heavy birds, like those of the
gallinaceous kind, are represented in the more volatile species
by performances in the air, and these are very much more
beautiful; while a very large number of birds--hawks, vultures,
swifts, swallows, nightjars, storks, ibises, spoonbills, and
gulls--circle about in the air, singly or in flocks. Sometimes,
in serene weather, they rise to a vast altitude, and float about
in one spot for an hour or longer at a stretch, showing a faint
bird-cloud in the blue, that does not change its form, nor grow
lighter and denser like a flock of starlings; but in the seeming
confusion there is perfect order, and amidst many hundreds each
swift- or slow-gliding figure keeps its proper distance with such
exactitude that no two ever touch, even with the extremity of the
long-wings, flapping or motionless:--such a multitude, and such
miraculous precision in the endless curving motions of all the
members of it, that the spectator can lie for an hour on his back
without weariness watching this mystic cloud-dance in the
empyrean.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The black-faced
ibis of Patagonia, a bird nearly as large as a turkey, indulges
in a curious mad performance, usually in the evening when
feeding-time is over. The birds of a flock, while winging their
way to the roosting-place, all at once seem possessed with
frenzy, simultaneously dashing</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">266 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">downwards with
amazing violence, doubling about in the most eccentric manner;
and when close to the surface rising again to repeat the action,
all the while making the air palpitate for miles around with
their hard, metallic cries. Other ibises, also birds of other
genera, have similar aerial performances.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The displays of most
ducks known to me take the form of mock fights on the water; one
exception is the handsome and loquacious whistling widgeon of La
Plata, which has a pretty aerial performance. A dozen or twenty
birds rise up until they appear like small specks in the sky, and
sometimes disappear from sight altogether; and at that great
altitude they continue hovering in one spot, often for an hour or
longer, alternately closing and separating; the fine, bright,
whistling notes and flourishes of the male curiously harmonizing
with the grave, measured notes of the female; and every time they
close they slap each other on the wings so smartly that the sound
can be distinctly heard, like applauding hand-claps, even after
the birds have ceased to be visible.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The rails, active,
sprightly birds with powerful and varied voices, are great
performers; but owing to the nature of the ground they inhabit
and to their shy, suspicious character, it is not easy to observe
their antics. The finest of the Platan rails is the ypecaha, a
beautiful, active bird about the size of the fowl. A number of
ypecahas have their assembling place on a small area of smooth,
level ground, just above the water, and hemmed in by dense rush
beds. First, one bird among the rushes emits a powerful cry,
thrice repeated<i>;</i> and this is a</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>and Dancing in
Nature.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><b>26?</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">note of invitation,
quickly responded to by other birds from all sides as they
hurriedly repair to the usual place. In a few moments they
appear, to the number of a dozen or twenty, bursting from the
rushes and running into the open space, and instantly beginning
the performance. This is a tremendous screaming concert. The
screams they utter have a certain resemblance to the
human</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-20.jpg" alt="h1-20.jpg" class="c37">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Dance of Ypecaha
Bails.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">voice, exerted to
its utmost pitch and expressive of extreme terror, frenzy, and
despair. A long, piercing shriek, astonishing for its vehemence
and power, is succeeded by a lower note, as if in the first the
creature had well nigh exhausted itself: this double scream is
repeated several times, and followed by other sounds, resembling,
as they rise and fall, half smothered cries of pains and moans of
anguish. Suddenly the unearthly shrieks are</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">268</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">renewed in all
their power. While screaming the birds rush from side to side, as
if possessed with madness, the wings spread and vibrating, the
long-beak wide open and raised vertically. This exhibition lasts
three or four minntes, after which the assembly peacefully breaks
up.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">The singular
wattled, wing-spurred, and long-, toed jacana has a remarkable
performance, which seems specially designed to bring out the
concealed</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-21.jpg" alt="h1-21.jpg" class="c38">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Wing-display of
Jacanas.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">beauty of the
silky, greenish-golden wing-quills-The birds go singly or in
pairs, and a dozen or fifteen individuals may be found in a
marshy place feeding within sight of each other. Occasionally, in
response to a note of invitation, they all in a moment leave off
feeding and. fly to one spot, and, forming a close cluster, and
emitting short, excited, rapidly repeated notes, display their
wings, like beautiful flags grouped loosely together: some
hold</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 269</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">the wings up
vertically and motionless; others, half open and vibrating
rapidly, while still others wave them up and down with a slow,
measured motion.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In the ypecaha and
jacana displays both sexes take part. A stranger performance is
that of the spur-winged lapwing of the same region--a species
resembling the lapwing of Europe, but a third larger, brighter
coloured, and armed with spurs. The lapwing display, called by
the natives its "dance," or "serious dance"--by which they mean
square dance--requires three birds for its performance, and is,
so far as I know, unique in this respect. The birds are so fond
of it that they indulge in it all the year round, and at frequent
intervals during the day, also on moonlight nights. If a person
watches any two birds for some time--for they live in pairs--he
will see another lapwing, one of a neighbouring couple, rise up
and fly to them, leaving his own mate to guard their chosen
ground; and instead of resenting this visit as an unwarranted
intrusion on their domain, as they would certainly resent the
approach of almost any other bird, they welcome it with notes and
signs of pleasure. Advancing to the visitor, they place
themselves behind it; then all three, keeping step, begin a rapid
march, uttering resonant drumming notes in time with their
movements; the notes of the pair behind being emitted in a
stream, like a drum-roll, while the leader utters loud single
notes at regular intervals. The march ceases; the leader elevates
his wings and stands erect and motionless, still uttering loud
notes; while the other two, with</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font6">270</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">puffed-out plumage
and standing exactly abreast stoop forward and downward until the
tips of their beaks touch the ground, and, sinking their
rhythmical voices to a murmur, remain for some time in this
posture. The performance is then over and the visitor goes back
to his own ground and mate, to receive a visitor himself later
on.</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-22.jpg" alt="h1-22.jpg" class="c39">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15">Dance of Spur-winged
Lapwings.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the Passerine
order, not the least remarkable displays are witnessed in birds
that are not accounted songsters, as they do not possess the
highly developed vocal organ confined to the suborder Oscines.
The tyrant-birds, which represent in South America the
fly-catchers of the Old World, all have displays of some kind; in
a vast majority of cases these are simply joyous, excited
duets</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 271</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">between male and
female, composed of impetuous and more or less confused notes and
screams, accompanied with beating of wings and other gestures. In
some species choruses take the place of duets, while in others
entirely different forms of display have been developed. In one
group--Cnipolegus--the male indulges in solitary antics, while
the silent, modest-coloured female keeps in hiding. Thus, the
male of Cnipolegus Hudsoni, an intensely black-plumaged species
with a concealed white wing-band, takes his stand on a dead twig
on the summit of a bush. At intervals he leaves his perch,
displaying the intense white on the quills, and producing, as the
wings are thrown open and shut alternately, the effect of
successive flashes of light. Then suddenly the bird begins
revolving in the air about its perch, like a moth wheeling round
and close to the flame of a candle, emitting a series of sharp
clicks and making a loud humming with the wings. While performing
this aerial waltz the black and white on the quills mix, the
wings appearing like a grey mist encircling the body. The
fantastic dance over, the bird drops suddenly on to its perch
again; and, until moved to another display, remains as stiff and
motionless as a bird carved out of jet.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The performance of
the scissors-tail, another tyrant-bird, is also remarkable. This
species is grey and white, with black head and tail and a
crocus-yellow crest. On the wing it looks like a large swallow,
but with the two outer tail-feathers a foot long. The
scissors-tails always live in pairs, but at sunset several pairs
assemble, the birds calling excitedly to each other; they then
mount</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">272 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">upwards, like
rockets, to a great height in the anand, after wheeling about for
a few moments, pro-cipitate themselves downwards with amazing
violence in a wild zigzag, opening and shutting the long
tail-feathers like a pair of shears, and producing loud whirring
sounds, as of clocks being wound rapidly up, with a slight pause
after each turn of the key. This aerial dance over, they alight
in separate couples on the tree tops, each couple joining in a
kind of duet of rapidly repeated, castanet-like
sounds.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The displays of the
wood-hewers, or Dendrocolap-tidae, another extensive family,
resemble those of the tyrant-birds in being chiefly duets, male
and female singing excitedly in piercing or resonant voices, and
with much action. The habit varies somewhat in the cachalote, a
Patagonian species of the genus Homorus, about the size of the
missel-thrush. Old and young birds live in a family together, and
at intervals, on any fine day, they engage in a grand screaming
contest, which may be heard distinctly at a distance of a mile
and a half. One bird mounts on to a bush and calls, and instantly
all the others hurry to the spot, and burst out into a chorus of
piercing cries that sound like peals and shrieks of insane
laughter. After the chorus, they all pursue each other wildly
about among the bushes for some minutes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c31">In some groups the
usual duet-like performances have developed into a kind of
harmonious singing, which is very curious and pleasant to hear.
This is pre-eminently the case with the oven-birds, as D'Orbigney
first remarked. Thus, in the red oven-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature. 273</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">bird, the first
bird, on the appearance of its mate flying to join it, begins to
emit loud, measured notes, and sometimes a continuous trill,
somewhat metallic in sound; but immediately on the other bird
striking in this introductory passage is changed to triplets,
strongly accented on the first note, in a <i>tempo vivace;</i>
while the second bird utters loud single notes in the same time.
While thus singing they stand facing each other, necks
outstretched and tails expanded, the wings of the first bird
vibrating rapidly to the rapid utterance, while those of the
second bird beat measured time. The finale consists of three or
four notes, uttered by the second bird alone, strong and clear,
in an ascending scale, the last very piercing.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In the melodists
proper the displays, in a majority of cases, are exclusively
vocal, the singer sitting still on his perch. In the Troupials, a
family of starling-like birds numbering about one hundred and
forty species, there are many that accompany singing with pretty
or grotesque antics. The male screaming cow-bird of La Plata,
when perched, emits a hollow-sounding internal note that swells
at the end into a sharp metallic ring, almost bell-like: this is
uttered with wings and tail spread and depressed, the whole
plumage being puffed out as in a strutting turkey-cock, while the
bird hops briskly up and down on its perch as if dancing. The
bell-like note of the male is followed by an impetuous scream
from the female, and the dance ends. Another species, the common
Argentine cow-bird of La Plata, when courting puffs out his
glossy rich violet plumage, and, with wings vibrating, emits a
succes-</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">T</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">274 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">sion of deep
internal notes, followed by a set song in clear, ringing tones;
and then, suddenly taking wing, he flies straight away, close to
the surface, fluttering like a moth, and at a distance of twenty
to thirty yards turns and flies in a wide circle round the
female, singing loudly all the time, hedging her in with melody
as it were.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Many songsters in
widely different families possess the habit of soaring and
falling alternately while singing, and in some cases all the
aerial postures and movements, the swift or slow descent,
vertical, often, with oscillations, or in a spiral, and sometimes
with a succession of smooth oblique lapses, seem to have an
admirable correspondence with the changing and falling
voice--melody and motion being united in a more intimate and
beautiful way than in the most perfect and poetic forms of human
dancing.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">One of the soaring
singers is a small yellow field-finch of La Plata--Sycalis
luteola; and this species, like some others, changes the form of
its display with the seasons. It lives in immense flocks, and
during the cold season it has, like most finches, only aerial
pastimes, the birds wheeling about in a cloud, pursuing each
other with lively chirpings. In August, when the trees begin to
blossom, the flock betakes itself to a plantation, and, sitting
on the branches, the birds sing in a concert of innumerable
voices, producing a great volume of sound, as of a high wind when
heard at a distance. Heard near, it is a great mass of melody;
not a confused tangle of musical sounds as when a host of
Troupials sing in concert, but the notes, although numberless,
seem to flow smoothly and separately, producing an</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 275</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">effect on the ear
similar to that which rain does on the sight, when the sun shines
on and lightens up the myriads of falling drops all falling one
way. In this manner the birds sing for hours, without
intermission, every day. Then the passion of love infects them;
the pleasant choir breaks up, and its ten thousand members
scatter wide over the surrounding fields and pasture lands.
During courtship the male has a feeble, sketchy music, but his
singing is then accompanied with very charming love antics. His
circlings about the hen-bird; his numberless advances and
retreats, and little soarings above her when his voice swells
with importunate passion; his fluttering lapses back to earth,
where he lies prone with outspread, tremulous wings, a suppliant
at her feet, his languishing voice meanwhile dying down to
lispings--all these apt and graceful motions seem to express the
very sickness of the heart. But the melody during this emotional
period is nothing. After the business of pairing and
nest-building is over, his musical displays take a new and finer
form. He sits perched on a stalk above the grass, and at
intervals soars up forty or fifty yards high; rising, he utters a
series of long melodious notes; then he descends in a graceful
spiral, the set of the motionless wings giving him the appearance
of a slowly-falling parachute; the voice then also falls, the
notes coming lower, sweeter, and more expressive until he reaches
the surface. After alighting the song continues, the strains
becoming longer, thinner, and clearer, until they dwindle to the
finest threads of sound and faintest tinklings, as from a cithern
touched by fairy fingers. The great charm of the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">276 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">song is in this
slow gradation from the somewhat throaty notes emitted by the
bird when ascendino-to the excessively attenuated sounds at the
close.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In conclusion of
this part I shall speak of one species more--the white-banded
mocking-bird of Patagonia, which greatly excels all other
songsters known to me in the copiousness, variety and brilliant
character of its music. Concealed in the foliage this bird will
sing by the half-hour, reproducing with miraculous fidelity the
more or less melodious set songs of a score of species--a strange
and beautiful performance; but wonderful as it seems while it
lasts, one almost ceases to admire this mimicking bird-art when
the mocker, as if to show by contrast his unapproachable
superiority, bursts into his own divine song, uttered with a
power, abandon and joyousness resembling, but greatly exceeding,
that of the skylark "singing at heaven's gate;" the notes issuing
in a continuous torrent; the voice so brilliant and infinitely
varied, that if "rivalry and emulation" have as large a place in
feathered breasts as some imagine all that hear this surpassing
melody might well languish ever after in silent
despair.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In a vast majority
of the finest musical performances the same notes are uttered in
the same order, and after an interval the song is repeated
without any variation: and it seems impossible that we could in
any other way have such beautiful contrasts and harmonious lights
and shades--the whole song, so to speak, like a "melody sweetly
played in tune." This seeming impossibility is accomplished in
the mocking-bird's song: the notes never come in the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancins in
Nature.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font3">277</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">same order again
and again, but, as if inspired, in a changed order, with
variations and new sounds: and here again it has some resemblance
to the skylark's song, and might be described as the lark's song
with endless variations and brightened and spiritualized in a
degree that cannot be imagined.</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-23.jpg" alt="h1-23.jpg" class="c40">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15">White-banded
mocking-bird.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">This mocking-bird is
one of those species that accompany music with appropriate
motions. And just as its song is, so to speak, inspired and an
im-provization, unlike any song the bird has ever uttered, so its
motions all have the same character of spontaneity, and follow no
order, and yet have a grace and passion and a perfect harmony
with the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">278 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">music unparalleled
among birds possessing a similar habit. While singing he passes
from bush to bush, sometimes delaying a few moments on and at
others just touching the summits, and at times sinking out of
sight in the foliage: then, in an access of rapture, soaring
vertically to a height of a hundred feet, with measured
wing-beats, like those of a heron: or, mounting suddenly in a
wild, hurried zigzag, then slowly circling downwards, to sit at
last with tail outspread fanwise, and vans, glistening white in
the sunshine, expanded and vibrating, or waved languidly up and
down, with, a motion like that of some broad-winged butterfly at
rest on a flower.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I wish now to put
this question: What relation that we can see or imagine to the
passion of love and the business of courtship, have these dancing
and vocal performances in nine cases out of ten? In such cases,
for instance, as that of the scissors-tail tyrant-bird, and its
pyrotechnic evening displays, when a number of couples leave
their nests containing eggs and young to join in a wild aerial
dance: the mad exhibitions of ypecahas and ibises, and the
jacanas' beautiful exhibition of grouped wings: the triplet
dances of the spur-winged lapwing, to perform which two birds
already mated are compelled to call in a third bird to complete
the set: the harmonious duets of the oven-birds, and the duets
and choruses of nearly all the wood-hewers, and the wing-slapping
aerial displays of the whistling widgeons--will it be seriously
contended that the female of this species makes choice of
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 2 79</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">male able to
administer the most vigorous and artistic slaps?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The believer in the
theory would put all these cases lightly aside, to cite that of
the male cow-bird practising antics before the female and drawing
a wide circle of melody round her; or that of the jet-black,
automaton-like, dancing tyrant-bird; and concerning this species
he would probably say that the plain-plumaged female went about
unseen, critically watching the dancing of different males, to
discover the most excellent performer according to the
traditional standard. And this was, in substance, what Darwin
did. There are many species in which the male, singly or with
others, practises antics or sings during the love-season before
the female; and when all such cases, or rather those that are
most striking and bizarre, are brought together, and when it is
gratuitously asserted that the females <i>do</i> choose the males
that show off in the best manner or that sing best, a case for
sexual selection seems to be made out. How unfair the argument
is, based on these carefully selected cases gathered from all
regions of the globe, and often not properly reported, is seen
when we turn from the book to nature and closely consider the
habits and actions of all the species inhabiting any <i>one</i>
district. We see then that such cases as those described and made
so much of in the <i>Descent of Man,</i> and cases like those
mentioned in this chapter, are not essentially different in
character, but are manifestations of one instinct, which appears
to be almost universal among the animals. The explanation I have
to offer lies very much on the surface</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">2 So <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">and is very simple
indeed, and, like that of Dr. Wallace1 with regard to colour and
ornaments covers the whole of the facts. We see that the inferior
animals, when the conditions of life are favourable, are subject
to periodical fits of gladness affecting them powerfully and
standing out in vivid contrast to their ordinary temper. And we
know what this feeling is--this periodic intense elation which
even civilized man occasionally experiences when in perfect
health, more especially when young. There are moments when he is
mad with joy, when he cannot keep still, when his impulse is to
sing and shout aloud and laugh at nothing, to run and leap and
exert himself in some extravagant way. Among the heavier
mammalians the feeling is manifested in loud noises, bellowings
and screamings, and in lumbering, uncouth motions--throwing up of
heels, pretended panics, and ponderous mock battles.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In smaller and
livelier animals, with greater celerity and certitude in their
motions, the feeling shows itself in more regular and often in
more complex ways. Thus, Felidae when young, and, in very agile,
sprightly species like the Puma, throughout life, simulate all
the actions of an animal hunting its prey--sudden, intense
excitement of discovery, concealment, gradual advance, masked by
interven-</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c21">1 It is curious to
find that Dr. Wallace's idea about colour has been independently
hit upon by Ruskin. Of stones he writes in <i>Frondes
Agrestis:--"</i>I have often had occasion to allude to the
apparent connection of brilliancy of colour with vigour of life
and purity of substance. This is pre-eminently the case in the
mineral kingdom. The perfection with which the particles of any
substance unite in crystallization, corresponds in that kingdom
to the vital power in organic nature."</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 281</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ing objects, with
intervals of watching, when they crouch motionless, the eyes
flashing and tail waved from side to side; finally, the rush and
spring, when the playfellow is captured, rolled over on his back
and worried to imaginary death. Other species of the most diverse
kinds, in which voice is greatly developed, join in noisy
concerts and choruses; many of the cats may be mentioned, also
dogs and foxes, capybaras and other loquacious rodents; and in
the howling monkeys this kind of performance rises to the sublime
uproar of the tropical forest at eventide.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Birds are more
subject to this universal joyous instinct than mammals, and there
are times when some species are constantly overflowing with it;
and as they are so much freer than mammals, more buoyant and
graceful in action, more loquacious, and have voices so much
finer, their gladness shows itself in a greater variety of ways,
with more regular and beautiful motions, and with melody. But
every species, or group of species, has its own inherited form or
style of performance; and, however rude and irregular this may
be, as in the case of the pretended stampedes and fights of wild
cattle, that is the form in which the feeling will always be
expressed. If all men, at some exceedingly remote period in their
history, had agreed to express the common glad impulse, which
they now express in such an infinite variety of ways or do not
express at all, by dancing a minuet, and minuet-dancing had at
last come to be instinctive, and taken to spontaneously by
children at an early period, just as they take to walking "on
their hind legs,"</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">282 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">man's case would be
like that of the inferior animals.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I was one day
watching a flock of plovers, quietly feeding on the ground, when,
in a moment, all the birds were seized by a joyous madness, and
each one, after making a vigorous peck at his nearest neighbour,
began running wildly about, each trying in passing to peck other
birds, while seeking by means of quick doublings to escape being
pecked in turn. This species always expresses its glad impulse in
the same way; but how different in form is this simple game of
touch-who-touch-can from the triplet dances of the spur-winged
lapwings, with their drumming music, pompous gestures, and
military precision of movement! How different also from the
aerial performance of another bird of the same family--the
Brazilian stilt--in which one is pursued by the others, mounting
upwards in a wild, eccentric flight until they are all but lost
to view; and back to earth again, and then, skywards once more;
the pursued bird when overtaken giving place to another
individual, and the pursuing pack making the air ring with their
melodious barking cries! How different again are all these from
the aerial pastimes of the snipe, in which the bird, in its
violent descent, is able to produce such wonderful, far-reaching
sounds with its tail-feathers! The snipe, as a rule, is a
solitary bird, and, like the oscillating finch mentioned early in
this paper, is content to practise its pastimes without a
witness. In the gregarious kinds all perform together: for this
feeling, like fear, is eminently contagious, and the sight of one
bird mad with joy will quickly make</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature,</i> 283</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the whole flock mad.
