spring only from the dry sand of the dunes, but the apparent riddle
is solved when we know that it is only the sand thus piled up, that
becomes sufficiently warmed in the months of uninterrupted sunshine
for these plants to flourish. Nowhere else throughout the tundra is
this the case. Moor and bog, morass and swamp, even the lakes with
water several yards in depth only form a thin summer covering over
the eternal winter which reigns in the tundra, with destructive as
well as with preserving power. Wherever one tries to penetrate to any
depth in the soil one comes--in most cases scarcely a yard from the
surface--upon ice, or at least on frozen soil, and it is said that one
must dig about a hundred yards before breaking through the ice-crust
of the earth. It is this crust which prevents the higher plants from
vigorous growth, and allows only such to live as are content with
the dry layer of soil which thaws in summer. It is only by digging
that one can know the tundra for what it is: an immeasurable and
unchangeable ice-vault which has endured, and will continue to endure,
for hundreds of thousands of years. That it has thus endured is proved
indisputably by the remains of prehistoric animals embedded in it, and
thus preserved for us. In 1807 Adams dug from the ice of the tundras
the giant mammoth, with whose flesh the dogs of the Yakuts sated their
hunger, although it must have died many thousands of years before,
for the race became extinct in the incalculably distant past. The icy
tundra had faithfully preserved the carcase of this primitive elephant
all through these hundreds of thousands of years.[8]
Many similar animals, and others of a more modern time, are embedded
in the ice, though it is not to be supposed that the tundra was ever
able to sustain a much richer fauna than it has now. Bison and musk-ox
traversed it long after the time of the mammoth; giant-elk and moose
belonged to it once. Now its animal life is as poor and monotonous as
its vegetation--as itself. This holds true, however, only with regard
to species, not to individuals, for the tundra is, at least in summer,
the home of numerous animals.
The year is well advanced before the tundra begins to be visibly
peopled. Of the species which never leave it one sees very little in
winter. The fish which ascend its rivers from the sea are concealed by
the ice; the mammals and birds which winter in it are hidden by the
snow, under which they live, or whose colour they wear. Not until the
snow begins to melt on the southern slopes does the animal life begin
to stir. Hesitatingly the summer visitors make their appearance. The
wolf follows the wild reindeer, the army of summer birds follows the
drifting ice blocks on the streams. Some of the birds remain still
undecided in the regions to the South, behave as if they would breed
there, then suddenly disappear from their resting-place by the way, fly
hastily to the tundra, begin to build directly on their arrival, lay
their eggs, and brood eagerly, as though they wished to make up for
the time gained by their relatives in the South. Their summer life is
compressed into few weeks. They arrive already united, paired for life,
or at least for the summer; their hearts stirred by all-powerful love,
they proceed, singing and rejoicing, to build a nest; unceasingly they
give themselves up to their parental duties, brood, rear, and educate
their young, moult, and migrate abroad again.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.--The White or Arctic Fox (_Canis lagopus_).]
The number of species which may be looked upon as native to the tundra
is small indeed, yet it is much greater than that of those which may
be regarded as characteristic of the region. As the first of these, I
should like to place the Arctic fox. He ranges over the whole extent
of the tundra, and is sure of maintenance and food in the south at
least, where he occurs along with our fox and other allied species.
Like some other creatures he wears the colours of his home, in summer
a rock-coloured dress, in winter a snow-white robe, for the hairs
of his thick fur coat are at first stone-gray or grayish-blue, and
become snow-white in winter.[9] He struggles through life with ups
and downs like other foxes, but his whole character and conduct are
quite different from those of our reynard and his near relatives. One
scarcely does him injustice in describing him as a degenerate member of
a distinguished family, unusually gifted, intelligent, and ingenious.
Of the slyness and ingenuity, the calculating craft, the never-failing
presence of mind of his congeners he evinces hardly any trace. His
disposition is bold and forward, his manner officious, his behaviour
foolish. He may be a bold beggar, an impudent vagabond, but he is
never a cunning thief or robber, weighing all circumstances, and using
all available means to attain his end. Unconcernedly he stares at the
huntsman’s gun; unwarned by the ball, which passes whistling over his
body, he follows his worst enemy; unhesitatingly he forces his way into
the birch-bark hut of the wandering reindeer-herdsmen; without fear he
approaches a man sleeping in the open, to steal the game he has caught,
or even to snap at a naked limb. On one occasion an Arctic fox at which
I had several times fired in vain in the dusk, kept following my steps
like a dog. My old sporting friend, Erik Swenson of Dovrefjeld, relates
that one night a fox nibbled the fur rug on which he lay, and old
Steller vouches for many other pranks which this animal plays, pranks
which every one would declare incredible were they not thoroughly
guaranteed by corroborating observations. An insufficient knowledge of
human beings, so sparsely represented in the tundra, may to some extent
account for the extraordinary behaviour of this fox, but it is not the
only reason. For neither the red fox nor any other mammal of the tundra
behaves with so little caution; not even the lemming approaches him in
this respect.
