EDUCATED SEALS—TAME FISH, ETC.
At the Zoological Gardens in London, and at several places on the
continent, seals have been exhibited which had been taught to perform a
number of tricks. The first “learned seal” which appeared in this
country was one exhibited first at Barnum’s old Museum, on the corner of
Broadway and Ann street, and afterward in various parts of the country.
Ned, as he was called, was quite a philosopher in his way, and submitted
gracefully to the change from his secluded haunts on the icy shores of
Greenland, to the excitements of a public life.
Seals are naturally docile and intelligent, but skill in grinding a hand
organ is scarcely a gift which comes by nature, and even in the case of
Ned it was necessary to stimulate his musical taste before he became an
adept on that instrument. This stimulus was the same as that to which we
owe the curb-stone performances of modern Romans—hunger.
He had before this learned of his own accord to come up out of the water
on the appearance of his keeper. He was kept in a large tank, or box,
one half of which held the water, while the other half was floored over
forming a platform on which he was exhibited. From this platform an
inclined plane, formed of planks, led down into the water. Around the
edge of the tank and platform a wooden railing extended, and in one
corner of this enclosure was kept a tin box containing the fish with
which the seal was fed. When the seal was first exhibited his keeper was
in the habit of taking a fish from this box at each half-hourly
exhibition, and tossing it to the seal who would come partly out of the
water and open his mouth to catch it when he saw it in the keeper’s
hand. This box had a lid to prevent Ned helping himself, and the seal
soon learned that the noise of opening the box was followed by his
getting a fish; so before long it was only necessary to tap on the lid
to make him come up on the platform.
There was one trick which Ned invented himself, and used to perform to
his own great satisfaction. He always liked to be able to see his
keeper, but visitors often crowded around the tank so much as to
obstruct his view. When this happened, Ned had a way of beating
vigorously about in the water and splashing the offending spectators so
that they were glad to withdraw to a more respectful distance. This
afforded considerable fun to the attachés of the museum, who had
discovered Ned’s little game, while, we believe, visitors never
suspected that their ducking was anything more than mere accident.
The first feat he was taught was to sit up on his hind quarters. This
was easily accomplished by holding a fish in the air as an encouragement
for the seal to keep an erect position. More difficulty was experienced
in teaching him to play the organ. Day after day his paw was placed on
the handle, while the trainer industriously turned the crank and held
Ned’s paw in position at the same time. Ever and anon the man would
remove his hand to see if the seal continued the motion, but down would
flop Ned’s paw and he would gaze vacantly at the instrument without the
least apparent consciousness of what was to be done. But by-and-by there
was a little hesitation in the paw and it did not drop quite so promptly
on the trainer’s hand being removed. Then Ned got a little fish. The
next time the paw lingered quite perceptibly on the handle, and there
was just the faintest movement toward turning the crank. Then Ned got a
bigger fish, which he undoubtedly relished exceedingly, for all this
time he had been on short allowance. So it went on, the seal grinding a
few notes, increasing their number each time and being rewarded with
fish, until he had learned to roll out the full supply of tunes the
instrument afforded, though his “time” would have puzzled a musician,
his efforts being to grind at the greatest possible speed, and we feel
safe in asserting that his “Old Hundred” was the fastest thing on
record. After every exhibition he was rewarded with fish.
[Illustration: NED, THE “LEARNED SEAL.”]
Quite a number of instances are recorded where seals have been tamed
without any design of public exhibition. A writer in the London Field
gives some curious details of his own experiment. He says:
“When a boy, I was presented by some fishermen with one apparently not
more than a fortnight old, which in a few weeks became perfectly tame
and domesticated, would follow me about, eat from my hand, and showed
unmistakable signs of recognition and attachment whenever I approached.
It was fond of heat, and would lie for hours at the kitchen fire,
raising its head to look at every new comer, but never attempting to
bite, and would nestle close to the dogs, who soon became quite
reconciled to their new friend. Unfortunately the winter after I
obtained it was unusually rough and stormy. Upon that wild coast boats
could seldom put to sea, and the supply of fish became scanty and
precarious. We were obliged to substitute milk in its place, of which
the seal consumed large quantities, and as the scarcity of other food
still continued, it was determined, in a family council, that it should
be consigned to its own element, to shift for itself. Accompanied by a
clergyman, who took a great interest in my pet, I rowed out for a couple
of miles to sea, and dropped it quietly overboard. Very much to our
astonishment, however, we found that it was not so easy to shake it off.
Fast as we pulled away it swam still faster after the boat, crying all
the time so loudly that it might easily have been heard a mile away, and
so pitifully that we were obliged to take it in again and bring it
home.”
A somewhat similar story is told in Maxwell’s Wild Sports of the West,
where may be found a very interesting and touching narrative of a tamed
seal, which lived for several years with a family, and which, although
it was repeatedly taken out to sea in a boat and thrown overboard,
always found its way back again to the house which it loved, even
contriving to creep through an open window and to gain access to the
warm fireside.
In the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris, there was, for some time, a
specimen of the marbled seal. Two little dogs, in the same enclosure,
amused themselves by mounting on its back, barking, and even biting
it—all of which the seal took in good part. Sometimes it would pat them
with its paw; but this seemed intended more to encourage than to repress
their gambols. In cold weather, they warmed one another by huddling
together. If the dogs snatched a fish from the seal’s mouth, it bore the
loss patiently; but it generally had a fight with another seal, the
sharer of its mess, until the weaker one sounded a retreat.