There are also species that always live in pairs, like the
scissors-tails already mentioned, that periodically assemble in
numbers for the purpose of display. The crested screamer, a very
large bird, may also be mentioned: male and female sing somewhat
harmoniously together, with voices of almost unparalleled power:
but these birds also congregate in large numbers, and a thousand
couples, or even several thousands, may be assembled together:
and, at intervals, both by day and night, all sing in concert,
their combined voices producing a thunderous melody which seems
to shake the earth. As a rule, however, birds that live always in
pairs do not assemble for the purpose of display, but the joyous
instinct is expressed by duet-like performances between male and
female. Thus, in the three South American Passerine families, the
tyrant-birds, wood-hewers, and ant-thrushes, numbering together
between eight and nine hundred species, a very large majority
appear to have displays of this description.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In my own
experience, in cases where the male and female together, or
assembled with others, take equal parts in the set displays, the
sexes arc similar, or differ little; but where the female takes
no part in the displays the superiority of the male in brightness
of colour is very marked. One or two instances bearing on this
point may be given.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">A scarlet-breasted
troupial of La Plata perches conspicuously on a tall plant in
afield, and at intervals soars up vertically, singing, and, at
the highest ascending point, flight and song end in a kind of
aerial somersault and vocal flourish at the same</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">284 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">moment. Meanwhile,
the dull-plumaged female is not seen and not heard: for not even
a skulking</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">crake lives in
closer seclusion under the herbage--so widely have the sexes
diverged in this species. Is the female, then, without an
instinct so common r --has she no sudden fits of irrepressible
gladness? Doubtless she has them, and manifests them down in her
place of concealment in lively chirpings and quick motions--the
simple, primitive form in which gladness is expressed in the
class of birds. In the various species of the genus Cnipolegus,
already mentioned, the difference in the sexes is just as great
as in the case of the troupial: the solitary, intensely black,
statuesque male has, we have seen, a set and highly fantastic
performance; but on more than one occasion I have seen four or
five females of one species meet together and have a little
simple performance all to themselves--in form a kind of lively
mock fight.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It might be objected
that when a bird takes its stand and repeats a set finished song
at intervals for an hour at a stretch, remaining quietly perched,
such a performance appears to be different in character from the
irregular and simple displays which are unmistakably caused by a
sudden glad impulse. But we are familiar with the truth that in
organic nature great things result from small beginnings--a
common flower, and our own bony skulls, to say nothing of the
matter contained within them, are proofs of it. Only a limited
number of species sing in a highly finished manner. Looking at
many species, we find every gradation, every shade, from the
simple joyous chirp and cry to the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 285</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">most perfect melody.
Even in a single branch of the true vocalists we may see it--from
the chirping bunting, and noisy but tuneless sparrow, to linnet
and goldfinch and canary. Not only do a large majority of species
show the singing instinct, or form of display, in a primitive,
undeveloped state, but in that state it continues to show itself
in the young of many birds in which melody is most highly
developed in the adult. And where the development has been solely
in the male the female never rises above that early stage; in her
lively chirpings and little mock fights and chases, and other
simple forms which gladness takes in birds, as well as in her
plainer plumage, and absence of ornament, she represents the
species at some remote period. And as with song so with antics
and all set performances aerial or terrestrial, from those of the
whale and the elephant to those of the smallest
insect.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">Another point
remains to be noticed, and that is the greater frequency and
fulness in displays of all kinds, including song, during the love
season. And here Dr. Wallace's colour and ornament theory helps
us to an explanation. At the season of courtship, when the
conditions of life are most favourable vitality is at its
maximum, and naturally it is then that the proficiency in all
kinds of dancing-antics, aerial and terrestrial, appears
greatest, and that melody attains its highest perfection. This
applies chiefly to birds, but even among birds there are
exceptions, as we have seen in the case of the field-finch,
Sycalis luteola. The love-excitement is doubtless pleasurable to
them, and it takes the form in which keenly pleasurable emotions
are</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">286 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">habitually
expressed, although not infrequently with variations due to the
greater intensity of the feeling. In some migrants the males
arrive before the females, and no sooner have they recovered from
the effects of their journey than they burst out into rapturous
singing; these are not love-strains, since the females have not
yet arrived, and pairing-time is perhaps a mouth distant; their
singing merely expresses their overflowing gladness. The forest
at that season is vocal, not only with the fine melody of the
true songsters, but with hoarse cawings, piercing cries, shrill
duets, noisy choruses, drummings, boomings, trills,
wood-tappings--every sound with which different species express
the glad impulse; and birds like the parrot that only exert their
powerful voices in screamings--because "they can do no
other"--then scream their loudest. When courtship begins it has
in many cases the effect of increasing the beauty of the
performance, giving added sweetness, verve, and brilliance to the
song, and freedom and grace to the gestures and motions. But, as
I have said, there are exceptions. Thus, some birds that are good
melodists at other times sing in a feeble, disjointed manner
during courtship. In Patagonia I found that several of the birds
with good voices--one a mocking bird--were, like the robin at
home, autumn and winter songsters.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The argument has
been stated very binefly: but little would be gained by the mere
multiplication of instances, since, however many, they would be
selected instances--from a single district, it is true, while
those in the <i>Descent of Man</i> were brought</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Music and Dancing in
Nature.</i> 287</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">together from an
immeasurably wider field; but the principle is the same in both
cases, and to what I have written it may be objected that, if,
instead of twenty-five, I had given a hundred cases, taking them
as they came, they might have shown a larger proportion of
instances like that of the cow-bird, in which the male has a set
performance practised only during the love-season and in the
presence of the female.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is, no doubt,
true that all collections of facts relating to animal life
present nature to us somewhat as a "fantastic realm"--unavoidably
so, in a measure, since the writing would be too bulky, or too
dry, or too something inconvenient, if we did not take only the
most prominent facts that come before us, remove them from their
places, where alone they can be seen in their proper relations to
numerous other less prominent facts, and rearrange them patch
work-wise to make up our literature. But I am convinced that any
student of the subject who will cast aside his books--supposing
that they have not already bred a habit in his mind of seeing
only "in accordance with verbal statement"--and go directly to
nature to note the actions of animals for himself--actions which,
in many cases, appear to lose all significance when set down in
writing--the result of such independent investigation will be a
conviction that conscious sexual selection on the part of the
female is not the cause of music and dancing performances in
birds, nor of the brighter colours and ornaments that distinguish
the male. It is true that the females of some species, both in
the vertebrate and insect kingdoms, do exercise a</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">288 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">preference; but in
a vast majority of species the male takes the female he finds, or
that he is able to win from other competitors; and if we go to
the reptile class we find that in the ophidian order, which
excels in variety and richness of colour, there is no such thing
as preferential mating; and if we go to the insect class, we find
that in butterflies, which surpass all creatures in their
glorious beauty, the female gives herself up to the embrace of
the first male that appears, or else is captured by the strongest
male, just as she might be by a mantis or some other rapacious
insect.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24 c9">CHAPTER
XX.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c9">BIOGRAPHY OF THE
VIZCACHA.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c9"><i>(Lagostomus
Trichodactylus.)</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">THE vizcacha is
perhaps the most characteristic of the South American
Rodentia,<sup>1</sup> while its habits, in some respects, are
more interesting than those of any other rodent known: it is,
moreover, the most common mammal we have on the pampas; and all
these considerations have induced me to write a very full account
of its customs. It is necessary to add that since the following
pages were written at my home on the pampas a great war of
extermination has been waged against this animal by
the</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c21"><sup>1</sup>
"According to Mr. Waterhouse, of all rodents the vizcacha is most
nearly related to marsupials; but in the points in which it
approaches this order its relations are general, that is, not to
any one marsupial species more than to another. As these points
of affinity are believed to be real and not merely adaptive, they
must be due in accordance with our view to inheritance from a
common progenitor. Therefore wo must suppose either that all
rodents, including the vizcacha, branched off from some ancient
marsupial, which will naturally have been more or less
intermediate in character with respect to all existing
marsupials; or, that both lodents and marsupials branched off
from a common progenitor. ... On either view we must suppose that
the vizcacha has retained, by inheritance, more of the characters
of its ancient progenitor than have other rodents."--DARWIN;
<i>Origin of Species.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">290</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">landowners, which
has been more fortunate in its results--or unfortunate if one's
sympathies are with the vizcacha--than the war of the Australians
against their imported rodent--the smaller and more prolific
rabbit.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The vizcachas on
the pampas of Buenos Ayres live in societies, usually numbering
twenty or thirty</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-24.jpg" alt="h1-24.jpg" class="c41">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Vizcachas.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">members. The
village, which is called Vizcachera, is composed of a dozen or
fifteen burrows or mouths; for one entrance often serves for two
or more distinct holes. Often, where the ground is soft, there
are twenty or thirty or more burrows in an old vizcachera; but on
stony, or "tosca" soil even an old one may have no more than four
or five burrows. They are deep wide-mouthed holes, placed very
close together, the entire village covering an area</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 291</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">of from one hundred
to two hundred square feet of ground.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">The burrows vary
greatly in extent; and usually in a vizcachera there are several
that, at a distance of from four to six feet from the entrance,
open into large circular chambers. From these chambers other
burrows diverge in all directions, some running horizontally,
others obliquely downwards to a maximum depth of six feet from
the surface: some of these burrows or galleries communicate with
those of other burrows. A vast amount of loose earth is thus
brought up, and forms a very irregular mound, fifteen to thirty
inches above the surrounding level.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">It will afford some
conception of the numbers of these vizcacheras on the settled
pampas when I say that, in some directions, a person might ride
five hundred miles and never advance half a mile without seeing
one or more of them. In districts where, as far as the eye can
see, the plains are as level and smooth as a bowling-green,
especially in winter when the grass is close-cropped, and where
the rough giant-thistle has not sprung up, these mounds appear
like brown or dark spots on a green surface. They are the only
irregularities that occur to catch the eye, and consequently form
an important feature in the scenery. In some places they are so
near together that a person on horseback may count a hundred of
them from one point of view.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23 c13">The sites of which
the vizcacha invariably makes choice to work on, as well as his
manner of burrow-ing, adapt him peculiarly to live and thrive on
the</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">292 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">open pampas. Other
burrowing species seem always to fix upon some spot where there
is a bank or a sudden depression in the soil, or where there is
rank herbage, or a bush or tree, about the roots of which to
begin their kennel. They are averse to commence digging on a
clear level surface, either because it is not easy for them where
they have nothing to rest their foreheads against while
scratching, or because they possess a wary instinct that impels
them to place the body in concealment whilst working on the
surface, thus securing the concealment of the burrow after it is
made. Certain it is that where large hedges have been planted on
the pampas, multitudes of opossums, weasels, skunks, armadillos,
&amp;c., come and make their burrows beneath them; and where
there are no hedges or trees, all these species make their
kennels under bushes of the perennial thistle, or where there is
a shelter of some kind. The vizcacha, on the contrary, chooses an
open level spot, the cleanest he can find to burrow on. The first
thing that strikes the observer when viewing the vizcachera
closely is the enormous size of the entrance of the burrows, or,
at least, of several of the central ones in the mound; for there
are usually several smaller outside burrows. The pit-like opening
to some of these principal burrows is often four to six feet
across the mouth, and sometimes deep enough for a tall man to
stand up waist-deep in. How these large entrances can be made on
a level surface may be seen when the first burrow or burrows of
an incipient vizcachera are formed. It is not possible to tell
what induces a vizcacha to be the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 293</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">founder of a new
community; for they increase very slowly, and furthermore are
extremely fond of each other's society; and it is invariably one
individual that leaves his native village to found a new and
independent one. If it were to have better pasture at hand, then
he would certainly remove to a considerable distance; but he
merely goes from forty to fifty or sixty yards off to begin his
work. Thus it is that in desert places, where these animals are
rare, a solitary vizcachera is never seen; but there are always
several close together, though there may be no others on the
surrounding plain for leagues. When the vizcacha has made his
habitation, it is but a single burrow, with only himself for an
inhabitant, perhaps for many months. Sooner or later, however,
others join him: and these will be the parents of innumerable
generations; for they construct no temporary lodging-place, as do
the armadillos and other species, but their posterity continues
in the quiet possession of the habitations bequeathed to it; how
long, it is impossible to say. Old men who have lived all their
lives in one district remember that many of the vizcacheras
around them existed when they were children. It is invariably a
male that begins a new village, and makes his burrow in the
following manner, though he does not always observe the same
method. He works very straight into the earth, digging a hole
twelve or fourteen inches wide, but not so deep, at an angle of
about 25 degrees with the surface. But after he has progressed
inwards a few feet, the vizcacha is no longer satisfied with
merely scattering away the loose earth he fetches</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">294 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">up, but cleans it
away so far in a straight line from the entrance, and scratches
so much on this line (apparently to make the slope gentler), that
he soon forms a trench a foot or more in depth, and often three
or four feet in length. Its use is, as I have inferred, to
facilitate the conveying of the loose earth as far as possible
from the entrance of the burrow. But after a while the animal is
unwilling that it should accumulate even at the end of this long
passage; he therefore proceeds to make two additional trenches,
that form an acute, sometimes a right angle, converging into the
first, so that when the whole is completed it takes the form of a
capital Y.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">These trenches are
continually deepened and lengthened as the burrow progresses, the
angular segment of earth between them, scratched away, until by
degrees it has been entirely conveyed off, and in its place is
the one deep great unsymmetrical mouth I have already described.
There are soils that will not admit of the animals working in
this manner. Where there are large cakes of "tosca" near the
surface, as in many localities on the southern pampas, the
vizcacha makes its burrow as best he can, and without the regular
trenches. In earths that crumble much, sand or gravel, he also
works under great disadvantages.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The burrows are
made best in the black and red moulds of the pampas; but even in
such soils the entrances of many burrows are made differently. In
some the central trench is wanting, or is so short that there
appear but two passages converging directly into the burrow; or
these two trenches</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 295</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">may be so curved
inwards as to form the segment of a circle. Many other forms may
also be noticed, but usually they appear to be only modifications
of the most common Y-shaped system.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">As I have remarked
that its manner of burrowing has peculiarly adapted the vizcacha
to the pampas, it may be asked what particular advantage a
species that makes a wide-mouthed burrow possesses over those
that excavate in the usual way. On a declivity, or at the base of
rocks or trees, there would be none; but on the perfectly level
and shelterless pampas, the durability of the burrow, a
circumstance favourable to the animal's preservation, is owing
altogether to its being made in this way, and to several barrows
being made together. The two outer trenches diverge so widely
from the mouth that half the earth brought out is cast behind
instead of before it, thus creating a mound of equal height about
the entrance, by which it is secured from water during great
rainfalls, while the cattle avoid treading over the great
pit-like entrances. But the burrows of the dolichotis, armadillo,
and other species, when made on perfectly level ground, are soon
trod on and broken in by cattle; in summer they are choked up
with dust and rubbish; and, the loose earth having all been
thrown up together in a heap on one side, there is no barrier to
the water which in every great rainfall flows in and obliterates
the kennel, drowning or driving out the tenant.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I have been minute
in describing the habitations of the vizcacha, as I esteem the
subject of prime importance in considering the zoology of
this</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">296 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">portion of America.
The vizcacha does not benefit himself alone by his perhaps unique
style of burrowing; but this habit has proved advantageous to
several other species, and has been so favourable to two of our
birds that they are among the most common species found here,
whereas without these burrows they would have been exceedingly
rare, since the natural banks in which they breed are scarcely
found anywhere on the pampas. I refer to the Minera (Geositta
cunicularia), which makes its breeding-holes in the bank-like
sides of the vizcacha's burrow, and to the little swallow
(Atticora cyanoleuca) which breeds in these excavations when
forsaken by the Minera. Few old vizcacheras are seen without some
of these little parasitical burrows in them.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Birds are not the
only beings in this way related to the vizcachas: the fox and the
weasel of the pampas live almost altogether in them. Several
insects also frequent these burrows that are seldom found
anywhere else. Of these the most interesting are:--a large
predacious nocturnal bug, shining black, with red wings; a
nocturnal Cicindela, a beautiful insect, with dark green striated
wing-cases and pale red legs; also several diminutive wingless
wasps. Of the last I have counted six species, most of them
marked with strongly contrasted colours, black, red, and white.
There are also other wasps that prey on the spiders found on the
vizcachera. All these and others are so numerous on the mounds
that dozens of them might there be collected any summer day; but
if sought for in other situations they are exceedingly rare. If
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 297</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">dry mound of soft
earth which the vizcacha elevates amidst a waste of humid,
close-growing grass is not absolutely necessary to the existence
of all these species, it supplies them with at least one
favourable condition, and without doubt thereby greatly increases
their numbers: they, too, whether predacious or preyed on, have
so many relations with other outside species, and these again
with still others, that it would be no mere fancy to say that
probably hundreds of species are either directly or indirectly
affected in their struggle for existence by the vizcacheras so
abundantly sprinkled over the pampas.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">In winter the
vizcachas seldom leave their burrows till dark, but in summer
come out before sunset; and the vizcachera is then a truly
interesting spectacle. Usually one of the old males first
appears, and sits on some prominent place on the mound,
apparently in no haste to begin his evening meal. When approached
from the front he stirs not, but eyes the intruder with a bold
indifferent stare. If the person passes to one side, he deigns
not to turn his head.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Other vizcachas
soon begin to appear, each one quietly taking up his station at
his burrow's mouth, the females, known by their greatly inferior
size and lighter grey colour, sitting upright on their haunches,
as if to command a better view, and indicating by divers sounds
and gestures that fear and curiosity struggles in them for
mastery; for they are always wilder and sprightlier in their
motions than the males. With eyes fixed on the intruder, at
intervals they dodge the head, emitting at the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">298 <i>The Nattiralist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">same time an
internal note with great vehemence; and suddenly, as the danger
comes nearer, they plunge simultaneously, with a startled cry,
into their burrows. But in some curiosity is the strongest
emotion; for, in spite of their fellow's contagious example, and
already half down the entrance, again they start up to scrutinize
the stranger, and will then often permit him to walk within five
or six paces of them.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Standing on the
mound there is frequently a pair of burrowing owls (Pholeoptynx
cunicularia). These birds generally make their own burrows to
breed in, or sometimes take possession of one of the lesser
outside burrows of the village; but their favourite residence,
when not engaged in tending their eggs or young, is on the
vizcachera. Here a pair will sit all day; and I have often
remarked a couple close together on the edge of the burrow; and
when the vizcacha came out in the evening, though but a hand's
breadth from them, they did not stir, nor did he notice them, so
accustomed are these creatures to each other. Usually a couple of
the little burrowing Geositta are also present. They are lively
creatures, running with great rapidity about the mound and bare
space that surrounds it, suddenly stopping and jerking their
tails in a slow deliberate manner, and occasionally uttering
their cry, a trill, or series of quick short clear notes,
resembling somewhat the shrill excessive laughter of a child.
Among the grave, stationary vizcachas, of which they take no
heed, perhaps half a dozen or more little swallows (Atticora
cyanoleuca) are seen, now clinging altogether to the bank-like
entrance</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 299</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">of a burrow, now
hovering over it in a moth-like manner, as if uncertain where to
alight, and anon sweeping about in circles, but never ceasing
their low and sorrowful notes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The vizcachera with
all its incongruous inhabitants thus collected upon it is to a
stranger one of the most novel sights the pampas
afford.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The vizcacha
appears to be a rather common species over all the extensive
Argentine territory; but they are so exceedingly abundant on the
pampas inhabited by man, and comparatively so rare in the desert
places I have been in, that I was at first much surprised at
finding them so unequally distributed. I have also mentioned that
the vizcacha is a tame familiar creature. This is in the pastoral
districts, where they are never disturbed; but in wild regions,
where he is scarce, he is exceedingly wary, coming forth long
after dark, and plunging into his burrow on the slightest alarm,
so that it is a rare thing to get a sight of him. The reason is
evident enough; in desert regions the vizcacha has several deadly
enemies in the larger rapacious mammals. Of these the puma or
lion (Felis concolor) is the most numerous, as it is also the
swiftest, most subtle, and most voracious; for, as regards these
traits, the jaguar (F. onca) is an inferior animal. To the
insatiable bloody appetite of this creature nothing comes amiss;
he takes the male ostrich by surprise, and slays that wariest of
wild things on his nest; He captures little birds with the
dexterity of a cat, and hunts for diurnal armadillos; he comes
unawares upon the deer and huanaco, and, springing like lightning
on them, dislocates their necks before their</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">300 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">bodies touch the
earth. Often after he has thus slain them, he leaves their bodies
untouched for the Polyborus and vulture to feast on, so great a
delight does he take in destroying life. The vizcacha falls an
easy victim to this subtle creature; and it is not to be wondered
at that it becomes wild to excess, and rare in regions hunted
over by such an enemy, even when all other conditions are
favourable to its increase. But as soon as these wild regions are
settled by man the pumas are exterminated, and the sole remaining
foe of the vizcacha is the fox, comparatively an insignificant
one.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The fox takes up his
residence in a vizcachera, and succeeds, after some quarrelling
(manifested in snarls, growls, and other subterranean warlike
sounds), in ejecting the rightful owners of one of the burrows,
which forthwith becomes his. Certainly the vizcachas are not much
injured by being compelled to relinquish the use of one of their
kennels for a season or permanently; for, if the locality suits
him, the fox remains with them always. Soon they grow accustomed
to the unwelcome stranger; he is quiet and unassuming in
demeanour, and often in the evening sits on the mound in their
company, until they regard him with the same indifference they do
the burrowing owl. But in spring, when the young vizcachas are
large enough to leave their cells, then the fox makes them his
prey; and if it is a bitch fox, with a family of eight or nine
young to provide for, she will grow so bold as to hunt her
helpless quarry from hole to hole, and do battle with the old
ones, and carry off the young in spite of them, so that all the
young animals in the village are even-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 301</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">tually destroyed.
Often when the young foxes are large enough to follow their
mother, the whole family takes leave of the vizcachera where such
cruel havoc has been made to settle in another, there to continue
their depredations. But the fox has ever a relentless foe in man,
and meets with no end of bitter persecutions; it is consequently
much more abundant in desert or thinly settled districts than in
such as are populous, so that in these the check the vizcachas
receive from the foxes is not appreciable.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The abundance of
cattle on the pampas has made it unnecessary to use the vizcacha
as an article of food. His skin is of no value; therefore man,
the destroyer of his enemies, has hitherto been the greatest
benefactor of his species. Thus they have been permitted to
multiply and spread themselves to an amazing extent, so that the
half-domestic cattle on the pampas are not nearly so familiar
with man, or so fearless of his presence as are the vizcachas. It
is not that they do him no injury, but because they do it
indirectly, that they have so long enjoyed immunity from
persecution. It is amusing to see the sheep-farmer, the greatest
sufferer from the vizcachas, regarding them with such
indifference as to permit them to swarm on his "run," and burrow
within a stone's throw of his dwelling with impunity, and yet
going a distance from home to persecute with unreasonable
animosity a fox, skunk, or opossum on account of the small annual
loss it inflicts on the poultry-yard. That the vizcacha has
comparatively no adverse conditions to war with wherever man is
settled is evident when we consider</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">3O2 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">its very slow rate
of increase, and yet see them in such incalculable numbers. The
female has but one litter in the year of two young, sometimes of
three. She becomes pregnant late in April, and brings forth in
September; the period of gestation is, I think, rather less than
five months.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The vizcacha is
about two years growing. A full-sized male measures to the root
of the tail twenty-two inches, and weighs from fourteen to
fifteen pounds; the female is nineteen inches in length, and her
greatest weight nine pounds. Probably it is a long-lived, and
certainly it is a very hardy animal. Where it has any green
substance to eat it never drinks water; but after a long summer
drought, when for months it has subsisted on bits of dried
thistle-stalks and old withered grass, if a shower falls it will
come out of its burrows even at noonday and drink eagerly from
the pools. It has been erroneously stated that vizcachas subsist
on roots. Their food is grass and seeds; but they may also
sometimes eat roots, as the ground is occasionally seen scratched
up about the burrows. In March, when the stalks of the perennial
cardoon or Castile thistle (Cynara cardunculus) are dry, the
vizcachas fell them by gnawing about their roots, and afterwards
tear to pieces the great dry flower-heads to get the seeds
imbedded deeply in them, of which they seem very fond. Large
patches of thistle are often found served thus, the ground about
them literally white with the silvery bristles they have
scattered. This cutting down tall plants to get the seeds at the
top seems very like an act of pure intelligence; but the fact
is,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 303</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the vizcachas cut
down every tall plant they can. I have seen whole acres of maize
destroyed by them, yet the plants cut down were left untouched.
If posts be put into the ground within range of their nightly
rambles they will gnaw till they have felled them, unless of a
wood hard enough to resist their chisel-like incisors.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The strongest
instinct of this animal is to clear the ground thoroughly about
its burrows; and it is this destructive habit that makes it
necessary for cultivators of the soil to destroy all the
vizcachas in or near their fields. On the uninhabited pampas,
where the long grasses grow, I have often admired the vizcachera;
for it is there the centre of a clean space, often of half an
acre in extent, on which there is an even close-shaven turf: this
clearing is surrounded by the usual rough growth of herbs and
giant grasses. In such situations this habit of clearing the
ground is eminently advantageous to them, as it affords them a
comparatively safe spot to feed and disport themselves on, and
over which they can fly to their burrows without meeting any
obstruction, on the slightest alarm.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Of course the
instinct continues to operate where it is no longer of any
advantage. In summer, when the thistles are green, even when
growing near the burrows, and the giant thistle (Carduus mariana)
springs up most luxuriantly right on the mound, the vizcachas
will not touch them, either disliking the strong astringent sap,
or repelled by the thorns with which they are armed. As soon as
they dry, and the thorns become brittle, they are levelled;
afterwards, when the animal begins to drag</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">304 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">them about and cut
them up, as his custom is, he accidentally discovers and feasts
on the seed: for vizcachas are fond of exercising their teeth on
hard substances, such as sticks and bones, just as cats are of
"sharpening their claws" on trees.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Another remarkable
habit of the vizcacha, that of dragging to and heaping about the
mouth of his burrow every stalk he cuts down, and every portable
object that by dint of great strength he can carry, has been
mentioned by Azara, Darwin, and others. On the level plains it is
a useful habit; for as the vizcachas are continually deepening
and widening their burrows, the earth thrown out soon covers up
these materials, and so assists in raising the mound. On the
Buenos-Ayrean pampas numbers of vizcacheras would annually be
destroyed by water in the great sudden rainfalls were the mounds
loss high. But this is only an advantage when the animals inhabit
a perfectly level country subject to flooding rains; for where
the surface is unequal they invariably prefer high to low ground
to burrow on, and are thus secured from destruction by water; yet
the instinct is as strong in such situations as on the level
plains. The most that can be said of a habit apparently so
obscure in its origin and uses is, that it appears to be part of
the instinct of clearing the ground about the village. Every tall
stalk the vizcacha cuts down, every portable object he finds,
must be removed to make the surface clean and smooth; but while
encumbered with it he does not proceed further from his burrows,
but invariably re-tires towards them, and so deposits it upon the
mound. So well known is this habit, that whatever</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 305</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">article is lost by
night--whip, pistol, or knife--;the loser next morning visits the
vizcacheras in the vicinity, quite sure of finding it there.
People also visit the vizcacheras to pick up sticks for
firewood.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The vizcachas are
cleanly in their habits; and the fur, though it has a strong
earthy smell, is kept exceedingly neat. The hind leg and foot
afford a very beautiful instance of adaptation. Propped by the
hard curved tail, they sit up erect, and as firmly on the long
horny disks on the undersides of the hind legs as a man stands on
his feet. Most to be admired, on the middle toe the skin thickens
into a round cushion, in which the curved teeth-like bristles are
set; nicely graduated in length, so that "each particular hair"
may come into contact with the skin when the animal scratches or
combs itself. As to the uses of this appendage there can be no
difference of opinion, as there is about the serrated claw in
birds. It is quite obvious that the animal cannot scratch himself
with his hind paw (as all mammals do) without making use of this
natural comb. Then the entire foot is modified, so that this comb
shall be well protected, and yet not be hindered from performing
its office: thus the inner toe is pressed close to the middle
one, and so depressed that it comes under the cushion of skin,
and cannot possibly get before the bristles, or interfere their
coming against the skin in scratching, as certainly be the case
if this toe were free as outer one.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Again, the vizcachas
appear to form the deep trenches before the burrows by scratching
the earth</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">x</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">306 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">violently backwards
with the hind claws. Now these straight, sharp, dagger-shaped
claws, and especially the middle one, are so long that the
vizcacha is able to perform all this rough work without the
bristles coming into contact with the ground, and so getting worn
by the friction. The Tehuelcho Indians in Patagonia comb their
hair with a brush-comb very much like that on the vizcacha's toe,
but in their case it does not properly fulfil its office, or else
the savages make little use of it. Vizcachas have a remarkable
way of dusting themselves: the animal suddenly throws himself on
his back, and, bringing over his hind legs towards his head,
depresses them till his feet touch the ground. In this strange
posture he scratches up the earth with great1 rapidity, raising a
little cloud of dust, then rights himself with a jerk, and, after
an interval, repeats the dusting. Usually they scratch a hole in
the ground to deposit their excrements in. Whilst opening one of
the outside burrows that had no communication with the others, I
once discovered a vast deposit of their dung (so great that it
must have been accumulating for years) at the extremity. To
ascertain whether this be a constant, or only a casual habit, it
would be necessary to open up entirely a vast number of
vizcacheras. When a vizcacha dies in his burrow the carcass is,
after some days, dragged out and left upon the mound.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The language of the
vizcacha is wonderful for its variety. When the male is feeding
he frequently pauses to utter a succession of loud, percussive,
and somewhat jarring cries; these he utters in a leisurely
manner, and immediately after goes on feeding-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 307</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Often he utters this
cry in a low grunting tone. One of his commonest expressions
sounds like the violent hawking of a man clearing his throat. At
other times he bursts into piercing tones that may be heard a
mile off, beginning like the excited and quick-repeated squeals
of a young pig, and growing longer, more attenuated, and
quavering towards the end. After retiring alarmed into the
burrows, he repeats at intervals a deep internal moan. All these,
and many other indescribable guttural, sighing, shrill, and deep
tones, are varied a thousand ways in strength and intonation,
according to the age, sex, or emotions of the individual; and I
doubt if there is in the world any other four-footed thing so
loquacious, or with a dialect so extensive. I take great pleasure
in going to some spot where they are abundant, and sitting
quietly to listen to them; for they are holding a perpetual
discussion, all night long, which the presence of a human being
will not interrupt.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">At night, when the
vizcachas are all out feeding, in places where they are very
abundant (and in some districts they literally swarm) any very
loud and sudden sound, as the report of a gun, or a clap of
unexpected thunder, will produce a most extraordinary effect. No
sooner has the report broken on the stillness of night than a
perfect storm of cries bursts forth over the surrounding country.
After eight or nine seconds there is in the storm a momentary
hill or pause; and then it breaks forth again, apparently louder
than before. There is so much difference in the tones of
different animals that the cries of individuals close at hand may
be</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">308 <i>The Natitralist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">distinguished amidst
the roar of blended voices coming from a distance. It sounds as
if thousands and tens of thousands of them were striving to
express every emotion at the highest pitch of their voices; so
that the effect is indescribable, and fills a stranger with
astonishment. Should a gun be fired off several times, their
cries become less each time; and after the third or fourth time
it produces no effect. They have a peculiar, sharp, sudden,
"far-darting" alarm-note when a dog is spied, that is repeated by
all that hear it, and produces an instantaneous panic, sending
every vizcacha flying to his burrow.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">But though they
manifest such a terror of dogs when out feeding at night (for the
slowest dog can overtake them), in the evening, when sitting upon
their mounds, they treat them with tantalizing contempt. If the
dog is a novice, the instant he spies the animal he rushes
violently at it; the vizcacha waits the charge with imperturbable
calmness till his enemy is within one or two yards, and then
disappears into the burrow. After having been foiled in this way
many times, the dog resorts to stratagem: he crouches down as if
transformed for the nonce into a Felis, and steals on with
wonderfully slow and cautious steps, his hair bristling, tail
hanging, and eyes intent on his motionless intended victim; when
within seven or eight yards he makes a sudden rush, but
invariably with the same dis-appointing result. The persistence
with which the dogs go on hoping against hope in this
unprofitable game, in which they always act the stupid part, is
highly amusing, and is very interesting to the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Viscacha.</i> 309</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">naturalist; for it
shows that the native dogs on the pampas have developed a very
remarkable instinct, and one that might be perfected by
artificial selection; but dogs with the hunting habits of the cat
would, I think, be of little use to man. When it is required to
train dogs to hunt the nocturnal armadillo (Dasypus villosus),
then this deep-rooted (and, it might be added, hereditary)
passion for vizcachas is excessively annoying, and it is often
necessary to administer hundreds of blows and rebukes before a
dog is induced to track an armadillo without leaving the scent
every few moments to make futile grabs at his old
enemies.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The following
instance will show how little suspicion of man the vizcachas
have. A few years ago I went out shooting them on three
consecutive evenings. I worked in a circle, constantly revisiting
the same burrows, never going a greater distance from home than
could be walked in four or five minutes. During the three
evenings I shot sixty vizcachas dead; and probably as many more
escaped badly wounded into their burrows; for they are hard to
kill, and however badly wounded, if sitting near the burrow when
struck, are almost certain to escape into it. But on the third
evening I found them no wilder, and killed about as many as on
the first. After this I gave up shooting them in disgust; it was
dull sport, and to exterminate or frighten them away with a gun
seemed an impossibility.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is a very unusual
thing to eat the vizcacha, most people, and especially the
gauchos, having a silly unaccountable prejudice against their
flesh. I</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">310 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">have found it very
good, and while engaged writing this chapter have dined on it
served up in various ways. The young animals are rather insipid,
the old males tough, but the mature females are excellent--the
flesh being tender, exceedingly white, fragrant to the nostrils,
and with a very delicate game-flavour.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Within the last ten
years so much new land has been brought under cultivation that
farmers have been compelled to destroy incredible numbers of
vizcachas: many large "estancieros" (cattle-breeders) have
followed the example set by the grain-growers, and have had them
exterminated on their estates. Now all that Azara, on hearsay,
tells about the vizcachas perishing in their burrows, when these
are covered up, but that they can support life thus buried for a
period of ten or twelve days, and that during that time animals
will come from other villages and disinter them, unless
frightened off with dogs, is strictly true. Country workmen are
so well acquainted with these facts that they frequently
undertake to destroy all the vizcacheras on an estate for so
paltry a sum as ten-pence in English money for each one, and yet
will make double the money at this work than they can at any
other. By day they partly open up, then cover up the burrows with
a great quantity of earth, and by night go round with dogs to
drive away the vizcachas from the still open burrows that come to
dig out their buried friends. After all the vizcacheras on an
estate have been thus served, the workmen are usually bound by
previous agreement to keep guard over them for a space of
eight</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha.</i> 311</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">or ten days before
they receive their hire: for the animals covered up are then
supposed to be all dead. Some of these men I have talked with
have assured me that living vizcachas have been found after
fourteen days--a proof of their great endurance. There is nothing
strange, I think, in the mere fact of the vizcacha being unable
to work his way out when thus buried alive; for, for all I know
to the contrary, other species may, when their burrows are well
covered up, perish in the same manner; but it certainly is
remarkable that other vizcachas should come from a distance to
dig out those that are buried alive. In this good office they are
exceedingly zealous; and I have frequently surprised them after
sunrise, at a considerable distance from their own burrows,
diligently scratching at those that had been covered up. The
vizcachas are fond of each other's society, and live peaceably
together; but their goodwill is not restricted to the members of
their own little community; it extends to the whole species, so
that as soon as night comes many animals leave their own and go
to visit the adjacent villages. If one approaches a vizcachera at
night, usually some of the vizcachas on it scamper off to distant
burrows: these are neighbours merely come to pay a friendly
visit. This intercourse is so frequent that little straight paths
are formed from one vizcachera to another. The extreme attachment
between members of different communities makes it appear less
strange that they should assist each other: either the desire to
see, as usual, their buried neighbours becomes intense enough to
impel them to work their way to them; or cries of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">312 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">distress from the
prisoners reach and incite them to attempt their deliverance.
Many social species are thus powerfully affected by cries of
distress from one of their fellows; and some will attempt a
rescue in the face of great danger--the weasel and the peccary
for example.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Mild and sociable as
the vizcachas are towards each other, each one is exceedingly
jealous of any intrusion into his particular burrow, and indeed
always resents such a breach of discipline with the utmost fury.
Several individuals may reside in the compartments of the same
burrow; but beyond themselves not even their next-door neighbour
is permitted to enter; their hospitality ends where it begins, at
the entrance. It is difficult to compel a vizcacha to enter a
burrow not his own; even when hotly pursued by dogs they often
refuse to do so. When driven into one, the instant their enemies
retire a little space they rush out of it, as if they thought the
hiding-place but little less dangerous than the open plain. I
have frequently seen vizcachas, chased into the wrong burrows,
summarily ejected by those inside: and sometimes they make their
escape only after being well bitten for their offence.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have now stated
the most interesting facts I have collected concerning the
vizcacha: when others rewrite its history they doubtless will,
according to the opportunities of observation they enjoy, be able
to make some additions to it, but probably none of great
consequence. I have observed this species in Patagonia and Buenos
Ayres only; and as I have found that its habits are considerably
modified by</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Biography of the
Vizcacha,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">313</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">circumstances in the
different localities where I have met with it, I am sure that
other variations will occur in the more distant regions, where
the conditions vary.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The most remarkable
thing to be said about the vizcacha is, that although regarded by
Mr. Waterhouse, and others who have studied its affinities, as
one of the lowest of the rodents, exhibiting strong Marsupial
characters, the living animal appears to be more intelligent than
other rodents, not of South America only, but also of those of a
higher type in other continents. A parallel case is, perhaps, to
be found in the hairy armadillo, an extremely versatile and
intelligent animal, although only an edentate. And among birds
the ypecaha--a large La Plata rail--might also be mentioned as an
example of what ought not to be; for it is a bold and intelligent
bird, more than a match for the fowl, both in courage and in
cunning; and yet it is one of the family which Professor
Parker--from the point of view of the anatomist--characterizes as
a "feeble-minded, cowardly group."</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER XXI.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">THE DYING
HUANACO.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">LEST any one should
misread the title to this chapter, I hasten to say that the
huanaco, or guanaco as it is often spelt, is not a perishing
species; nor, as things are, is it likely to perish soon, despite
the fact that civilized men, Britons especially, are now
enthusiastically engaged in the extermination of all the nobler
mammalians:--a very glorious crusade, the triumphant conclusion
of which will doubtless be witnessed by the succeeding
generation, more favoured in this respect than ours. The huanaco,
happily for it, exists in a barren, desolate region, in its
greatest part waterless and uninhabitable to human beings; and
the chapter-heading refers to a singular instinct of the dying
animals, in very many cases allowed, by the exceptional
conditions in which they are placed, to die naturally.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">And first, a few
words about its place in nature and general habits. The huanaco
is a small camel--small, that is, compared with its existing
relation--without a hump, and, unlike the camel of the Old World,
non-specializad; doubtless it is a very ancient animal on the
earth, and for all we know to the contrary, may have existed
contemporaneously with some of the earliest known representatives
of the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> 315</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">camel type, whose
remains occur in the lower and upper miocene
deposits--Poebrotherium, Protolabis, Procamelus, Pliauchenia, and
Macrauchenia. It ranges from Tierra del Fuego and the adjacent
islands, northwards over the whole of Patagonia, and along the
Andes into Peru and Bolivia. On the great mountain chain it is
both a wild and a domestic animal, since the llama, the beast of
burden of the ancient Peruvians, is no doubt only a variety: but
as man's slave it has changed so greatly from the original form
that some naturalists have regarded the llama as a distinct
species, which, like the camel of the East, exists only in a
domestic state. It has had time enough to vary, as it is more
than probable that the tamed and useful animal was inherited by
the children of the sun from races and nations that came before
them: and how far back Andean civilization extends may be
inferred from the belief expressed by the famous American
archaeologist, Squiers, that the ruined city of Tiahuanaco, in
the vicinity of Lake Titicaca, is as old as Thebes and the
Pyramids.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">It is, however, with
the wild animal, the huanaco, that I am concerned. A full-grown
male measures seven to eight feet in length, and four feet high
to the shoulder; it is well clothed in a coat of thick woolly
hair, of a pale reddish colour, Longest and palest on the under
parts. In appearance it is very unlike the camel, in spite of the
long legs and neck; in its finely-shaped head and long ears, and
its proud and graceful carriage, it resembles an antelope rather
than its huge and, from an aesthetic point of view, deformed
Asiatic relation. In habits</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">316 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">it is gregarious,
and is usually seen in small herds, but herds numbering several
hundreds or even a thousand are occasionally met with on the
stony, desolate plateaus of Southern Patagonia; but the huanaco
is able to thrive and grow fat where almost any other herbivore
would starve. While the herd feeds one animal acts as sentinel,
stationed on the hillside, and on the appearance of danger utters
a shrill neigh of alarm, and instantly all take to flight. But
although excessively shy and wary they are also very inquisitive,
and have enough intelligence to know that a single horseman can
do them no harm, for they will not only approach to look closely
at him, but will sometimes follow him for miles. They are also
excitable, and at times indulge in strange freaks. Darwin
writes:--"On the mountains of Tierra del Fuego I have more than
once seen a huanaco, on being approached, not only neigh and
squeal, but prance and leap about in a most ridiculous manner,
apparently in defiance as a challenge." And Captain King relates
that while sailing into Port Desire he witnessed a chase of a
huanaco after a fox, both animals evidently going at their
greatest speed, so that they soon passed out of sight. I have
known some tame huanacos, and in that state they make amusing
intelligent pets, fond of being caressed, but often so frolicsome
and mischievous as to be a nuisance to their master. It is well
known that at the southern extremity of Patagonia the huanacos
have a dying place, a spot to which all individuals inhabiting
the surrounding plains repair at the approach of death to deposit
their bones. Darwin and Fitzroy first recorded</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> <b>317</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">this strange
instinct in their personal narratives, and their observations
have since been fully confirmed by others. The best known of
these dying or burial-places are on the banks of the Santa Cruz
and Gallegos rivers, where the river valleys are covered with
dense primeval thickets of bushes and trees of stunted growth;
there the ground is covered with the bones of countless dead
generations. "The animals," says Darwin, "in most cases must have
crawled, before dying, beneath and among the bushes." A strange
instinct in a creature so preeminently social in its habits; a
dweller all its life long on the open, barren plateaus and
mountain sides! What a subject for a painter! The grey wilderness
of dwarf thorn trees, aged and grotesque and scanty-leaved,
nourished for a thousand years on the bones that whiten the stony
ground at their roots; the interior lit faintly with the rays of
the departing sun, chill and grey, and silent and motionless--the
huanacos' Golgotha. In the long centuries, stretching back into a
dim immeasurable past, so many of this race have journeyed hither
from the mountain and the plain to suffer the sharp pang of
death, that, to the imagination, something of it all seems to
have passed into that hushed and mournful nature. And now one
more, the latest pilgrim, has come, all his little strength spent
in his struggle to penetrate the close thicket; looking old and
gaunt and ghostly in the twilight; with long ragged hair; staring
into the gloom out of death-dimmed sunken eyes. England has one
artist who might show it to us on canvas, who would be able to
catch the feeling of such a scene--of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">318 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">that mysterious,
passionless tragedy of nature--I refer to J. M. Swan, the painter
of the "Prodigal Son" and the "Lioness Defending her
Cubs."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">To his account of
the animal's dying place and instinct, Darwin adds: "I do not at
all understand the reason of this, but I may observe that the
wounded huanacos at the Santa Cruz invariably walked towards the
river."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It would, no doubt,
be rash to affirm of any instinct that it is absolutely unique;
but, putting aside some doubtful reports about a custom of the
Asiatic elephant, which may have originated in the account of
Sindbad the Sailor's discovery of an elephant's burial place, we
have no knowledge of an instinct similar to that of the huanaco
in any other animal. So far as we know, it stands alone and
apart, with nothing in the actions of other species leading up,
or suggesting any family likeness to it. But what chiefly
attracts the mind to it is its strangeness. It looks, in fact,
less like an instinct of one of the inferior creatures than the
superstitious observance of human beings, who have knowledge of
death, and believe in a continued existence after dissolution; of
a triba that in past times had conceived the idea that the
liberated spirit is only able to find its way to its future abode
by starting at death from the ancient dying-place of the tribe or
family, and thence moving westward, or skyward, or underground,
over the well-worn immemorial track, invisible to material
eyes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">But, although alone
among animal instincts-in its strange and useless purpose--for it
is as absolutely useless to the species or race as to the dying
individual</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-25.jpg" alt="h1-25.jpg" class="c42">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font11">THE DYING
HUANACO.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font11">[Page 3!8.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> 319</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">--it is not the
only useless instinct we know of: there are many others, both
simple and complex; and of such instincts we believe, with good
reason, that they once played an important part in the life of
the species, and were only rendered useless by changes in the
condition of life, or in the organism, or in both. In other
words, when the special conditions that gave them value no longer
existed, the correlated and perfect instinct was not, in these
cases, eradicated, but remained, in abeyance and still capable of
being called into activity by a new and false stimulus simulating
the old and true. Viewed in this way, the huanaco's instinct
might be regarded as something remaining to the animal from a
remote past, not altogether unaffected by time perhaps; and like
some ceremonial usage among men that has long ceased to have any
significance, or like a fragment of ancient history, or a
tradition, which in the course of time has received some new and
false interpretation. The false interpretation, to continue the
metaphor, is, in this case, that the <i>purpose</i> of the animal
in going to a certain spot, to which it has probably never
previously resorted, is to die there. A false interpretation,
because, in the first place, it is incredible that an instinct of
no advantage to the species, in its struggle for existence and
predominance should arise and become permanent; and, in the
second place, it is equally incredible that it could ever have
been to the advantage of the species or race to, have a dying
place. We must, then, suppose that there is in the sensations
preceding death, when death comes slowly, some resemblance to the
sensations experi-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">320 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">enced by the animal
at a period when its curious instinct first took form and
crystallized; these would be painful sensations that threatened
life; and freedom from them, and safety to the animal, would only
exist in a certain well-remembered spot. Further, we might assume
that it was at first only the memory of a few individuals that
caused the animals to seek the place of safety; that a habit was
thus formed; that in time this traditional habit became
instinctive, so that the animals, old and young, made their way
unerringly to the place of refuge whenever the old danger
returned. And such an instinct, slowly matured and made perfect
to enable this animal to escape extinction during periods of
great danger to mammalian life, lasting hundreds or even
thousands of years, and destructive of numberless other species
less hardy and adaptive than the generalized huanaco, might well
continue to exist, to be occasionally called into life by a false
stimulus, for many centuries after it had ceased to be of any
advantage.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Once we accept this
explanation as probable--namely, that the huanaco, in withdrawing
from the herd to drop down and die in the ancient dying ground,
is in reality only seeking an historically remembered place of
refuge, and not of death--the action of the animal loses much of
its mysterious character; we come on to firm ground, and find
that we are no longer considering an instinct absolutely unique,
with no action or instinct in any other animal leading up or
suggesting any family likeness to it, as I said before. We find,
in fact, that there is at least one very important and
very</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> 321</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">well-known instinct
in another class of creatures, which has a strong resemblance to
that of the huanaco, as I have interpreted it, and which may even
serve to throw a side light on the origin of the huanaco's
instinct. I refer to a habit of some ophidians, in temperate and
cold countries, of returning annually to hybernate in the saine
den.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">A typical instance
is that of the rattlesnake in the colder parts of North America.