Some few years ago a “talking fish” was profitably exhibited in London
and the principal provincial towns, at a shilling a head. The fish was a
species of seal, and the “talking” consisted of a free translation of
its natural cry into the words ma-ma, or pa-pa, according to the fancy
of the showman or spectator.
Gold and silver fish are frequently kept as ornaments in glass globes or
aquaria; those vessels which present the largest surface to the air
being preferable. Fish kept in the flask shaped, or narrow mouth globes,
so often used by thoughtless persons, can never be kept healthy, and
their spasmodic efforts to get breath are a sufficient indication of
their sufferings.
These fishes may be easily tamed. Gentleness is the all-essential
requisite. They can be taught to eat from their owner’s hand by first
dropping morsels of food in the water while your finger is placed on the
outside as near it as possible. For a little while they will be afraid
to approach the food, restrained by the sight of the finger, but
by-and-by they will approach and seize it. After they have ceased to
fear your fingers on the outside, attach a bit of the food to your
finger and cautiously insert it in the water; if hungry they will
presently muster courage to come and take it, and in due time will take
their food in that manner as a matter of course. If fed at stated hours
they will learn to distinguish the approach of the customary feeding
time and will signify the fact by floating up to the surface shaking
their fins, and sticking their heads out of the water. In this same
manner they recognize their master or mistress and express their
pleasure at his or her approach.
A lady writer thus describes some fish kept in her family as pets: “They
knew a wonderful deal more did these little fishes. They would come to
the top of the water to be fed and take their food from my fingers. When
they wanted fresh water they could call for it by making an odd,
clicking noise. They would remain perfectly still while being talked to,
and wink with evident satisfaction at the compliments lavished upon
them. When, after a prolonged absence, their lawful owners returned to
them, these little fishes would wriggle about and indulge in wonderful
demonstrations of joy and welcome. Oh, the learned seal was nothing in
comparison to them.”
It is not alone gold and silver fish that admit of being tamed. A
correspondent writing from Franklin, Indiana, says of the fishes in a
pond on his grounds that they will approach on hearing his whistle, eat
from his hands, and allow him to take them from the water. A little girl
in one of the New England states rendered some trout, which inhabited a
brook near her father’s house, so exceedingly tame, that, when feeding
them, she was obliged to check the impetuosity of the more voracious
ones by a little stick armed at the point with a needle.
Mr. C. L. Vallandigham, of Ohio, is our authority for the following
story: “While upon the Island of Bermuda, in traveling from one portion
of the island to the other, I passed by a stone enclosure, perhaps a
hundred feet in diameter. The islands are coral in their formation.
There was a pool of water full of fish inside the enclosure. I paid an
English shilling for admission inside, where I saw perhaps a hundred
fish, thoroughly tamed, each one having a name, and each one answering
to the name by which he was called. One of them, I recollect, was called
Dick. I spoke to him as I would to a dog, and he came and lifted up his
head and allowed me to rub his back, just as you would a cat. Now, as I
told you, if any body else had told me that I wouldn’t have believed it.
But it is nevertheless true. There is just such a pool there, and they
are so intelligent that they recognize their names.”
[Illustration: THE HIPPOCAMPUS.]
Possibly some of our readers remember the queer little fishes Barnum
exhibited some years ago, and which he called “seahorses” on account of
the great resemblance of the heads to those of miniature horses. These
were labeled as coming from the Gulf of Mexico, though in reality caught
in New York Bay. They were what are known to naturalists as the
short-nosed hippocampus, and being peculiar we give an illustration
which will convey a better idea of their appearance than any mere
description. They are commonly about five inches in length, and are to
be found on many parts of our coast. When swimming about they maintain a
vertical position, but the tail is ready to grasp whatever it meets in
the water, and this is the means by which the creature appears to obtain
rest. The tail will quickly entwine in any direction around weeds, or
other supports; and when fixed the animal watches the surrounding
objects intently and darts at his prey with great dexterity. They raise
themselves to higher positions on their supports by the aid of the
hinder part of their cheeks, or chins, when the tail entwines itself
afresh. We do not think those at the museum performed in public but
their keeper to while away leisure time made them very tame and taught
them several little tricks, among others to perch in a row on his
finger. The four little fellows, each only about four inches in length,
presented a most comical appearance. The system of training in this case
was very similar to that which we have described as having been
practiced in the case of the “learned seal.”
We cannot say that we ever had any personal experience with oysters in
the capacity of pupils, but in at least one case has a bivalve been made
subject to the tamer’s art. In an English paper of 1840 we find a
curious account of a gentleman at Christ Church, Salisbury, England, who
kept a pet oyster of the largest and finest breed then known. It was fed
on oat meal, for which it regularly opened its shell, and was
occasionally treated to a dip in its native element; but the most
extraordinary trait in the history of this amphibious was that it proved
itself an excellent mouser, having killed at least five mice, by
crushing the heads of such as, tempted by the luscious meal, had the
temerity to intrude their noses within its bivalvular clutches. On one
occasion two of these little intruders suffered together.
[Illustration]