On the approach of winter these reptiles go into hiding, and it
has been observed that in some districts a very large number of
individuals, hundreds, and even thousands, will repair from the
surrounding country to the ancestral den. Here the serpents
gather in a mass to remain in a wholly or semi-torpid condition
until the return of spring brings them out again, to scatter
abroad to their usual summer haunts. Clearly in this case the
knowledge of the hyberna-ting den is not merely traditional--that
is, handed down from generation to generation, through the young
each year following the adults, and so forming the habit of
repairing at certain seasons to a certain place; for the young
serpent soon abandons its parent to lead an independent life; and
on the approach of cold weather the hybernating den may be a long
distance away, ten or twenty, or even thirty miles from the spot
in which it was born. The annual return to the hybernating den is
then a fixed unalterable instinct, like the autumnal migration of
some birds to a warmer latitude. It is doubtless favourable to
the serpents to hybernate in large numbers massed together; and
the habit of resorting annually to the same spot once
formed,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">322 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">we can imagine that
the individuals--perhaps a single couple in the first
place--frequenting some very deep, dry, and well-sheltered
cavern, safe from enemies, would have a great advantage over
others of their race; that they would be stronger and increase
more, and spread during the summer months further and further
from the cavern on all sides; and that the further afield they
went the more would the instinct be perfected; since all the
young serpents that did not have the instinct of returning
unerringly to the ancestral refuge, and that, like the outsiders
of their race, to put it in that way, merely crept into the first
hole they found on the approach of the cold season, would be more
liable to destruction. Probably most snakes get killed long
before a natural decline sets in; to say that not one in a
thousand dies of old age would probably be no exaggeration; but
if they were as safe from enemies and accidents as some less
prolific and more highly-organized animals, so that many would
reach the natural term of life, and death came slowly, we can
imagine that in such a heat-loving creature the failure of the
vital powers would simulate the sensations caused by a falling
temperature, and cause the old or sick serpent, even in
midsummer, to creep instinctively away to the ancient refuge,
where many a long life-killing frost had been safely tided over
in the past.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The huanaco has
never been a hybernating animal; but we must assume that, like
the crotalus of the north, he had formed a habit of congregating
with his fellows at certain seasons at the same spot;</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> 323</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">further, that these
were seasons of suffering to the animal--the suffering, or
discomfort and danger, having in the first place given rise to
the habit. Assuming again that the habit had existed so long as
to become, like that of the reptile, a fixed, immutable instinct,
a hereditary knowledge, so that the young huanacos, untaught by
the adults, would go alone and unerringly to the meeting-place
from any distance, it is but an easy step to the belief, that
after the conditions had changed, and the refuges were no longer
needed, this instinctive knowledge would still exist in them, and
that they would take the old road when stimulated by the pain of
a wound; or the miserable sensations experienced in disease or
during the decay of the life-energy, when the senses grow dim,
and the breath fails, and the blood is thin and cold.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I presume that most
persons who have observed animals a great deal have met with
cases in which the animal has acted automatically, or
instinctively, when the stimulus has been a false one. I will
relate one such case, observed by myself, and which strikes me as
being apposite to the question I am considering. It must be
premised that this is an instance of an acquired habit; but this
does not affect my argument, since I have all along assumed that
the huanaco--a highly sagacious species in the highest class of
vertebrates--first acquired a habit from experience of seeking a
remembered refuge, and that such habit was the parent, as it
were, or the first clay model, of the perfect and indestructible
instinct that was to be.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is not an
uncommon thing in the Argentino</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Y 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">324 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">pampas--I have on
two occasions witnessed it myself--for a riding-horse to come
home, or to the gate of his owner's house, to die. I am speaking
of riding-horses that are never doctored, nor treated mercifully;
that look on their master as an enemy rather than a friend;
horses that live out in the open, and have to be hunted to the
corral or enclosure, or roughly captured with a lasso as they
run, when their services are required. I retain a very vivid
recollection of the first occasion of witnessing an action of
this kind in a horse, although I was only a boy at the time. On
going out one summer evening I saw one of the horses of the
establishment standing unsaddled and unbridled leaning his head
over the gate. Going to the spot, I stroked his nose, and then,
turning to an old native who happened to be near, asked him what
could be the meaning of such a thing. "I think he is going to
die," he answered; "horses often come to the house to die." And
next morning the poor beast was found lying dead not twenty yards
from the gate; although he had not appeared ill when I stroked
his nose on the previous evening; but when I saw him lying there
dead, and remembered the old native's words, it seemed to me as
marvellous and inexplicable that a horse should act in that way,
as if some wild creature--a rhea, a fawn, or dolichotes--had come
to exhale his last breath at the gates of his enemy and constant
persecutor, man.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">I now believe that
the sensations of sickness and approaching death in the
riding-horse of the pampas resemble or similate the pains, so
often experienced, of hunger, thirst and fatigue
combined,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> 325</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">together with the
oppressive sensations caused by the ponderous native saddle, or
recado, with its huge surcingle of raw hide drawn up so tightly
as to hinder free respiration. The suffering animal remembers how
at the last relief invariably came, when the twelve or fifteen
hours' torture were over, the toil and the want, and when the
great iron bridle and ponderous gear were removed, and he had
freedom and food and drink and rest. At the gate or at the door
of his master's house, the sudden relief had always come to him;
and there does he sometimes go in his sickness, his fear
overmastered by his suffering, to find it again.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Discussing this
question with a friend, who has a subtle mind and great
experience of the horse in semi-barbarous countries, and of many
other animals, wild and tame, in many regions of the globe, he
put forward a different explanation of the action of the horse in
coming home to die, which he thinks simpler and more probable
than mine. It is, that a dying or ailing animal instinctively
withdraws itself from its fellows--an action of self-preservation
in the individual in opposition to the well-known instincts of
the healthy animals, which impels the whole herd to turn upon and
persecute the sickly member, thus destroying its chances of
recovery. The desire of the suffering animal is not only to leave
its fellows, but to get to some solitary place where they cannot
follow, or would never find him, to escape at once from a great
and pressing danger. But on the pastoral pampas, where horses are
so numerous that on that level, treeless area they are always and
everywhere visible, no hiding-place</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">326 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">is discoverable. In
such a case, the animal, goaded by its instinctive fear, turns to
the one spot that horses avoid; and although that spot has
hitherto been fearful to him, the old fear is forgotten in the
present and far more vivid one; the vicinity of his master's
house represents a solitary place to him, and he seeks it, just
as the stricken deer seeks the interior of some close forest,
oblivious for the time, in its anxiety to escape from the herd,
of the dangers lurking in it, and which he formerly
avoided.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have not set this
explanation down merely because it does credit to my friend's
ingenuity, but because it strikes me that it is the only
alternative explanation that can be given of the animal's action
in coming home to die. Another fact concerning the ill-tamed and
barbarously treated horses of the pampas, which, to my mind,
strengthens the view I have taken, remains to be mentioned. It is
not an uncommon thing for one of these horses, after escaping,
saddled and bridled, and wandering about for anight or night and
day on the plains, to return of its own accord to the house. It
is clear that in a case of this kind the animal comes home to
seek relief. I have known one horse that always had to be hunted
like a wild animal to be caught, and that invariably after being
saddled tried to break loose, to return in this way to the gate
after wandering about, saddled and bridled, for over twenty hours
in uncomfortable freedom.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The action of the
riding-horse returning to a master he is accustomed to fly from,
as from an enemy, to be released of saddle and bridle, is, no
doubt more intelligent than that of the dying horse</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Dying
Huanaco.</i> 327</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">coming home to be
relieved from his sufferings, but the motive is the same in both
cases; at the gate the only pain the animal has ever experienced
has invariably begun, and there it has ended, and when the spur
of some new pain afflicts him--new and yet like the old--it is to
the well-remembered hated gate that it urges him.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">To return to the
huanaco. After tracing the dying instinct back to its
hypothetical origin--namely, a habit acquired by the animal in
some past period of seeking refuge from some kind of pain and
danger at a certain spot, it is only natural to speculate a
little further as to the nature of that danger and of the
conditions the animal existed in.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">If the huanaco is as
old on the earth as its antique generalized form have led
naturalists to suppose, we can well believe that it has survived
not only a great many lost mammalian types, but many changes in
the conditions of its life. Let us then imagine that at some
remote period a change took place in the climate of Patagonia,
and that it became colder and colder, owing to some cause
affecting only that portion of the antarctic region; such a
cause, for instance, as a great accumulation of icebergs on the
northern shores of the antarctic continent, extending century by
century until a large portion of the now open sea became blocked
up with solid ice. If the change was gradual and the snow became
deeper each winter and lasted longer, an intelligent, gregarious,
and exceedingly hardy and active animal like the huanaco, able to
exist on the driest woody fibres, would stand the beat chance of
maintaining its existence in such altered conditions,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21">328 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">and would form new
habits to meet the new danger. One would be that at the approach
of a period of deep snow and deadly cold, all the herds
frequenting one place would gather together at the most
favourable spots in the river valleys, where the vegetation is
dense and some food could be had while the surrounding country
continued covered with deep snow. They would, in fact, make
choice of exactly such localities as are now used for dying
places. There they would be sheltered from the cutting-winds, the
twigs and bark would supply them with food, the warmth from a
great many individuals massed together would serve to keep the
snow partially melted under foot, and would prevent their being
smothered, while the stiff and closely interlaced branches would
keep a roof of snow above them, and thus protected they would
keep alive until the return of mild weather released them. In the
course of many generations all weakly animals, and all in which
the habit of seeking the refuge at the proper time was weak or
uncertain in its action would perish, but their loss would be an
advantage to the survivors.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is worthy of
remark that it is only at the southern extremity of Patagonia
that the huanacos have dying places. In Northern Patagonia, and
on the Chilian and Peruvian Andes no such instinct has been
observed.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER
XXII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">THE STRANGE INSTINCTS
OF CATTLE.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">MY purpose in this
paper is to discuss a group of curious and useless emotional
instincts of social animals, which have not yet been properly
explained. Excepting two of the number, placed first and last in
the list, they are not related in their origin; consequently they
are here grouped together arbitrarily, only for the reason that
we are very familiar with them on account of their survival in
our domestic animals, and because they are, as I have said,
useless; also because they resemble each other, among the
passions and actions of the lower animals, in their effect on our
minds. This is in all cases unpleasant, and sometimes exceedingly
painful, as when species that rank next to ourselves in their
developed intelligence and organized societies, such as
elephants, monkeys, dogs, and cattle, are seen under the
domination of impulses, in some cases resembling insanity, and in
others simulating the darkest passions of man.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">These instincts
are:--</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">(1) The excitement
caused by the smell of blood, noticeable in horses and cattle
among our domestic animals, and varying greatly in degree, from
an</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">330 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">emotion so slight
as to be scarcely perceptible to the greatest extremes of rage or
terror.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">(2) The angry
excitement roused in some animals when a scarlet or bright-red
cloth is shown to them. So well known is this apparently insane
instinct in our cattle that it has given rise to a proverb and
metaphor familiar in a variety of forms to everyone.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">(3) The persecution
of a sick or weakly animal by its companions.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">(4) The sudden
deadly fury that seizes on the herd or family at the sight of a
companion in extreme distress. Herbivorous mammals at such times
will trample and gore the distressed one to death. In the case of
wolves, and other savage-tempered carnivorous species, the
distressed fellow is frequently torn to pieces and devoured on
the spot.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">To take the first
two together. When we consider that blood is red; that the smell
of it is, or may be, or has been, associated with that vivid hue
in the animal's mind; that blood, seen and smelt is, or has been,
associated with the sight of wounds and with cries of pain and
rage or terror from the wounded or captive animal, there appears
at first sight to be some reason for connecting these two
instinctive passions as having the same origin--namely, terror
and rage caused by the sight of a member of the herd struck down
and bleeding, or struggling for life in the grasp of an enemy. I
do not mean to say that such an image is actually present in the
animal's mind, but that the inherited or instinctive passion is
one in kind and in its work-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 331</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">ing with the
passion of the animal when experience and reason were its
guides.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">But the more I
consider the point the more am I inclined to regard these two
instincts as separate in their origin, although I retain the
belief that cattle and horses and several wild animals are
violently excited by the smell of blood for the reason just
given--namely, their inherited memory associates the smell of
blood with the presence among them of some powerful enemy that
threatens their life. To this point I shall return when dealing
with the last and most painful of the instincts I am
considering.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The following
incident will show how violently this blood passion sometimes
affects cattle, when they are permitted to exist in a half-wild
condition, as on the pampas. I was out with my gun one day, a few
miles from home, when I came across a patch on the ground where
the grass was pressed or trodden down and stained with blood. I
concluded that some thievish gauchos had slaughtered a fat cow
there on the previous night, and, to avoid detection, had somehow
managed to carry the whole of it away on their horses. As I
walked on, a herd of cattle, numbering about three hundred,
appeared moving slowly on towards a small stream a mile away;
they were travelling in a thin long line, and would pass the
blood-stained spot at a distance of seven to eight hundred yards,
but the wind from it would blow across their track. When the
tainted wind struck the leaders of the herd they instantly stood
still, raising their heads, then broke out into loud excited
bellowings;</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">332 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">and finally turning
they started off at a fast trot, following up the scent in a
straight line, until they arrived at the place where one of their
kind had met its death. The contagion spread, and before long all
the cattle were congregated on the fatal spot, and began moving
round in a dense mass, bellowing continually.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It may be remarked
here that the animal has a peculiar language on occasions like
this; it emits a succession of short bellowing cries, like
excited exclamations, followed by a very loud cry, alternately
sinking into a hoarse murmur, and rising to a kind of scream that
grates harshly on the sense. Of the ordinary "cow-music" I am a
great admirer, and take as much pleasure in it as in the cries
and melody of birds and the sound of the wind in trees; but this
performance of cattle excited by the smell of blood is most
distressing to hear.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The animals that had
forced their way into the centre of the mass to the spot where
the blood was, pawed the earth, and dug it up with their horns,
and trampled each other down in their frantic excitement. It was
terrible to see and hear them. The action of those on the border
of the living mass in perpetually moving round in a circle with
dolorous bellowings, was like that of the women in an Indian
village when a warrior dies, and all night they shriek and howl
with simulated grief, going round and round the dead man's hut in
an endless procession.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The "bull and red
rag" instinct, as it may be called, comes next in
order.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 333</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">It is a familiar
fact that brightness in itself powerfully attracts most if not
all animals. The higher mammalians are affected in the same way
as birds and insects, although not in the same degree. This fact
partly explains the rage of the bull. A scarlet flag fluttering
in the wind or lying on the grass attracts his attention
powerfully, as it does that of other animals; but though curious
about the nature of the bright object, it does not anger him. His
anger is excited--and this is the whole secret of the
matter--when the colour is flaunted by a man; when it forces him
to fix his attention on a man, i.e. an animal of another species
that rules or drives him, and that he fears, but with only a
slight fear, which may at any moment be overcome by his naturally
bold aggressive disposition, Not only does the vivid colour
compel him to fix his attention on the being that habitually
interferes with his liberty, and is consequently regarded with
unfriendly eyes, but it also produces the illusion on his mind
that the man is near him, that he is approaching him in an
aggressive manner: it is an insult, a challenge, which, being of
so explosive a temper, he is not slow to accept.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">On the pampas I was
once standing with some gauchos at the gate of a corral into
which a herd of half-wild cattle had just been driven. One of the
men, to show his courage and agility, got off his horse and
boldly placed himself in the centre of the open gate. His action
attracted the attention of one of the nearest cows, and lowering
her horns she began watching him in a threatening manner. He then
suddenly displayed the scarlet lining of his</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">334 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">poncho, and
instantly she charged him furiously: with a quick movement to one
side he escaped her horns, and after we had driven her back,
resumed his former position and challenged her again in the same
way. The experiment was repeated not less than half a dozen
times, and always with the same result. The cattle were all in a
savage temper, and would have instantly charged him on his
placing himself before them on foot without the display of
scarlet cloth, but their fear of the mounted men, standing with
lassos in their hand on either side of him, kept them in check.
But whenever the attention of any one individual among them was
forcibly drawn to him by the display of vivid colour, and fixed
on him alone, the presence of the horsemen was forgotten and fear
was swallowed by rage. It is a fact, I think, that most animals
that exhibit angry excitement when a scarlet rag is flourished
aggressively at them, are easily excited to anger at all times.
Domestic geese and turkeys may be mentioned among birds: they do
not fly at a grown person, but they will often fly at a child
that challenges them in this way; and it is a fact that they do
not at any time fear a child very much and will sometimes attack
him without being challenged. I think that the probability of the
view I have taken is increased by another fact--namely, that the
sudden display of scarlet colour sometimes affects timid animals
with an extreme fear, just as, on the other hand, it excites
those that are bold and aggressive to anger. Domestic sheep,
forinstance, that vary greatly in disposition in different races
or breeds, and even in different individuals, may be</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 335</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">affected in the two
opposite ways, some exhibiting extreme terror and others only
anger at a sudden display of scarlet colour by the shepherd or
herder.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The persecution of a
sick animal by its companions comes next under
consideration.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It will have been
remarked, with surprise by some readers, no doubt, that I have
set down as two different instincts this persecution of a sick or
weakly individual by its fellows, and the sudden deadly rage that
sometimes impels the herd to turn upon and destroy a wounded or
distressed companion. It is usual for writers on the instincts of
animals to speak of them as one: and I presume that they regard
this sudden deadly rage of several individuals against a
companion as merely an extreme form of the common persecuting
instinct or impulse. They are not really one, but are as distinct
in origin and character as it is possible for any two instincts
to be. The violent and fatal impulse starts simultaneously into
life and action, and is contagious, affecting all the members of
the herd like a sudden madness. The other is neither violent nor
contagious: the persecution is intermittent: it is often confined
to one or to a very few members of the herd, and seldom joined in
by the chief member, the leader or head to whom all the others
give way.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Concerning this head
of the herd, or flock, or pack, it is necessary to say something
more. Some gregarious animals, particularly birds, live together
in the most perfect peace and amity; and here no leader is
required, because in their long association together as a species
in flocks, they have attained to a oneness of mind, so to speak,
which causes them</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">336 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">to move or rest, and
to act at all times harmoniously together, as if controlled and
guided by an extrane-ous force. I may mention that the kindly
instinct in animals, which is almost universal between male and
female in the vertebrates, is most apparent in these harmoniously
acting birds. Thus, in La Plata, I have remarked, in more than
one species, that a lame or sick individual, unable to keop pace
with the flock and find its food, has not only been waited for,
but in some cases some of the flock have constantly attended it,
keeping close to it both when flying and on the ground; and, I
have no doubt, feeding it just as they would have fed their
young.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Naturally among such
kinds no one member is of more consideration than another. But
among mammals such equality and harmony is rare. The instinct of
one and all is to lord it over the others, with the result that
one more powerful or domineering gets the mastery, to keep it
thereafter as long as he can. The lower animals are, in this
respect, very much like us; and in all kinds that are at all
fierce-tempered the mastery of one over all, and of a few under
him over the others, is most salutary; indeed, it is
inconceivable that they should be able to exist together under
any other system.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">On cattle-breeding
establishments on the pampas, where it is usual to keep a large
number of fierce-tempered dogs, I have observed these animals a
great deal, and presume that they are very much like feral dogs
and wolves in their habits. Their quarrels are incessant; but
when a fight begins the head of the pack as a rule rushes to
the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 337</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">spot, whereupon the
fighters separate and march off in different directions, or else
cast themselves down and deprecate their tyrant's wrath with
abject gestures and whines. If the combatants are both strong and
have worked themselves into a mad rage before their head puts in
an appearance, it may go hard with him: they know him no longer,
and all he can do is to join in the fray; then, if the fighters
turn on him, he may be so injured that his power is gone, and the
next best dog in the pack takes his place. The hottest contests
are always between dogs that are well matched; neither will give
place to the other, and so they fight it out; but from the
foremost in strength and power down to the weakest there is a
gradation of authority; each one knows just how far he can go,
which companion he can bully when he is in a bad temper or wishes
to assert himself, and to which he must humbly yield in his turn.
In such a state the weakest one must always yield to all the
others, and cast himself down, seeming to call himself a slave
and worshipper of any other member of the pack that chooses to
snarl at him, or command him to give up his bone with a good
grace.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">This masterful or
domineering temper, so common among social mammals, is the cause
of the persecution of the sick and weakly. When an animal begins
to ail he can no longer hold his own; he ceases to resent the
occasional ill-natured attacks made on him; his non-combative
condition is quickly discovered, and he at once drops down to a
place below the lowest; it is common knowledge</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17">2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">338 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">in the herd that he
may be buffeted with impunity by all, even by those that have
hitherto suffered buffets but have given none. But judging from
my own observation, this persecution, is not, as a rule, severe,
and is seldom fatal.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It is often the case
that a sick or injured animal withdraws and hides himself from
the herd; the instinct of the "stricken deer" this might be
called. But I do not think that we need assume that the ailing
individual goes away to escape the danger of being ill-used by
his companions. He is sick and drooping and consequently unfit to
be with the healthy and vigorous; that is the simplest and
probably the true explanation of his action; although in some
cases he might be driven from them by persistent rough usage.
However peaceably gregarious mammals may live together, and
however fond of each other's company they may be, they do not, as
a rule, treat each other gently. Furthermore, their games are
exceedingly rough and require that they shall be in a vigorous
state of health to escape injury. Horned animals have no buttons
to the sharp weapons they prod and strike each other with in a
sportive spirit. I have often witnessed the games of wild and
half-wild horses with astonishment; for it seemed that broken
bones must result from the sounding kicks they freely bestowed on
one another. This roughness itself would be a sufficient cause
for the action of the individual, sick and out of tune and
untouched by the glad contagion of the others, in escaping from
them; and to leave them would be to its advantage (and to that of
the race) since, if not fatally injured or sick unto death,
its</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 339</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">chances of recovery
to perfect health would be thereby greatly increased.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It remains now to
speak of that seemingly most cruel of instincts which stands last
on my list. It is very common among gregarious animals that are
at all combative in disposition, and still survives in our
domestic cattle, although very rarely witnessed in England. My
first experience of it was just before I had reached the age of
five years. I was not at that early period trying to find out any
of nature's secrets, but the scene I witnessed printed itself
very vividly on my mind, so that I can recall it as well as if my
years had been five-and-twenty; perhaps better. It was on a
summer's evening, and I was out by myself at some distance from
the house, playing about the high exposed roots of some old
trees; on the other side of the trees the cattle, just returned
from pasture, were gathered on the bare level ground. Hearing a
great commotion among them, I climbed on to one of the high
exposed roots, and, looking over, saw a cow on the ground,
apparently unable to rise, moaning and bellowing in a distressed
way, while a number of her companions were crowding round and
goring her.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">What is the meaning of
such an instinct? Darwin has but few words on the subject. "Can
we believe," he says, in his posthumous <i>Essay on Instinct,
"</i>when a wounded herbivorous animal returns to its own herd
and is then attacked and gored, that this cruel and very common
instinct is of any service to the species?" At the same time, he
hints that such an instinct might in some circumstances be
useful, and his hint has been developed into the current
belief</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font4">340</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">among naturalists on
the subject. Here it is, in Dr. Romanes' words: "We may readily
imagine that the instinct displayed by many herbivorous animals
of goring sick and wounded companions, is really of use in
countries where the presence of weak members in a herd is a
source of danger to the herd from the prevalence of wild beasts."
Here it is assumed that the sick are set upon and killed, but
this is not the fact; sickness and decay from age or some other
cause are slow things, and increase imperceptibly, so that the
sight of a drooping member grows familiar to the herd, as does
that of a member with some malformation, or unusual shade of
colour, or altogether white, as in the case of an
albino.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Sick and weak
members, as we have seen, while subject to some ill-treatment
from their companions (only because they can be ill-treated with
impunity), do not rouse the herd to a deadly animosity; the
violent and fatal attack is often as not made on a member in
perfect health and vigour and unwounded, although, owing to some
accident, in great distress, and perhaps danger, at the
moment.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The instinct is,
then, not only useless but actually detrimental; and, this being
so, the action of the herd in destroying one of its members is
not even to be regarded as an instinct proper, but rather as an
aberration of an instinct, a blunder, into which animals
sometimes fall when excited to action in unusual
circumstances.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The first thing that
strikes us is that in these wild abnormal moments of social
animals, they are acting in violent contradiction to the whole
tenor of their lives; that in turning against a
distressed</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle,</i> 341</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">fellow they oppose
themselves to the law of their being, to the whole body of
instincts, primary and secondary, and habits, which have made it
possible for them to exist together in communities. It is, I
think, by reflecting on the abnormal character of such an action
that we are led to a true interpretation of this "dark saying of
Nature."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Every one is
familiar with Bacon's famous passage about the dog, and the noble
courage which that animal puts on when "maintained by a man; who
is to him in place of a God, or <i>melior natura;</i> which
courage is manifestly such as that creature, without the
confidence of a better nature than its own, could never attain."
Not so. The dog is a social animal, and acts instinctively in
concert with his fellows; and the courage he manifests is of the
family, not the individual. In the domestic state the man he is
accustomed to associate with and obey stands to him in the place
of the controlling pack, and to his mind, which is canine and not
human, <i>is</i> the pack. A similar "noble courage," greatly
surpassing that exhibited on all other occasions, is displayed by
an infinite number of mammals and birds of gregarious habits,
when repelling the attacks of some powerful and dangerous enemy,
or when they rush to the rescue of one of their captive fellows.
Concerning this rage and desperate courage of social animals in
the face of an enemy, we see (1) that it is excited by the
distressed cries, or by the sight of a member of the herd or
family dying from or struggling in the clutches of an enemy; (2)
that it affects animals when a number af individuals are
together, and is eminently con-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">342 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">tagious, like fear,
that communicates itself, quick as lightning, from one to another
until all are in a panic, and like the joyous emotion that impels
the members of a herd or flock to rush simultaneously into
play.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Now, it is a pretty
familiar fact that animals acting instinctively, as well as men
acting intelligently, have at times their delusions and their
illusions, and see things falsely, and are moved to action by a
false stimulus to their own disadvantage. When the individuals of
a herd or family are excited to a sudden deadly rage by the
distressed cries of one of their fellows, or by the sight of its
bleeding wounds and the smell of its blood, or when they see it
frantically struggling on the ground, or in the cleft of a tree
or rock, as if in the clutches of a powerful enemy, they do not
turn on it to kill but to rescue it.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In whatever way the
rescuing instinct may have risen, whether simply through natural
selection or, as is more probable, through an intelligent habit
becoming fixed and hereditary, its effectiveness depends
altogether on the emotion of overmastering rage excited in the
animal--rage against a tangible visible enemy, or invisible, and
excited by the cries or struggles of a suffering companion;
clearly, then, it could not provide against the occasional rare
accidents that animals meet with, which causes them to act
precisely in the way they do when seized or struck down by an
enemy. An illusion is the result of the emotion similar to the
illusion produced by vivid expectation in ourselves, which has
caused many a man to see in a friend and companion the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 343</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">adversary he looked
to see, and to slay him in his false-seeing anger.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">An illusion just as
great, leading to action equally violent, but ludicrous rather
than painful to witness, may be seen in dogs, when encouraged by
a man to the attack, and made by his cries and gestures to expect
that some animal they are accustomed to hunt is about to be
unearthed or overtaken; and if, when they are in this
disposition, he cunningly exhibits and sets them on a dummy, made
perhaps of old rags and leather and stuffed with straw, they will
seize, worry, and tear it to pieces with the greatest fury, and
without the faintest suspicion of its true character.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">That wild elephants
will attack a distressed fellow seemed astonishing to Darwin,
when he remembered the case of an elephant after escaping from a
pit helping its fellow to escape also. But it is precisely the
animals, high or low in the organic scale, that are social, and
possess the instinct of helping each other, that will on
occasions attack a fellow in misfortune--such an attack being no
more than a blunder of the helping instinct.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Felix de Azara
records a rather cruel experiment on the temper of some tame rats
confined in a cage. The person who kept them caught the tail of
one of the animals and began sharply pinching it, keeping his
hand concealed under the cage. Its cries of pain and struggles to
free itself greatly excited the other rats; and after rushing
wildly round for some moments they flew at their distressed
companion, and fixing their teeth in its throat quickly
dispatched it. In this case if the</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">344 <i>The Naturalist m
La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">hand that held the
tail had been visible and in the cage, the bites would
undoubtedly have been inflicted on it; but no enemy was visible;
yet the fury and impulse to attack an enemy was present in the
animals. In such circumstances, the excitement must be
discharged--the instinct obeyed, and in the absence of any other
object of attack the illusion is produced and it discharges
itself on the struggling companion. It is sometimes seen in dogs,
when three or four or five are near together, that if one
suddenly utters a howl or cry of pain, when no man is near it and
no cause apparent, the others run to it, and seeing nothing, turn
round and attack each other. Here the exciting cause--the cry for
help--is not strong enough to produce the illusion which is
sometimes fatal to the suffering member; but each dog mistakingly
thinks that the others, or one of the others, inflicted the
injury, and his impulse is to take the part of the injured
animal. If the cry for help--caused perhaps by a sudden cramp or
the prick of a thorn--is not very sharp or intense, the other
dogs will not attack, but merely look and growl at each other in
a suspicious way.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">To go back to
Azara's anecdote. Why, it may be asked--and this question has
been put to me in conversation--if killing a distressed companion
is of no advantage to the race, and if something must be
attacked--why did not these rats in this instance attack the cage
they were shut in, and bite at the woodwork and wires? Or, in the
case related by Mr. Andrew Lang in <i>Longman's Magazine</i> some
time ago, in which the members of a herd of cattle in Scotland
turned with sudden amazing fury on</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 345</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">one of the cows that
had got wedged between two rocks and was struggling with
distressed bellowings to free itself--why did they not attack the
prisoning rocks instead of goring their unfortunate comrade to
death? For it is well known that animals will, on occasions, turn
angrily upon and attack inanimate objects that cause them injury
or hinder their freedom of action. And we know that this mythic
faculty--the mind's projection of itself into visible
nature--survives in ourselves, that there are exceptional moments
in our lives when it comes back to us; no one, for instance,
would be astonished to hear that any man, even a philosopher, had
angrily kicked away or imprecated a stool or other inanimate
object against which he had accidentally barked his shins. The
answer is, that there is no connection between these two
things--the universal mythic faculty of the mind, and that bold
and violent instinct of social animals of rushing to the rescue
of a stricken or distressed companion, which has a definite, a
narrow, purpose--namely, to fall upon an enemy endowed not merely
with the life and intelligence common to all things, including
rocks, trees, and waters, but with animal form and
motion.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I had intended in
this place to give other instances, observed in several
widely-separated species, including monkeys; but it is not
necessary, as I consider that all the facts, however varied, are
covered by the theory I have suggested--even a fact I like the
one mentioned in this chapter of cattle bellowing and madly
digging up the ground where the blood of one of their kind had
been spilt: also such a fact as that of wild cattle and
other</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><b>346</b> <i>The
Naturalist in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">animals caught in a
trap or enclosure attacking and destroying each other in their
frenzy; and the fact that some fierce-tempered carnivorous
mammals will devour the companion they have killed. It is an
instinct of animals like wolves and peccaries to devour the enemy
they have overcome and slain: thus, when the jaguar captures a
peccary out of a drove, and does not quickly escape with his
prize into a tree, he is instantly attacked and slain and then
consumed, even to the skin and boues. This is the wolf's and the
peccary's instinct; and the devouring of one of their own
companions is an inevitable consequence of the mistake made in
the first place of attacking and killing it. In no other
circumstances, not even when starving, do they prey on their own
species.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">If the explanation I
have offered should seem a true or highly probable one, it will,
I feel sure, prove acceptable to many lovers of animals, who,
regarding tins seemingly ruthless instinct, not as an aberration
but as in some vague way advantageous to animals in their
struggle for existence, are yet unable to think of it without
pain and horror; indeed, I know those who refuse to think of it
at all, who would gladly disbelieve it if they could.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">It should be a
relief to them to be able to look on it no longer as something
ugly and hateful, a blot on nature, but as an illusion, a
mistake, an unconscious crime, so to speak, that has for its
motive the noblest passion that animals know--that sublime
courage and daring which they exhibit in defence of a distressed
companion. This fiery spirit in animals, which makes them forget
their own</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Strange
Instincts of Cattle.</i> 347</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">safety, moves our
hearts by its close resemblance to one of the most highly-prized
human virtues; just as we are moved to intellectual admiration by
the wonderful migratory instinct in birds that simulates some of
the highest achievements of the mind of man. And we know that
this beautiful instinct is also liable to mistakes--that many
travellers leave us annually never to return. Such a mistake was
undoubtedly the cause of the late visitation of Pallas'
sand-grouse: owing perhaps to some unusual atmospheric or dynamic
condition, or to some change in the nervous system of the birds,
they deviated widely from their usual route, to scatter in
countless thousands over the whole of Europe and perish slowly in
climates not suited to them; while others, overpassing the cold
strange continent, sped on over colder, stranger seas, to drop at
last like aerolites, quenching their lives in the
waves.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Whether because it
is true, as Professor Freeman and some others will have it, that
humanity is a purely modern virtue; or because the doctrine of
Darwin, by showing that we are related to other forms of life,
that our best feelings have their roots low down in the temper
and instincts of the social species, has brought us nearer in
spirit to the inferior animals, it is certain that our regard for
them has grown, and is growing, and that new facts and fresh
inferences that make us think more highly of them are
increasingly welcome.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER
XXIII.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">HORSE AND
MAN.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">THERE is no mode of
progression so delightful as riding on horseback. Walking,
rowing, bicycling are pleasant exercises in their way, but the
muscular exertion and constant exercise of judgment they call for
occupy the mind partly to the exclusion of other things; so that
a long walk may sometimes be only a long walk and nothing more.
In riding we are not conscious of exertion, and as for that close
observation and accurate discernment necessary in traversing the
ground with speed and safety, it is left to the faithful servant
that carries us. Pitfalls, hillocks, slippery places, the
thousand little inequalities of the surface that have to be
measured with infallible eye, these disturb us little. To fly or
go slowly at will, to pass unshaken over rough and smooth alike,
fording rivers without being wet, and mounting hills without
climbing, this is indeed unmixed delight. It is the nearest
approach to bird-life we seem capable of, since all the monster
bubbles and flying fabrics that have been the sport of winds from
the days of Montgolfier downwards have brought us no nearer to
it. The aeronaut gasping for breath above the clouds offers only
a sad spectacle of the imbecility of science and man's</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Horse and Man.</i>
349</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">shattered hopes. To
the free inhabitants of air we can only liken the mounted Arab,
vanishing, hawklike, over the boundless desert.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">In riding there is
always exhilarating motion; yet, if the scenery encountered be
charming, you are apparently sitting still, while, river-like, it
flows toward and past you, ever giving place to fresh visions of
beauty. Above all, the mind is free, as when one lies idly on the
grass gazing up into the sky. And, speaking of myself, there is
even more than this immunity from any tax on the understanding
such as we require in walking; the rhythmic motion, the sensation
as of night, acting on the brain like a stimulus. That anyone
should be able to think better lying, sitting, or standing, than
when speeding along on horseback, is to me incomprehensible. This
is doubtless due to early training and long use; for on those
great pampas where I first saw the light and was taught at a
tender age to ride, we come to look on man as a parasitical
creature, fitted by nature to occupy the back of a horse, in
which position only he has full and free use of all his
faculties. Possibly the gaucho--the horseman of the pampas--is
born with this idea in his brain; if so, it would only be
reasonable to suppose that its correlative exists in a
modification of structure. Certain it is that an intoxicated
gaucho lifted on to the back of his horse is perfectly safe in
his seat. The horse may do his best to rid himself of his burden;
the rider's legs--or posterior arms as they might appropriately
be called--retain their iron grip, notwithstanding the fuddled
brain.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">350</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">The gaucho is more
or less bow-legged; and, of course, the more crooked his legs
are, the better for him in his struggle for existence. Off his
horse his motions are awkward, like those of certain tardigrade
mammals of arboreal habits when removed from their tree. He
waddles in his walk;</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-26.jpg" alt="h1-26.jpg" class="c43">

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font14"><b>Gancho.</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">his hands feel for
the reins; his toes turn inwards like a duck's. And here,
perhaps, we can see why foreign travellers, judging him from
their own standpoint, invariably bring against him the charge of
laziness. On horseback he is of all men most active. His patient
endurance under privations</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Horse and Man.</i>
351</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">that would drive
other men to despair, his laborious days and feats of
horsemanship, the long journeys he performs without rest or food,
seem to simple dwellers on the surface of the earth almost like
miracles. Deprive him of his horse, and he can do nothing but sit
on the ground cross-legged, or <i>en cuclillas,--</i>on his
heels. You have, to use his own figurative language, cut off his
feet.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Darwin in his
earlier years appears not to have possessed the power of reading
men with that miraculous intelligence always distinguishing his
researches concerning other and lower orders of beings. In the
<i>Voyage of a Naturalist,</i> speaking of this supposed
indolence of the gauchos, he tells that in one place where
workmen were in great request, seeing a poor gaucho sitting in a
listless attitude, he asked him why he did not work. The man's
answer was that <i>he was too poor to work!</i> The philosopher
was astonished and amused at the reply, but failed to understand
it. And yet, to one acquainted with these lovers of brief
phrases, what more intelligible answer could have been returned?
The poor fellow simply meant to say that his horses had been
stolen--a thing of frequent occurrence in that country, or,
perhaps, that some minion of the Government of the moment had
seized them for the use of the State.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">To return to the
starting point, the pleasures of riding do not flow exclusively
from the agreeable sensations attendant on flight-like motion;
there is also the knowledge, sweet in itself, that not a mere
cunningly fashioned machine, like that fabled horse of brass "on
which the Tartar king did ride,"</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">352 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">sustains us; but a
something with life and thought, like ourselves, that feels what
we feel, understands us, and keenly participates in our
pleasures. Take, for example, the horse on which some quiet old
country gentleman is accustomed to travel; how soberly and evenly
he jogs along, picking his way over the ground. But let him fall
into the hands of a lively youngster, and how soon he picks up a
frisky spirit! Were horses less plastic, more the creatures of
custom than they are, it would always be necessary, before buying
one, to inquire into the disposition of its owner.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">When I was thirteen
years old I was smitten with love for a horse I once saw--an
untamable-looking brute, that rolled his eyes, turbulently, under
a cloud of black mane tumbling over his forehead. I could not
take my sight off this proud, beautiful creature, and I longed to
possess him with a great longing. His owner--a worthless
vagabond, as it happened--marked my enthusiastic admiration, and
a day or two afterwards, having lost all his money at cards, he
came to me, offering to sell me the horse. Having obtained my
father's consent, I rushed off to the man with all the money I
possessed--about thirty or thirty-five shillings, I believe.
After some grumbling, and finding he could get no more, he
accepted the money. My new possession filled me with unbounded
delight, and I spent the time caressing him and leading him about
the grounds in search of succulent grasses and choice leaves to
feed him on. I am sure this horse understood and loved me, for,
in spite of that savage look, which his eyes never quite
lost,</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Horse and Man,</i>
353</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">he always displayed a
singular gentleness towards me. He never attempted to upset me,
though he promptly threw--to my great delight, I must
confess--anyone else who ventured to mount him. Probably the
secret of his conduct was that he hated the whip. Of this
individual, if not of the species, the celebrated description
held true:--"The horse is a docile animal, but if you flog him he
will not do so." After he had been mine a few days, I rode on him
one morning to witness a cattle-marking on a neighbouring estate.
I found thirty or forty gauchos on the ground engaged in catching
and branding the cattle. It was rough, dangerous work, but
apparently not rough enough to satisfy the men, so after branding
an animal and releasing him from their lassos, several of the
mounted gauchos would, purely for sport, endeavour to knock it
down as it rushed away, by charging furiously on to it. As I sat
there enjoying the fun, my horse stood very quietly under me,
also eagerly watching the sport. At length a bull was released,
and, smarting from the fiery torture, lowered his horns and
rushed away towards the open plain. Three horsemen in succession
shot out from the crowd, and charged the bull at full speed; one
by one, by suddenly swerving his body round, he avoided them, and
was escaping scot-free. At this moment my horse--possibly
interpreting a casual touch of my hand on his neck, or some
movement of my body, as a wish to join in the sport--suddenly
sprang forward and charged on the flying bull like a thunderbolt,
striking him full in the middle of his body, and hurling him with
a tremendous shock to</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">354 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">earth. The stricken
beast rolled violently over, while my horse stood still as a
stone watching him. Strange to say, I was not unseated, but,
turning-round, galloped back, greeted by a shout of applause from
the spectators--the only sound of that description I have ever
had the privilege of listening to. They little knew that my horse
had accomplished the perilous feat without his rider's guidance.
No doubt he had been accustomed to do such things, and, perhaps,
for the moment, had forgotten that he had passed into the hands
of a new owner--one of tender years. He never voluntarily
attempted an adventure of that kind again; he knew, I suppose,
that he no longer carried on his back a reckless dare-devil, who
valued not life. Poor Pic&aacute;so! he was mine till he died. I
have had scores of horses since, but never one I loved so
well.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">With the gauchos the
union between man and horse is not of so intimate a nature as
with the Indians of the pampas. Horses are too cheap, where a man
without shoes to his feet may possess a herd of them, for the
closest kind of friendship to ripen. The Indian has also less
individuality of character. The immutable nature of the
conditions he is placed in, and his savage life, which is a
perpetual chase, bring him nearer to the level of the beast he
rides. And probably the acquired sagacity of the horse in the
long co-partnership of centuries has become hereditary, and of
the nature of an instinct. The Indian horse is more docile, he
understands his master better; the slightest touch of the hand on
his neck, which seems to have</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Horse and Man.</i>
355</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">developed a
marvellous sensitiveness, is sufficient to guide him. The gaucho
labours to give his horse "a silken mouth," as he aptly calls it;
the Indian's horse has it from birth. Occasionally the gaucho
sleeps in the saddle; the Indian can die on his horse. During
frontier warfare one hears at times of a dead warrior being found
and removed with difficulty from the horse that carried him out
of the fight, and about whose neck his rigid fingers were clasped
in death. Even in the gaucho country, however, where, I grieve to
confess, the horse is not deservedly esteemed, there are very
remarkable instances of equine attachment and fidelity to man,
and of a fellowship between horse and rider of the closest kind.
One only I will relate.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">When Rosas, that man
of "blood and iron," was Dictator of the Argentine country--a
position which he held for a quarter of a century--desertors from
the army were inexorably shot when caught, as they generally
were. But where my boyhood was spent there was a deserter, a man
named Santa Anna, who for seven years, without ever leaving the
neighbourhood of his home, succeeded in eluding his pursuers by
means of the marvellous sagacity and watchful care exercised by
his horse. When taking his rest on the plain--for he seldom slept
under a roof--his faithful horse kept guard. At the first sight
of mounted men on the horizon he would fly to his master, and,
seizing his cloak between his teeth, rouse him with a vigorous
shake. The hunted man would start up, and in a moment man and
horse would vanish into one of the dense reed-beds</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">A a 2</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">350 <i>The Naturalist
in La Piafa.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">abounding in the
place, and where no man could follow. I have not space to tell
more about this horse; but at last, in the fulness of time, when
the figs were ripe--literally as well as figuratively, for it
happened in the autumn of the year--the long tyrannous rule
ended, and Santa Anna came out of the reed-beds, where he had
lived his wild-animal life, to mix with his fellows. I knew him
some years later. He was a rather heavy-looking man, with little
to say, and his reputation for honesty was not good in the place;
but I dare say there was something good in him.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">Students of nature
are familiar with the modifying effects of new conditions on man
and brute. Take, for example, the gaucho: he must every day
traverse vast distances, see quickly, judge rapidly, be ready at
all times to encounter hunger and fatigue, violent changes of
temperature, great and sudden perils. These conditions have made
him differ widely from the peasant of the Peninsula; he has the
endurance and keen sight of a wolf, is fertile in expedients,
quick in action, values human life not at all, and is in pain or
defeat a Stoic. Unquestionably the horse he rides has also
suffered a great change. He differs as much from the English
hunter, for instance, as one animal can well differ from another
of the same species. He never pounds the earth and wastes his
energies in vain parade. He has not the dauntless courage that
performs such brilliant feats in the field, and that often as not
attempts the impossible. In the chase he husbands all his
strength, carrying his head low, and almost grazing the ground
with his hoofs, so that he is not a showy animal. Con-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Horse and Man.</i>
357</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">stant use, or the
slow cumulative process of natural selection, has served to
develop a keenness of sense almost preternatural. The vulture's
eye, with all the advantage derived from the vulture's vast
elevation above the scene surveyed, is not so far-reaching as the
sense of smell in the pampa horse. A common phenomenon on the
pampas is a sudden migration of the horses of a district to some
distant place. This occurs in seasons of drought, when grass
or</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">water fails. The
horses migrate to some district where, from showers having fallen
or other circumstances, there is a better supply of food and
drink. A slight breeze blowing from the more favoured region,
which may be forty or fifty miles away, or even much further, is
enough to start them off. Yet, during the scorching days of
midsummer, very little moisture or smell of grass can possibly
reach them from such a distance.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Another phenomenon,
even more striking, is familiar to every frontiersman. For some
reason, the gaucho horse manifests the greatest terror at an
Indian invasion. No doubt his fear is, in part at any rate, an
associate feeling, the coming of the Indians being always a time
of excitement and com-motion, sweeping like a great wave over the
country; houses are in flames, families flying, cattle being
driven at frantic speed to places of greater safety. Be this as
it may, long before the marauders reach the settlement (often
when they are still a whole day's journey from it) the horses
take the alarm and come wildly flying in: the contagion quickly
spreads to the horned cattle, and a general stampede ensues. The
gauchos maintain that the horses <i>smell</i></span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">358 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the Indians. I
believe they are right, for when passing a distant Indian camp,
from which the wind blew, the horses driven before me have
suddenly taken fright and run away, leading me a chase of many
miles. The explanation that ostriches, deer, and other fleet
animals driven in before the invaders might be the cause of the
stampede cannot be accepted, since the horses are familiar with
the sight of these animals flying from their gaucho
hunters.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">There is a pretty
fable of a cat and dog lying in a dark room, aptly illustrating
the fine senses of these two species. "Listen! I heard a feather
drop!" said the dog. "Oh, no!" said the cat, "it was a needle; I
saw it." The horse is not commonly believed to have senses keen
as that, and a dog tracing his master's steps over the city
pavement is supposed to be a feat no other animal can equal. No
doubt the artificial life a horse lives in England, giving so
little play to many of his most important faculties, has served
to blunt them. He is a splendid creature; but the noble bearing,
the dash and reckless courage that distinguish him from the
modest horse of the desert, have not been acquired without a
corresponding loss in other things. When ridden by night the
Indian horse--and sometimes the same habit is found in the
gaucho's animal--drops his head lower and lower as the darkness
increases, with the danger arising from the presence of
innumerable kennels concealed in the grass, until his nose sweeps
the surface like a foxhound's. That this action is dictated by a
powerful instinct of self-preservation is plain; for, when I have
attempted to forcibly drag the animal's head up, he has answered
such an</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>Horse and Man.</i>
359</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">experiment by taking
the bit in his teeth, and violently pulling the reins out of my
hand. His miraculous sense of smell measures the exact position
of every hidden kennel, every treacherous spot, and enables him
to pass swiftly and securely over it.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">On the desert pampa
the gaucho, for a reason that he knows, calls the puma the
"friend of man." The Arab gives this designation to his horse;
but in Europe, where we do not associate closely with the horse,
the dog naturally takes the foremost place in our affections. The
very highest praise yet given to this animal is probably to be
found in Bacon's essay on Atheism. "For take an example of a
dog," he says, "and mark what a generosity and courage he will
put on when he finds himself maintained by a man, who is to him
in place of a god, or <i>melior natura,</i> which courage is
manifestly such as that creature, without the confidence of a
better nature than its own, could never attain!" Can we not say
as much of the horse? The very horses that fly terror-stricken
from the smell of an Indian will, when "maintained by a man,"
readily charge into a whole host of yelling savages.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I once had a horse
at home, born and bred on the place, so docile that whenever I
required him I could go to him where the horses were at pasture,
and, though they all galloped off at my approach, he would calmly
wait to be caught. Springing on to his back, I would go after the
other horses, or gallop home with only my hand on his neck to
guide him. I did not often ride him, as he was slow and lazy, but
with timid women and children he was a favourite; he was also
fre-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">360 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">quently used for
farm work, in or out of harness, and I could shoot from his back.
In the peach season he would roam about the plantation, getting
the fruit, of which he was very fond, by tugging at the lower
branches of the trees and shaking it down in showers. One
intensely dark night I was riding home on this horse. I came
through a road with a wire fence on each side, two miles in
length, and when I had got nearly to the end of this road my
horse suddenly stopped short, uttering a succession of loud
terrified snorts. I could see nothing but the intense blackness
of the night before me. and tried to encourage him to go on.
Touching him on the neck, I found his hair wet with the sudden
profuse sweat of extreme fear. The whip made no impression on
him. He continued to back away, his eyes apparently fixed on some
object of horror just before him, while he trembled to such a
degree that I was shaken in the saddle. He attempted several
times to wheel round and run away, but I was determined not to
yield to him, and continued the contest. Suddenly, when I was
beginning to despair of getting home by that road, he sprang
forward, and regularly charged the (to me) invisible object
before him, and in another moment, when he had apparently passed
it, taking the bit between his teeth he almost flew over the
ground, never pausing till he brought me to my own door. When I
dismounted his terror seemed gone, but he hung his head in a
dejected manner, like a horse that has been under the saddle all
day. I have never witnessed another such instance of almost
maddening fear. His terror and apprehension were like what we can
imagine a man experiencing at sight of a ghost in some dark
solitary place.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Horse and Man.</i>
<b>361</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Yet he did not
forcibly carry me away from it, as he might so easily have done;
but, finding himself maintained by a "nature superior to his
own," he preferred to face it. I have never met in the dog a more
striking example of this noblest kind of brute courage. The
incident did not impress me very much at the moment, but when I
came to reflect that my sight was mere blindness compared with
that of my horse, and that it was not likely his imagination
clothed any familiar natural object with fantastic terrors, it
certainly did impress me very deeply.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I am loth to finish
with, my subject, in which, to express myself in the manner of
the gauchos, I have passed over many matters, like good grass and
fragrant herbs the galloping horse sniffs at but cannot stay to
taste; and especially loth to conclude with this last incident,
which has in it an element of gloom. I would rather first go back
for a few moments to my original theme--the pleasures of riding,
for the sake of mentioning a species of pleasure my English
reader has probably never tasted or even heard of. When riding by
night on the pampas, I used to enjoy lying back on my horse till
my head and shoulders rested well on his back, my feet also being
raised till they pressed against his neck; and in this position,
which practice can make both safe and comfortable, gaze up into
the starry sky. To enjoy this method of riding thoroughly, a
sure-footed unshod horse with perfect confidence in his rider is
necessary; and he must be made to go at a swift and smooth pace
over level grassy ground. With these conditions the sensation is
positively delightful. Nothing of earth is visible, only the vast
circle of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">362 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">the heavens
glittering with innumerable stars; the muffled sound of the hoofs
on the soft sward becomes in fancy only the rushing of the wings
of our Pegasus, while the enchanting illusion that we are soaring
through space possesses the mind. Unfortunately, however, this
method of riding is impracticable in England. And, even if people
with enthusiasm enough could be found to put it in practice by
importing swift light-footed Arabian or pampa horses, and
careering about level parks on dark starry nights, probably a
shout of derision would be raised against so undignified a
pastime.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3"><i>Apropos</i> of
dignity, I will relate, in conclusion, an incident in my London
life which may possibly interest psychologists. Some time ago in
Oxford Street I got on top of an omnibus travelling west. My mind
was preoccupied, I was anxious to get home, and, in an absent
kind of way, I became irritated at the painfully slow rate of
progress. It was all an old familiar experience, the deep
thought, lessening pace, and consequent irritation. The indolent
brute I imagined myself riding was, as usual, taking advantage of
his rider's abstraction; but I would soon "feelingly persuade"
him that I was not so far gone as to lose sight of the difference
between a swinging gallop and a walk. So, elevating my umbrella,
I dealt the side of the omnibus a sounding blow, very much to the
astonishment of my fellow-passengers. So overgrown are we with
usages, habits, tricks of thought and action springing from the
soil we inhabit; and when we have broken away and removed
ourselves far from it, so long do the dead tendrils still cling
to us!</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font24">CHAPTER
XXIV,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">SEEN AND
LOST,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c8">WE can imagine what
the feelings of a lapidary would be--an enthusiast whose life is
given to the study of precious stones, and whose sole delight is
in the contemplation of their manifold beauty--if a stranger
should come in to him, and, opening his hand, exhibit a new
unknown gem, splendid as ruby or as sapphire, yet manifestly no
mere variety of any familiar stone, but differing as widely from
all others as diamond from opal or cat's-eye; and then, just when
he is beginning to rejoice in that strange exquisite loveliness,
the hand should close and the stranger, with a mocking smile on
his lips, go forth and disappear from sight in the crowd. A
feeling such as that would be is not unfrequently experienced by
the field naturalist whose favoured lot it is to live in a
country not yet "thoroughly worked out," with its every wild
inhabitant scientifically named, accurately described, and
skilfully figured in some colossal monograph. One swift glance of
the practised eye, ever eagerly searching for some new-thing, and
he knows that here at length is a form never previously seen by
him; but his joy is perhaps only for a few moments, and the prize
is snatched from sight for ever. The lapidary might</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">364 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata,</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">have some doubts; he
might think that the stranger had, after all, only mocked him
with the sight of a wonderful artificial gem, and that a close
examination would have proved its worthlessness; but the
naturalist can have no doubts: if he is an enthusiast, well
acquainted with the fauna of his district, and has good eyesight,
he knows that there is no mistake; for there it is, the new
strange form, photographed by instantaneous process on his mind,
and there it will remain, a tantalizing image, its sharp lines
and fresh colouring unblurred by time.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Walking in some open
forest glade, he may look up just in time to see a great strange
butterfly--a blue Morpho, let us say, wandering in some far
country where this angel insect is unknown--passing athwart his
vision with careless, buoyant flight, the most sylph-like thing
in nature, and all blue and pure like its aerial home, but with a
more delicate and wonderful brilliance in its cerulean colour,
giving such unimaginable glory to its broad airy wings; and then,
almost before his soul has had time to feel its joy, it may soar
away unloitering over the tall trees, to be seen no
more.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">But the admiration,
the delight, and the desire are equally great, and the loss just
as keenly felt, whether the strange species seen happens to be
one surpassingly beautiful or not. Its newness is to the
naturalist its greatest attraction. How beautiful beyond all
others seems a certain small unnamed brown bird to my mind! So
many years have passed and its image has not yet grown dim; yet I
saw it only for a few moments, when it hopped out</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen, and Lost.</i>
36 5</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">from, the thick
foliage and perched within two or three yards of me, not afraid,
but only curious; and after peering at me first with one eye and
then the other, and wiping its small dagger on a twig, it flew
away and was seen no more. For many days I sought for it, and for
years waited its reappearance, and it was more to me than ninety
and nine birds which I had always known; yet it was very modest,
dressed in a brown suit, very pale on the breast and white on the
throat, and for distinction a straw-coloured stripe over the
eye--that ribbon which Queen Nature bestows on so many of her
feathered subjects, in recognition, I suppose, of some small and
common kind of merit. If I should meet with it in a collection I
should know it again; only, in that case it would look plain and
homely to me--this little bird that for a time made all others
seem unbeautiful.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Even a richer prize
may come in sight for a brief period--one of the nobler
mammalians, which are fewer in number, and bound to earth like
ourselves, and therefore so much better known than the wandering
children of air. In. some secluded spot, resting amidst luxuriant
herbage or forest undergrowth, a slight rustling makes us start,
and, lo! looking at us from the clustering leaves, a strange
face; the leaf-like ears erect, the dark eyes round with
astonishment, and the sharp black nose twitching and sniffing
audibly, to take in the unfamiliar flavour of a human presence
from the air, like the pursed-up and smacking lips of a
wine-drinker tasting a new vintage. No sooner seen than gone,
like a dream, a phantom, the quaint</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><b>366</b> <i>The
Naturalist in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">furry face to be
thereafter only an image in memory.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Sometimes the prize
may be a very rich one, and actually within reach of the
hand--challenging the hand, as it were, to grasp it, and yet
presently slip away to be seen no more, although it maybe sought
for day after day, with a hungry longing comparable to that of
some poor tramp who finds a gold doubloon in the forest, and just
when he is beginning to realize all that it means to him drops it
in the grass and cannot find it again. There is not the faintest
motion in the foliage, no rustle of any dry leaf, and yet we know
that something has moved--something has come or has gone; and,
gazing fixedly at one spot, we suddenly see that it is still
there, close to us, the pointed ophidian head and long neck, not
drawn back and threatening, but sloping forward, dark and
polished as the green and purple weed-stems springing from marshy
soil, and with an irregular chain of spots extending down the
side. Motionless, too, as the stems it is; but presently the
tongue, crimson and glistening, darts out and flickers, like a
small jet of smoke and flame, and is withdrawn; then the smooth
serpent head drops down, and the thing is gone.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">How I saw and lost
the noble wrestling frog has been recounted in Chapter IV.: other
tantalizing experiences of the same kind remain to be told in the
present chapter, which is not intended for the severe naturalist,
but rather for such readers as may like to hear something about
the pains and pleasures of the seeker as well as the result of
the seeking.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen <b>and
Lost.</b></i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><b>367</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">One of my earliest
experiences of seeing and losing relates to a humming-bird--a
veritable "jewel of ornithology." I was only a boy at the time,
but already pretty well acquainted with the birds of the district
I lived in, near La Plata River, and among them were three
species of the hummingbird. One spring day I saw a fourth--a
wonderful little thing, only half as big as the smallest of the
other three--the well-known Phaithornis splendens--and scarcely
larger than a bumble-bee. I was within three feet of it as it
sucked at the flowers,</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-27.jpg" alt="h1-27.jpg" class="c44">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font15">A lost
Humming-bird.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">suspended motionless
in the air, the wings appearing formless and mist-like from their
rapid vibratory motion, but the rest of the upper plumage was
seen distinctly as anything can be seen. The head and neck and
upper part of the back were emerald green, with the metallic
glitter usually seen in the burnished scale-like feathers of
these small birds; the lower half of the back was velvet-black;
the tail and tail-coverts white as snow. On two other occasions,
at intervals of a few days, I saw this brilliant little stranger,
always very near, and tried without success</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">368 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">to capture it, after
which, it disappeared from the plantation. Four years later I saw
it once again not far from the same place. It was late in summer,
and I was out walking on the level plain where the ground was
carpeted with short grass, and nothing else grew there except a
solitary stunted cardoou thistle-bush with one flower on its
central stem above the grey-green artichoke-like leaves. The disc
of the great thorny blossom was as broad as that of a sunflower,
purple in colour, delicately frosted with white; on this flat
disc several insects were feeding--flies, fireflies, and small
wasps--and I paused for a few minutes in my walk to watch them.
Suddenly a small misty object flew swiftly downwards past my
face, and paused motionless in the air an inch or two above the
rim of the flower. Once more my lost humming-bird, which I
remembered so well! The exquisitely graceful form, half circled
by the misty moth-like wings, the glittering green and
velvet-black mantle, and snow-white tail spread open like a
fan--there it hung like a beautiful bird-shaped gem suspended by
an invisible gossamer thread. One--two--three moments passed,
while I gazed, trembling with rapturous excitement, and then,
before I had time to collect my faculties and make a forlorn
attempt to capture it with my hat, away it flew, gliding so
swiftly on the air that form and colour were instantly lost, and
in appearance it was only an obscure grey line traced rapidly
along the low sky and fading quickly out ol sight. And that was
the last I ever saw of it.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">The case of this
small "winged gem," still wandering nameless in the wilds,
reminds me of yet</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen and Lost.</i>
369</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">another bird seen
and lost, also remarkable for its diminutive size. For years I
looked for it, and when the wished-for opportunity came, and it
was in my power to secure it, I refrained; and Fate punished me
by never permitting me to see it again. On several occasions
while riding on the pampas I had caught glimpses of this minute
bird flitting up mothlike, with uncertain tremulous flight, and
again dipping into the weeds, tall grass, or thistles. Its
plumage was yellowish in hue, like sere dead herbage, and its
extremely slender body looked longer and slimmer than it was,
owing to the great length of its tail, or of the two middle
tail-feathers. I knew that it was a Synallaxis--a genus of small
birds of the Woodhewer family. Now, as I have said in a former
chapter, these are wise little birds, more interesting--I had
almost said more beautiful--in their wisdom, or wisdom-simulating
instincts, than the quatzel in its resplendent green, or the
cock-of-the-rock in its vivid scarlet and orange mantle. Wrens
and mocking-birds have melody for their chief attraction, and the
name of each kind is, to our minds, also the name of a certain
kind of sweet music; we think of swifts and swallows in
connection with the mysterious migratory instinct; and
humming-birds have a glittering mantle, and the miraculous
motions necessary to display its ever-changing iridescent beauty.
In like manner, the homely Dendrocolaptidae possess the genius
for building, and an account of one of these small birds without
its nest would be like a biography of Sir Christopher Wren that
made no mention of his works. It was not strange then</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">370 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">that when I saw this
small bird the question rose to my mind, what kind of nest does
it build?</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">One morning in the
month of October, the great breeding-time for birds in the
Southern Hemisphere, while cautiously picking my way through a
bed of eardoon bushes, the mysterious little creature flitted up
and perched among the clustering leaves quite near to me. It
uttered a feeble grasshopper-like chirp; and then a second
individual, smaller, paler-coloured, and if possible shyer than
the first, showed itself for two or three seconds, after which
both birds dived once more into concealment. How glad I was to
see them! for here they were, male and female, in a suitable spot
in my own fields, where they evidently meant to breed. Every day
after that I paid them one cautious visit, and by waiting from
five to fifteen minutes, standing motionless among the thistles,
I always succeeded in getting them to show themselves for a few
moments. I could easily have secured them then, but my wish was
to discover their nesting habits; and after watching for some
days, I was rewarded by finding their nest; then for three days
more I watched it slowly progressing towards completion, and each
time I approached it one of the small birds would flit out to
vanish into the herbage. The structure was about six inches long,
and not more than two inches in diameter, and was placed
horizontally on a broad stiff eardoon leaf, sheltered by other
leaves above. It was made of the finest dry grass loosely woven,
and formed a simple perfectly straight tube, open at both ends.
The aperture was so small that I could only insert my little
finger, and the bird</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen and Los
i.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font3">371</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">could not, of
course, have turned round in so narrow a passage, and so always
went in at one end and left by the other. On visiting the spot on
the fourth day I found, to my intense chagrin, that the delicate
fabric had been broken and thrown down by some animal; also, that
the birds had utterly</span><br>
</p>

<img src="images/h1-28.jpg" alt="h1-28.jpg" class="c45">

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Small Spine-tail
<b>and</b> Nest.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">vanished--for I
sought them in vain, both there and in every weedy and thistly
spot in the neighbourhood. The bird without the nest had seemed a
useless thing to possess; now, for all my pains, I had only a
wisp of fine dry grass in my hand, and no bird. The shy, modest
little creature, dwelling</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20"><i>372</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>The Naturalist in La
Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">violet-like amidst
clustering leaves, and even when showing itself still
"half-hidden from the eye," was thereafter to be only a
tantalizing image in memory. Still, my case was not so hopeless
as that of the imagined lapidary; for however rare a species may
be, and near to its final extinction, there must always be many
individuals existing, and I was cheered by the thought that I
might yet meet with one at some future time. And, even if this
particular species was not to gladden my sight again, there were
others, scores and hundreds more, and at any moment I might
expect to see one shining, a living gem, on Nature's open
extended palm.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Sometimes it has
happened that an animal would have been overlooked or passed by
with scant notice, to be forgotten, perhaps, but for some
singular action or habit which has instantly given it a strange
importance, and made its possession desirable.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I was once engaged
in the arduous and monotonous task of driving a large number of
sheep a distance of two hundred and fifty miles, in excessively
hot weather, when sheep prefer standing still to travelling. Five
or six gauchos were with me, and we were on the southern pampas
of Buenos Ayres, near to a long precipitous stony sierra which
rose to a height of five or six hundred feet above the plain. Who
that has travelled for eighteen days on a dead level in a
broiling sun can resist a hill? That sierra was more sublime to
us than Conon-dagua, than Illimani.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">Leaving the sheep, I
rode to it with three of the men; aad after securing our horses
on the lower</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen And Lost.</i>
373</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21 c3">slope, we began our
laborious ascent. Now the gaucho when taken from his horse, on
which he lives like a kind of parasite, is a very slow-moving
creature, and I soon left my friends far behind. Coming to a
place where ferns and flowering herbage grew thick, I began to
hear all about me sounds of a character utterly unlike any
natural sound I was acquainted with--innumerable low clear voices
tinkling or pealing like minute sweet-toned, resonant bells--for
the sounds were purely metallic and perfectly bell-like. I was
completely ringed round with the mysterious music, and as I
walked it rose and sank rhythmically, keeping time to my steps. I
stood still, and immediately the sounds ceased. I took a step
forwards, and again the fairy-bells were set ringing, as if at
each step my foot touched a central meeting point of a thousand
radiating threads, each thread attached to a peal of little bells
hanging concealed among the herbage. I waited for my companions,
and called their attention to the phenomenon, and to them also it
was a thing strange and perplexing. "It is the bell-snake!" cried
one excitedly. This is the rattle-snake; but although at that
time I had no experience of this reptile, I knew that he was
wrong. Yet how natural the mistake! The Spanish name of
"bell-snake" had made him imagine that the whirring sound of the
vibrating rattles, resembling muffled cicada music, is really
bell-like in character. Eventually we discovered that the sound
was made by grasshoppers; but they were seen only to be lost, for
I could not capture one, so excessively shy and cunning had the
perpetual ringing of their own</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">374 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">little tocsins made
them. And presently I had to return to my muttons; and afterwards
there was no opportunity of revisiting the spot to observe so
singular a habit again and collect specimens. It was a very
slender grasshopper, about an inch and a half long, of a uniform,
tawny, protective colour--the colour of an old dead leaf. It also
possessed a protective habit common to most grasshoppers, of
embracing a slender vertical stem with its four fine front legs,
and moving cunningly round so as to keep the stem always in front
of it to screen itself from sight. Only other grasshoppers are
silent when alarmed, and the silence and masking action are
related, and together prevent the insect from being detected. But
this particular species, or race, or colony, living on the sides
of the isolated sierra, had acquired a contrary habit, resembling
a habit of gregarious birds and mammals. For this informing sound
(unless it mimicked some <i>warning-sound,</i> as of a
rattlesnake, which it didn't) could not possibly be beneficial to
individuals living alone, as grasshoppers generally do, but, on
the contrary, only detrimental; and such a habit was therefore
purely for the public good, and could only have arisen in a
species that always lived in communities.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">On another occasion,
in the middle of the hot season, I was travelling alone
across-country in a locality which was new to me, a few leagues
east of La Plata River, in its widest part. About eleven o'clock
in the morning I came to a low-lying level plain where the
close-cropped grass was vivid green, although elsewhere all over
the country the vegeta-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen and Lost.</i>
375</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">tion was scorched
and dead, and dry as ashes. The ground being so favourable, I
crossed this low plain at a swinging gallop, and in about thirty
minutes' time. In that half-hour I saw a vast number of snakes,
all of one kind, and a species new to me; but my anxiety to reach
my destination before the oppressive heat of the afternoon made
me hurry on. So numerous were the snakes in that green place that
frequently I had as many as a dozen in sight at one time. It
looked to me like a coronel&iacute;a--harmless colubrine
snakes--but was more than twice as large as either of the two
species of that genus I was already familiar with. In size they
varied greatly, ranging from two to fully five feet in length,
and the colour was dull yellow or tan, slightly lined and mottled
with shades of brown. Among dead or partially withered grass and
herbage they would have been undistinguishable at even a very
short distance, but on the vivid green turf they were strangely
conspicuous, some being plainly visible forty or fifty yards
away; and not one was seen coiled up. They were all lying
motionless, stretched out full length, and looking like dark
yellow or tan-coloured ribbons, thrown on to the grass. It was
most unusual to see so many snakes together, although not
surprising in the circumstances. The December heats had dried up
all the water-courses and killed the vegetation, and made the
earth hard and harsh as burnt bricks; and at such times snakes,
especially the more active non-venomous kinds, will travel long
distances, in their slow way, in search of water. Those I saw
during my ride had probably been attracted by the
mois-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">376 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">ture from a large
area of country; and although there was no water, the soft fresh
grass must have been grateful to them. Snakes are seen coiled up
when they are at home; when travelling and far afield, they lie
as a rule extended full length, even when resting--and they are
generally resting. Pausing at length, before quitting this green
plain, to give my horse a minute's rest, I got off and approached
a large snake; but when I was quite twelve yards from it, it
lifted its head, and, turning deliberately round, came rather
swiftly at me. I retreated, and it followed, until, springing on
to my horse, I left it, greatly surprised at its action, and
beginning to think that it must be venomous. As I rode on the
feeling of surprise increased, conquering haste; and in the end,
seeing more snakes, I dismounted and approached the largest, when
exactly the same thing occurred again, the snake rousing itself
and coming angrily at me when I was still (considering the dull
lethargic character of the deadliest kinds) at an absurd distance
from it. Again and again I repeated the experiment, with the same
result. And at length I stunned one with a blow of my whip to
examine its mouth, but found no poison-fangs in it.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I then resumed my
journey, expecting to meet with more snakes of the same kind at
my destination; but there were none, and very soon business
called me to a distant place, and I never met with this species
afterwards. But when I rode away from that green spot, and was
once more on the higher, desolate, wind-swept plain surrounding
it--a rustling sea of giant thistles, still erect,
although</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen and Lost.</i>
377</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">dead, and red as
rust, and filling the hot blue sky with silvery down--it was with
a very strange feeling. The change from the green and living to
the dead and dry and dusty was so great! There seemed to be
something mysterious, extra-natural, in that low level plain, so
green and fresh and snaky, where my horse's hoofs had made no
sound--a place where no man dwelt, and no cattle pastured, and no
wild bird folded its wing. And the serpents there were not like
others--the mechanical coiled-up thing we know, a mere
bone-and-muscle man-trap, set by the elements, to spring and
strike when trodden on: but these had a high intelligence, a
lofty spirit, and were filled with a noble rage and astonishment
that any other kind of creature, even a man, should venture there
to disturb their sacred peace. It was a fancy, born of that sense
of mystery which the unknown and the unusual in nature wakes in
us--an obsolescent feeling that still links us to the savage. But
the simple fact was wonderful enough, and that has been set down
simply and apart from all fancies. If the reader happens not to
be a naturalist, it is right to tell him that a naturalist cannot
exaggerate consciously; and if he be capable of unconscious
exaggeration, then ho is no naturalist. He should hasten "to join
the innumerable caravan that moves" to the fantastic realms of
romance. Looking at the simple fact scientifically, it was a case
of mimicry--the harmless snake mimicking the fierce threatening
gestures and actions proper to some deadly kind. Only with this
difference: the venomous snake, of all deadly things in nature,
is</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">378 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the slowest to
resentment, the most reluctant to enter into a quarrel; whereas
in this species angry demonstrations were made when the intruder
was yet far off, and before he had shown any hostile
intentions.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">My last case--the
last, that is, of the few I have selected--relates to a singular
variation in the human species. On this occasion I was again
travelling alone in a strange district on the southern frontier
of Buenos Ayres. On a bitterly cold midwinter day, shortly before
noon, I arrived, stiff and tired, at one of those pilgrims' rests
on the pampas--a wayside <i>pulper&iacute;a,</i> or public house,
where the traveller can procure anything he may require or
desire, from a tumbler of Brazilian rum to make glad his heart,
to a poncho, or cloak of blue cloth with fluffy scarlet lining,
to keep him warm o' nights; and, to speed him on his way, a pair
of cast-iron spurs weighing six pounds avoirdupois, with rowels
eight inches in diameter, manufactured in this island for the use
of barbarous men beyond the sea. The wretched mud-and-grass
building was surrounded by a foss crossed by a plank drawbridge;
outside of the enclosure twelve or fourteen saddled horses were
standing, and from the loud noise of talk and laughter in the bar
I conjectured that a goodly company of rough frontiersmen were
already making merry at that early hour. It was necessary for me
to go in among them to see the proprietor of the place and ask
permission to visit his kitchen in order to make myself a "tin of
coffee," that being the refreshment I felt inclined for. When I
went in and made my salutation, one man</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen and Lost.</i>
379</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">wheeled round square
before me, stared straight into my oyes, and in an exceedingly
high-pitched reedy or screechy voice and a sing-song tone
returned my "good morning," and bade me call for the liquid I
loved best at his expense. I declined with thanks, and in
accordance with gaucho etiquette added that I was prepared to pay
for his liquor. It was then for him to say that he had already
been served and so let the matter drop, but he did not do so: he
screamed out in his wild animal voice that he would take gin. I
paid for his drink, and would, I think, have felt greatly
surprised at his strange insolent behaviour, so unlike that of
the usually courteous gaucho, but this thing affected me not at
all, so profoundly had his singular appearance and voice
impressed me; and for the rest of the time I remained in the
place I continued to watch him narrowly. Professor Huxley has
somewhere said, "A variation frequently occurs, but those who
notice it take no care about noting down the particulars." That
is not a failing of mine, and this is what I noted down while the
man's appearance was still fresh in memory. He was about five
feet eleven inches in height--very tall for a gaucho--straight
and athletic, with exceedingly broad shoulders, which made his
round head look small; long arms and huge hands. The round flat
face, coarse black hair, swarthy reddish colour, and smooth
hairless cheeks seemed to show that he had more Indian than
Spanish blood in him, while his round black eyes were even more
like those of a rapacious animal in expression than in the
pure-blooded Indian. He also had the Indian or</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">380 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">half-breed's
moustache, when that natural ornament is permitted to grow, and
which is composed of thick bristles standing out like a cat's
whiskers. The mouth was the marvellous feature, for it was twice
the size of an average mouth, and the two lips were alike in
thickness. This mouth did not smile, but snarled, both when he
spoke and when he should have smiled; and when he snarled the
wliolo of his teeth and a part of the gums were displayed. The
teeth were not as in other human beings--incisors, canines, and
molars: they were all exactly alike, above and below, each tooth
a gleaming white triangle, broad at the gum where it touched its
companion teeth, and with a point sharp as the sharpest-pointed
dagger. They were like the teeth of a shark or crocodile. I
noticed that when he showed them, which was very often, they were
not set together as in dogs, weasels, and other savage snarling
animals, but apart, showing the whole terrible serration in the
huge red mouth.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">After getting his
gin he joined in the boisterous conversation with the others, and
this gave me an opportunity of studying his face for several
minutes, all the time with a curious feeling that I had put
myself into a cage with a savage animal of horrible aspect, whose
instincts were utterly unknown to me, and were probably not very
pleasant. It was interesting to note that whenever one of the
others addressed him directly, or turned to him when speaking, it
was with a curious expression, not of fear, but partly amusement
and partly something else which I could not fathom. Now, one
might think that this was natural enough purely on account
of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Seen and Lost.</i>
381</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">the man's
extraordinary appearance. I do not think that a sufficient
explanation; for however strange a man's appearance may be, his
intimate friends and associates soon lose all sense of wonder at
his strangeness, and even forget that he is unlike others. My
belief is that this curiosity, or whatever it was they showed in
their faces, was due to something in his character--a mental
strangeness, showing itself at unexpected times, and which might
flash, out at any moment to amuse or astonish them. There was
certainly a correspondence between the snarling action of the
mouth and the dangerous form of the teeth, perfect as that in any
snarling animal; and such animals, it should be remembered, snarl
not only when angry and threatening, but in their playful moods
as well. Other and more important correspondences or correlations
might have existed; and the voice was certainly unlike any human
voice I have ever heard, whether in white, red, or black man. But
the time I had for observation was short, the conversation
revealed nothing further, and by-and-by I went away in search of
the odorous kitchen, where there would be hot water for coffee,
or at all events cold water and a kettle, and materials for
making a fire--to wit, bones of dead cattle, "buffalo chips," and
rancid fat.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c3">I have never been
worried with the wish, or ambition to be a head-hunter in the
Dyak sense, but on this one occasion I did wish that it had been
possible, without violating any law, or doing anything to a
fellow-creature which I should not like done to myself, to have
obtained possession of this man's head, with its set of unique
and terrible teeth. For</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">382 <i>The Naturalist
in La Plata.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">how, in the name of
Evolution, did he come by them, and by other physical
peculiarities--the snarling habit and that high-pitched animal
voice, for instance--which made him a being different from
others--one separate and far apart? Was he, so admirably formed,
so complete and well-balanced, merely a freak of nature, to use
an old-fashioned phrase--a sport, or spontaneous individual
variation--an experiment for a new human type, imagined by Nature
in some past period, inconceivably long ago, but which she had
only now, too late, found time to carry out? Or rather was he
like that little hairy maiden exhibited not long ago in London, a
reproduction of the past, the mystery called reversion--a
something in the life of a species like memory in the life of an
individual, the memory which suddenly brings back to the old
man's mind the image of his childhood? For no dream-monster in
human form ever appeared to me with so strange and terrible a
face; and this was no dream but sober fact, for I saw and spoke
with this man; and unless cold steel has given him his quietus,
or his own horse has crushed him, or a mad bull sored him--all
natural forms of death in that wild land--he is probably still
living and in the prime of life, and perhaps at this very moment
drinking gin. at some astonished traveller's expense at that very
bar where I met him. The old Palaeolithic man, judging from the
few remains we have of him, must have had an unspeakably savage
and, to our way of thinking, repulsive and horrible aspect, with
his villainous low receding forehead, broad nose, great
projecting upper jaw, and retreat-</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23"><i>Seen and Lost,</i>
383</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22 c13">ing chin; to meet
such a man face to face in Piccadilly would frighten a nervous
person of the present time. But his teeth were not unlike our
own, only very much larger and more powerful, and well adapted to
their work of masticating the flesh, underdone and possibly raw,
of mammoth and rhinoceros. If, then, this living man recalls a
type of the past, it is of a remoter past, a more primitive man,
the volume of whose history is missing from the geological
record. To speculate on such a subject seems idle and useless;
and when 1 coveted possession of that head it was not because I
thought that it might lead to any fresh discovery. A lower motive
inspired the feeling. I wished for it only that I might bring it
over the sea, to drop it like a new apple of discord, suited to
the spirit of the times, among the anthropologists and
evolutionists generally of this old and learned world. Inscribed,
of course, "To the most learned," but giving no locality and no
particulars. I wished to do that for the pleasure--not a very
noble kind of pleasure, I allow--of witnessing from some safe
hiding-place the stupendous strife that would have ensued--a
battle more furious, lasting and fatal to many a brave knight of
biology, than was ever yet fought over any bone or bony fragment
or fabric ever picked up, including the celebrated cranium of the
Neanderthal.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font27">APPENDIX.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">THE PUMA, OR LION OF
AMERICA.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">THE following
passage occurs in an article on "The Naturalist in La Plata," by
the late Professor Piomanes, which appeared in the <i>Nineteenth
Century,</i> May, 1893. After quoting the account of the puma's
habits and character given in the book, the writer says:--"I have
received corroboration touching all these points from a gentleman
who, when walking alone and unarmed on the skirts of a forest,
was greatly alarmed by a large puma coming out to meet him.
Deeming it best not to stand, he advanced to meet the animal,
which thereupon began to gambol around his feet and rub against
his legs, after the manner of an affectionate cat. At first he
thought these movements must have been preliminary to some
peculiar mode of attack, and therefore he did not respond, but
walked quietly on, until the puma suddenly desisted and
re-entered the forest. This gentleman says that, until the
publication of Mr. Hudson's book, he had always remained under
the impression that that particular puma must have been
insane."</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">MUSIC AND DANCING IN
NATURE.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">I have found among
my papers the following mislaid note on the subject of sportive
displays of mammalians, which should have been used on page 281,
where the subject is briefly treated:--Most mammalians are
comparatively silent and live on the ground, and not having the
power to escape</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font22"><i>Appendix.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font30">385</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">easily, which birds
have, and being more persecuted by man, they do not often disport
themselves unrestrainedly in his presence; it is difficult to
watch any wild animal without the watcher's presence being known
or suspected. Nevertheless, their displays are not so rare as we
might imagine. I have more than once detected species, with which
I was, or imagined myself to be, well acquainted, disporting
themselves in a manner that took me completely by surprise. While
out tinamou shooting one day in autumn, near my own home in La
Plata, I spied a troop of about a dozen weasels racing madly
about over a vizcacha village--the mound and group of pit-like
burrows inhabited by a community of vizcachas. These weasels were
of the large common species, Galictis barbara, about the size of
a cat; and were engaged in a pastime resembling a complicated
dance, and so absorbed were they on that occasion that they took
no notice of me when I walked up to within nine or ten yards of
them, and stood still to watch the performance. They were all
swiftly racing about and leaping over the pits, always doubling
quickly back when the limit of the mound was reached, and
although apparently carried away with excitement, and crossing
each other's tracks at all angles, and this so rapidly and with
so many changes of direction that I became confused when trying
to keep any one animal in view, they never collided nor even came
near enough to touch one another. The whole performance
resembled, on a greatly magnified scale and without its beautiful
smoothness and lightning swiftness, the fantastic dance of small
black water-beetles, frequently seen on the surface of a pool or
stream, during which the insects glide about in a limited area
with such celerity as to appear like black curving lines traced
by flying invisible pens; and as the lines everywhere cross and
intersect, they form an intricate pattern on the surface, After
watching the weasel dance for some minutes, I stepped up to the
mound, whereupon the animals became alarmed and rushed pell-mell
into the burrows, but only to reappear in a few seconds,
thrusting up their long ebony-</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">386
<i>Appendix.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46">black necks and
flat grey-capped heads, snarling chattering at me, glaring with
fierce, beady eyes.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">THE STRANGE INSTINCTS
OF CATTLE.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46">In November and
December, 1893, a short correspondence appeared in the
<i>Field</i> on the curious subject of "Dogs burying their dead."
It arose through a letter from a Mr. Gould, of Albany, Western
Australia, relating the following incident:--</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46">A settler shot a
bitch from a neighbouring estate that had formed the habit of
coming on to his land to visit and play with his dog. The dog,
finding his companion dead, was observed to dig a large hole in
the ground, into which he dragged the carcase; but he did not
cover it with earth. The writer wished to know if any reader of
the <i>Field</i> had met with a similar case. Some notes, which I
contributed in reply to this letter, bear on one of the subjects
treated in the chapter on "strange instincts," namely, the
instinct of social animals to protect and shield their fellows;
and for this reason I have thought it best to reproduce them in
this place.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46">I remember on one
occasion watching at intervals, for an entire day, a large and
very savage dog keeping watch over the body of a dead bitch that
had been shot. He made no attempt to bury the dead animal, but he
never left it. He was observed more than once trying to drag the
body away, doubtless with the intention of hiding it; not
succeeding in these attempts, he settled down by its side again,
although it was evident that he was suffering greatly from thirst
and heat. It was at last only with the greatest trouble that the
people of the house succeeded in getting the body away and
burying it out of his sight.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46">Another instance,
more to the point, occurred at my own house on the pampas, and I
was one of several persons who witnessed it. A small, red,
long-haired bitch--a variety of</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>Appendix.</i>
387</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">the common native
cur--gave birth to four or five pups. A peon was told to destroy
them, and, waiting until the bitch was out of sight, he carried
them off to the end of the orchard, some 400 or 500 yards from
the house, and threw them into a pool of water which was only two
to three feet deep. The bitch passed the rest of the day in
rushing frantically about, searching for her young, and in the
evening, a little after dark, actually succeeded in finding them,
although they were lying at the bottom of the pool. She got them
all out, and carried them, one by one, to another part of the
grounds, where she passed the night with them, uttering at
intervals the most piercing cries. In the morning she carried
them to still another spot, where there was a soft mould, and
then dug a hole large and deep enough to bury them all, covering
them over with the loose earth. Her task done, she returned to
the house to sleep all day, but when night came again the whole
piteous performance was repeated: the pups were dug up, and she
passed the long, piercingly cold night--for it was in the depth
of winter--trying to keep them warm, and uttering, as before,
distressing cries. Yet a third time the whole thing was repeated;
but after the third night, when the dog came home to sleep, the
dead pups were taken out of the ground and buried at a
distance.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">Such an action as
this strikes one with astonishment only because we have the
custom of burying our dead, and are too ready at all times to
regard the dog as human-like. But the explanation of the action
in this case is to be found in the familiar fact that very many
animals, including the dog, have the habit or instinct of burying
or concealing the thing they wish to leave in safety. Thus, the
dog buries the bone it does not want to eat, and when hungry digs
it up again. When a dog buries or hides the dead body of the she
dog it was attached to, or the she dog buries her dead young, it
is with the same motive--namely, to conceal the animal that
cannot be roused, and that it would not be safe to leave
exposed.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">388
<i>Appendix.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">It is plain to all
who observe their actions that the lower animals have no
comprehension of death. In the case of two animals that are
accustomed to play or to be much together, if one dies, or is
killed, and its body left, the other will come to sniff at,
touch, and at last try to rouse it; but finding all attempts
vain, it will at length go away to seek companionship elsewhere.
In cases where the attachment is much stronger, the dead body may
be watched over for an indefinite period. A brother of mine once
related to me a very pathetic incident which occurred at an
estancia on the pampas where he was staying. A large portion of
the land was a low, level, marshy plain, partly overgrown with
reeds and rushes; and one day, in this wilderness, a little boy
of eight or nine, from the estancia, lost himself. A small dog,
his invariable attendant, had gone out with him, but did not
return. Seven days later the poor boy was found, at a great
distance from the house, lying on the grass, where he had died of
exhaustion. The dog was lying coiled up at his side, and appeared
to be sleeping; but, when spoken to, he did not stir, and was
presently found to be dead too. The dog could have gone back at
any moment to the estancia, but his instinct of attachment
overcame all others; he kept guard over his little master, who
slept so soundly and so long, until he, too, slept in the same
way.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">A still more
remarkable case of this kind was given in one of my books, of a
gaucho, accompanied by his dog, who was chased and overtaken by a
troop of soldiers during one of the civil wars in Uruguay.
Suspecting him of being a spy, or, at all events, an enemy, his
captors cut his throat, then rode away, calling to the dog to
follow them; but the animal refused to leave his dead master's
side. Returning to the spot a few days later, they saw the body
of the man they had killed surrounded by a large number of
vultures, which the dog, in a frenzy of excitement, was occupied
in keeping at a respectable distance. It was observed that the
dog, after making one of his sallies, driving the birds away with
furious barkings, would set out at a run to a small
stream</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font21"><i>Appendix.</i>
389</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">not far from the
spot; but when half way to it he would look back, and, seeing the
vultures advancing once more to the corpse, would rush back to
protect it. The soldiers watched him for some time with great
interest, and once more they tried in vain to get him to follow
them. Two days afterwards they revisited the spot, to find the
dog lying dead by the side of his dead master. I had this story
from the lips of one of the witnesses.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font19 c46">In all such cases,
whether the dog watches over, conceals, or buries a dead body, he
is doubtless moved by the same instinct which leads him to
safeguard the animal he is attached to--another dog or his human
master. But, as the dead animal is past help, it is, of course, a
blunder of the instinct; and the blunder must be of very much
less frequent occurrence among wild than among domestic animals.
In a state of nature, when a gregarious animal dies, he dies, as
a rule, alone; his body is not seen by his former companions, and
he is not missed. When he dies by violence--which is the common
fate--the body is carried off or devoured by the killer. This
being the usual order, there is no instinct, except in a very few
species, relating to the disposal of the dead among mammals and
other vertebrates, such as is found in ants and other social
insects. There are a few mammalians that live together in small
communities, in a habitation made to last for many generations,
in which such an instinct would appear necessary, and it
accordingly exists, but is very imperfect. This is the case with
the vizcacha, the large rodent of the pampas, which lives with
its fellows, to the number of twenty or thirty, in a cluster of
huge burrows. When a vizcacha dies in a burrow, the body is
dragged out and thrown on to the mound among the mass of rubbish
collected on it--but not until he has been dead a long time, and
there is nothing left of him but the dry bones held together by
the skin. In that condition the other members of the community
probably cease to look on him as one of their companions who has
fallen into a long sleep; he is no more than so much rubbish,
which must be cleared out</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22"><i>390
Appendix.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46">of an old disused
burrow. Probably the beaver possesses some rude instinct similar
to that of the vizcacha.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font20 c46"><i>Apropos</i> of
animals burying their treasures (or connections) for safety, it
is worth mentioning that the skunk of the pampas occasionally
buries her young in the kennel, when hunger compels her to go out
foraging. I had often heard of this habit of the female skunk
from the gauchos, and one day had the rare good fortune to
witness an animal engaged in obliterating her own kennel. The
senses of the skunk are so defective that one is able at times to
approach very near to without alarming them. In this instance I
sat on my horse at a distance of twenty yards, and watched the
animal at work, drawing in the loose earth with her fore feet
until the entrance to the kennel was filled up to within three
inches of the surface; then, dropping into the shallow cavity,
she pressed the loose mould down with her nose. Her task
finished, she trotted away, and the hollow in the soil, when I
examined it closely, looked only like the mouth of an ancient
choked-up burrow. The young inhabit a circular chamber, lined
with fine dry grass, at the end of a narrow passage from 3 ft. to
5 ft. long, and no doubt have air enough to serve them until
their parent returns; but I believe the skunk only buries her
young when they are very small.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font28">INDEX,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c47">AESCHNA
BONARIENSIS, 130.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Aguar&aacute;,
15.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font16 c47">Aguar&aacute;-guaz&uacute;, 15.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Animal weapons,
69-82.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Anumbius
acnticaudatus, 14-7, 253.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Argyroueta,
195.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Armadillo, Hairy.
<i>See</i> Dasypus villosus.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Aspisoma,
169.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Ass defends itself
against the puma,</span> <span class="font18 c47">38.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c47">Atticora
cyanoleuca, 296, 298.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font18 c47">Audnbon and
Bachmau, on the</span> <span class="font16 c47">puma,
37.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Automalus,
250.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c27">Azara, F&eacute;lix
de, on the habits of Anumbius, 253; of the oscillating finch,
263; of the puma, 31, 35, 40; of the tree-creepers, 251; of the
vizcacha, 304, 310.----Anecdote of caged rats, 343, 344. Azara's
dog. <i>See</i> Canis azarae.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">BACON, on the dog
maintained by a man, 341.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bain, Dr. A., on
anger, 166.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Baird, Dr. Spencer,
on the peregrine falcon, 97; on the stunk, 119.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bartlett, Mr., on
the Talegallus in the Zoological Gardens, 87.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bates, Mr., on
wandering bands of birds, 251</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Belt, on the
bush-tick, 142; on the fire-fly's light, 171; on man's hairless
condition, 143; on humming-birds in Nicaragua, 218; on wandering
hands of birds, 255</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bete-rouge,
141.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bicho-colorado,
144.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bigg-Wither, Mr.,
on dancing-birds in Brazil, 262; on fire-flies in Brazil,
173.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bird-fly.
<i>See</i> Ornithomyia.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Birds, on the
pampas, 19; aerial dances of, 265; fear in, 83-100; affected by
fire-light, 176; how they escape the bush-ticks, 144; wandering
bands of, 252.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Black-faced ibis,
265.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c49">Boddam-Whetham, Mr.
J. W., anecdote of puma, 52.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bombas thoracicus,
154.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">B. violaceus, 154,
157.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Burrowing owl, 24,
66; a snake-killer, 73.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Burton, Captain, on
bush-ticks in Brazil, 141.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Bush-ticks,
141-145.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Buteo eythronotus,
175.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Byron, Commodore,
anecdote of a great beast in Tierra del Fuego, 50.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">CACHALOTE.
<i>See</i> Homorus.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Canis azarae, 15;
death-feigning instincts of, 202; preying habits, 300.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">C. jnbatus,
15.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Carancho, 23,
119.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Carduus mariana,
303.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cat, anecdotes of
the, 60, 61, 73.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cattle, strange
instincts of, 329-347.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cavia australis,
13, 64.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Ceratophrys ornata,
78, 79.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cervus campestris,
16; instincts</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">of doe and fawn,
110; powerful</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">smell of buck,
159.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">C. paludosus,
aquatic habits, 144.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Chaj&aacute;.
<i>See</i> Crested Screamer.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Chauna chavarria.
<i>See</i> Crested Screamer.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Chimango, 23, 91,
93, 94.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Chinchillidae,
language of, 265.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Chlamydophorus
truncata, 16.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Ciconia maguari,
62.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cinclodes, 242,
248.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Circus cinereus,
94.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">C. macropterus,
94.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cnipolegus hndsoni,
antics of, 271.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cock-of-the-rock,
dancing antics, 261.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cometes,
219.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Coryphistera,
242.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Courlan,
19.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Cow-bird, Common,
habits of the young, 90; language and antics, 273.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font23">392</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font21"><i>Index.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Cow - bird,
Screaming, dancing antics, 273. Coyp&uacute;, 11.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Craspedocephalus
alternatus, 160.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Cratomorphus,
169.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Crested Screamer,
20; habits of, 221-234.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Ctenomys
magellanica, 13.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Cunningham, Dr., on
habits of Oxyurus, 248.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Curtis, Dr., on the
Mosquito, 139.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Cynara cardunculus,
302.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c50">DAINES BARRINGTON,
on birds' songs, 257.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">D'Albertis, on
fire-flies in New Guinea, 173.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dancing (Music and)
in Nature, 261-288.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Darwin, on birds
learning their songs, 257; fear in birds, 88, 89; the gauchos,
351; the huanacos' dying places, 316, 317; humble-bees destroyed
by mice, 62; habits of Oxyurus, 248; the pampas, 4, 5;
persecution of sick and wounded animals by their companions, 339,
343; sexual selection, 208, 263, 279; habits of the vizcacha,
289, 304.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dasypus minutus,
16.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">D. tricinctus,
16.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">D. villosus, 17; a
mouse-catcher, 60; a snake-killer, 60; hunted by trained dogs,
309.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Death-feigning
instincts, 200-204.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dendrocolaptidae,
habits of, 235-260.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dendrornis, 243,
259.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Didelphys auritur,
18.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">D. azarae, 18;
death-feigning instincts, 202; burdened with its young,
102.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dog, dislike of the
skunk in, 120; domineering temper of, 336.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dolichotis
patagonica, 11.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dolomedes,
195.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">D'Orbigney, on
oven-birds' singing, 272.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Drymornis,
240.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Dragon-flies,
instinctively feared by gnats, 135; travel before a south-west
wind, 130-134.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c51">EDENTATES,
16.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c51">Elanus leucurus,
95,</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Epeira, 175; hunted
by wasps, 182: protective resemblances in, 183.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">FEAR, in birds,
83-100; paralyzing</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">effects of,
201.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Felis concolor.
<i>Seo</i> Puma.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">F. geoffroyi,
14.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">F. onca. <i>See</i>
Jaguar.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Fire, confusing
effect of, at night, 173-177.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Fire-flies,
168-173.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Firewood gatherer.
<i>Seo</i> Anumbius.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Fitzroy, Admiral,
on the huanaco, 316; on the puma, 50.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Fleas,
151.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Fowl, cackling
instinct of, 112-115. Fox. <i>See</i> Canis azara. Freeman,
Professor, on the humane instinct, 347.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Frog, an
undescribed species, 75-78.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c51">Furnariusrufus,
242, 256; destroyed by owls, 63; language, 256, 260; how it
protects itself from parasites, 145.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c51">GALICTIS BARBARA,
15; helplessness of young, 104.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gallus bankiva, its
cackling instinct, 115.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Garrod, Dr., on the
Crested Screamer, 223.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gauchos, their
treatment of horses, 354.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gay, Claudio, on
the puma, 42.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Geobates,
242.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Geositta
cunicularia, 242, 296, 298</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gibson, Mr. Ernest,
anecdote of carancho and skunk, 119.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Golden plover,
American, migration of, 21, 22.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gossamer spider,
184; migrations of, 185-188.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gould, Dr., on
humming-birds, 205, 207, 209, 213.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Grass-cat,
14.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Grasshoppers,
curious habit of, 373; mimicry and warning colours in,
124-129.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Guzman, Rui Diaz
de, his story of Maldonada and the puma, 56.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Gynerium argenteum,
6.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c50">HAWKS,
93.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c50">Henicornis,
242.</span><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font21"><i>Index.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">393</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Homorus, 242, 256;
H. gnttnralis, architecture of, 244; language and antics, 272; H.
lophotes, 244.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Horse, 348-362;
wild, scarcity of in Patagonia, 33; coming home to die,
323.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Huanaco, strange
instinct of, 314-328 Humble-bees, great increase of, 59;
destroyed by mice, 62; habits of, 154-157; threatening attitudes
of, 192.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Humming-birds,
205-220.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Huxley, Professor,
on the Crested Screamer, 222.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">INDIANS, PAMPAS,
their horses, 354.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Instincts of
parents and young, 101; mistakes of, 167.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Ixodes. <i>See</i>
Bush-ticks.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">JACANA, PARRA,
wing-displaying performance of, 268.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Jaguar, 14; how
hunted, 45; paralyzed by fear, 201; persecuted by puma,
35.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c48">KING, Captain,
anecdote of huanaco, 316.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Kirby and Spence,
on habits of the bird-fly, 146; on the fire-fly's light, 168,
170; on mimicry, 127.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font17 c47">LAGOSTOMUS
TRICHODACTYLUS. <i>See</i></span> <span class=
"font16 c47">Vizcacha.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Lambs, helplessness
of, 106.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Lang, Mr. A.,
anecdote of cattle, 344.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Laptasthenura, 238,
255.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Larus maculipennis,
66.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Le&ntilde;atero.
<i>See</i> Armmbius.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Lichenops
perspicillata, how caught, 202.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Limnornis,
242.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Limosa hudsouica,
migration of, 21, 22.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Lochmias,
249.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Loddigesia
mirabilis, 215.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Lophornis,
219.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Lycosa, habits of
a, 192.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">MAGARORNIS, 240,
250.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Martin, Mr., on
humming-birds, 219.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Mason-wasp,
180.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Mice, excessive
increase of, 60, 67; parental instincts of, 105.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Military starling,
24.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Milvago chimango.
<i>See</i> Chimango.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Mimicry in
grasshoppers, 124-129; in a robber-fly, 170; in a snake,
377.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Minera. <i>See</i>
Geositta cunicularia.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Mocking-bird,
white-banded, melody of, 276.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Molina, on the
puma, 33; on the skunk in Chili, 118; on the vizcacha's tail,
75.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Molossus
bonariensis, 101.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Molothrns,
parasitical habits of, 251.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">M. bonariensis.
<i>See</i> Cow-bird.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Monedula punctata,
habits of, 162-166.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Mosquitoes,
instinctive fear in, 135; hunger for blood, 138.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Murray, Mr. Andrew,
on the puma, 51. Music and dancing in Nature, 261-288.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Mygale fusca, 179,
191.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Myiopotamus coypu.
<i>See</i> Coyp&uacute;.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">NASICA, 238.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">OCULTO ,
13.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Oriotrochilus,
219.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Ornithomyia, habits
of, 145.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Ornithoptera
croesus, 206</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Oscilador,
263.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Otus brachyotus,
62.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Oxypogon,
219.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Oxyurug,
248.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">PAMPAS, description
of, 4--9; grass, 6; Indians, 7.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pampa sheep, 108,
110.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Papa-uir&aacute;,
254.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Parker, Professor,
on rails, 222.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Parra jacana,
wing-displaying performance of, 268; instincts of young,
111.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pepris wasp, habits
of, 128.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Peregrine falcon,
32; preying habits of, 95.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Phaethornithinae,
216.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pholcus, habits of
a, 188, 200.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pholeoptynx
cunicularia. <i>See</i> Burrowing Owl.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pigs defend
themselves against puma, 38.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><br>
</p>

<hr>
<p class="paragraph"><span class="font22">394</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class=
"font22"><i>Index.</i></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Polyborinae,
23.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Polyborus tharus.
<i>See</i> Carancho.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Porphyriops
melanops, 20.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pracellodomus
sibilatrix, architecture, 244.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pseudocolaptes,
250.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Puma, 14; habits
of, 31-58; playful temper, 280; destructive habits,
299.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Pyrophorus,
169.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">QUIRQUINCHO,
16.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">BALLUS
RYTHYRHYNCHTUS, 20.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Rattlesnake,
hybernationof, 321.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Rhea americana, 26;
hunted with bolas, 27; habits of young, 85.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Rhomalea speciosa,
127.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Rhynohotus
rufescens. <i>See</i> Tinamon.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Romanes, Dr., on
persecution of the sick and wounded by animals, 340.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Rostrhamus
sociabilis, 95.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Rupicola, dancing
antics of, 261.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Ruskin, on colour,
280.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">SALTICUS, 179,
195.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Schufeldt, Dr., on
humming-birds, 209.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Scissors-tail,
performance of, 271</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Sclerurus, 240,
249.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Short-eared owl,
62, 63, 66.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Sittosoma,
238.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Skunk, 15; habits
of, 116-123; degeneracy of, 158.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Snakes, their
enemies, 72--75; hybernating habits, 321; mimicry,
374-378.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Sociable hawk,
95.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Sparrow, common,
84.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Spathura,
219.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Spencer, Herbert,
on instinctive fear of man in birds, 99, 100.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Spiders, facts and
thoughts about, 176-199.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Spine-tail.
<i>See</i> Synallaxis.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Spur-winged
lapwing, 20; dances of, 269.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Stilt, Brazilian,
aerial pastimes of, 282.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Stolzman, on
wandering bands of birds, 254.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Sulphur tyrant, a
snake-killer, 73.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Swan, Black-necked,
how taken, 201.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Sycalis luteola,
melody of, 274, 285.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Sylviothorynchns,
239.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Synallaxis,
architecture of, 244, 247, 369.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">S. phryganophila,
244, 249.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">TALEGALLUS, habits
of young, 87.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Tatusia hybrida,
16.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Tinamou, rufous,
25; early maturity of, 258.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">---- spotted, 25;
death-feigning instincts of, 203.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Teguexin lizard, a
snake-killer, 74.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Tetragnatha,
183.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Thripodeotes
flammulatus, 250.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Thurn, Everard im,
on hummingbirds, 207.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Trap-door spider,
195.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">Tree-creepers.
<i>See</i> Dendrocolap</span><span class=
"font11">tidae<b>.</b></span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Tristram, Canon, on
migration, 23.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Tuco-tucc,
13.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">UPERCERTHIA,
242.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">VAN BENEDEN, on
mosquitoes, 139.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Vivora de la cruz,
160.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Vizcacha, 9;
biography of, 289-313.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">WALLACE, Dr. A. B.,
on antiquity of humming-birds,217; on colour, 249, 280,
285.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Waterhouse, on
marsupial characters in the vizcacha, 289-313.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Weissenborn, on
migrations of dragon-flies in Europe, 133.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Widgeon, Whistling,
antics of, 266.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c51">Woodhewers.
<i>See</i> Dendrocolap-tidae.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">XENOPS,
240.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Xyphocolaptes,
243.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c47">Xyphorynchus, 238,
243, 260.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16">YPECAHA, 20; dances of,
266.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">ZENAIDA MACULATA,
63; anecdote of, 91-93.</span><br>
</p>

<p class="paragraph"><span class="font16 c48">Zoniopoda tarsata,
habits of, 124.</span><br>
</p>








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