A strange creature certainly is this last inhabitant of our region
whatever species of his family we consider. He, or at least his tracks,
may be seen everywhere throughout the tundra. The tracks run in all
directions, often through places overgrown by dwarf-birches, narrow,
smooth, neatly-kept paths in the moss, going straight for several
hundred yards, then diverging to right or left, and only returning to
the main path after many circuits. On these we may often see, in great
numbers during a dry summer, a little, short-tailed, hamster-like
animal nimbly pattering along and soon disappearing out of sight. This
is the lemming, a rodent smaller than a rat, but larger than a mouse,
and with brightly but irregularly marked skin, usually brown, yellow,
gray, and black. If we dissect the animal we see, not without surprise,
that it consists almost entirely of skin and viscera. Its bones and
muscles are fine and tender; its viscera, especially the alimentary
and the reproductive organs, are enormously developed. This state of
things explains some phenomena of its life which were long considered
unintelligible: the almost abrupt occurrence of well-nigh unlimited
fertility, and the vast, apparently organized migrations of the animal.
In ordinary circumstances the lemming leads a very comfortable life.
Neither in summer nor in winter has he any anxiety about subsistence.
In winter he devours all sorts of vegetable matter,--moss-tips,
lichen, and bark; in summer he lives in his burrow, in winter in
a warm, thick-walled, softly-lined nest. Danger indeed threatens
from all sides, for not only beasts and birds of prey, but even the
reindeer devour hundreds and thousands of lemmings;[10] nevertheless
they increase steadily and rapidly, until special circumstances arise
when millions, which have come into existence within a few weeks, are
annihilated within a few days. Spring sets in early, and a more than
usually dry summer prevails in the tundra. All the young of the first
litter of the various lemming females thrive, and six weeks later, at
the most, these also multiply. Meantime the parents have brought forth
a second and a third litter, and these in their turn bring forth young.
Within three months the heights and low grounds of the tundra teem with
lemmings, just as our fields do with mice under similar circumstances.
Whichever way we turn, we see the busy little creatures, dozens at a
single glance, thousands in the course of an hour. They run about on
all the paths and roads; driven to extremity, they turn, snarling and
sharpening their teeth, on the defensive even against man, as if their
countless numbers lent to each individual a defiant courage. But the
countless and still-increasing numbers prove their own destruction.
Soon the lean tundra ceases to afford employment enough for their
greedy teeth. Famine threatens, perhaps actually sets in. The anxious
animals crowd together and begin their march. Hundreds join with
hundreds, thousands with other thousands: the troops become swarms, the
swarms armies. They travel in a definite direction, at first following
old tracks, but soon striking out new ones; in unending files--defying
all computation--they hasten onwards; over the cliffs they plunge into
the water. Thousands fall victims to want and hunger; the army behind
streams on over their corpses; hundreds of thousands are drowned in
the water, or are shattered at the foot of the cliffs; the remainder
speed on; other hundreds and thousands fall victims to the voracity of
Arctic and red foxes, wolves and gluttons, rough-legged buzzards and
ravens, owls and skuas which have followed them; the survivors pay no
heed. Where these go, how they end, none can say, but certain it is
that the tundra behind them is as if dead, that a number of years pass
ere the few who have remained behind, and have managed to survive,
slowly multiply, and visibly re-people their native fields.[11]
[Illustration: Fig. 8.--The Reindeer (_Tarandus rangifer_).]
A third animal characteristic of the tundra is the reindeer. Those who
know this deer, in itself by no means beautiful, only in a state of
captivity and slavery, can form no idea of what it is under natural
conditions. Here in the tundra one learns to appreciate the reindeer,
to recognize and value him as a member of a family which he does not
disgrace. He belongs to the tundra, body and soul. Over the immense
glacier and the quivering crust of the unfathomable morass, over
the boulder-heaps and the matted tops of the dwarf-birches or over
the mossy hillocks, over rivers and lakes he runs or swims with his
broad-hoofed, shovel-like, extraordinarily mobile feet, which crackle
at every step. In the deepest snow he uses his foot to dig for food.
He is protected against the deadly cold of the long northern night
by his thick skin, which the arrows of winter cannot pierce, against
the pangs of hunger by the indiscriminateness of his appetite. From
the wolf, which invariably follows close on his heels, he is, in some
measure at least, saved by the acuteness of his senses, by his speed
and endurance. He passes the summer on the clear heights of the tundra,
where, on the slopes just beside the glaciers, the soil, belted over
with reindeer-moss, also brings forth juicy, delicate alpine plants;
in winter he ranges through the low tundra from hill to hill seeking
spots from which the snow has been cleared off by the wind.[12] Shortly
before this, having attained to his full strength and fully grown his
branching antlers, he had in passionate violence engaged in deadly
combat with like-minded rivals as strong as himself until the still
tundra resounded with the clashing of their horns. Now, worn out with
fighting and with love, he ranges peacefully through his territory with
others of his kind, associated in large herds, seeking only to maintain
the struggle with winter. The reindeer is certainly far behind the stag
in beauty and nobility, but when one sees the great herds, unhampered
by the fetters of slavery, on the mountains of their native tundra, in
vivid contrast to the blue of the sky and the whiteness of the snowy
carpet, one must acknowledge that he, too, takes rank among noble wild
beasts, and that he has more power than is usually supposed to quicken
the beating of the sportsman’s heart.
The tundra also possesses many characteristic birds. Whoever has
traversed the northern desert must have met one, at least, of these,
the ptarmigan:
“In summer gay from top to toe,
In winter whiter than the snow”.
I do not allude to the ptarmigan of our mountains, which is here
also restricted to the glacier region, but to the much more abundant
willow-grouse. Wherever the dwarf-birch thrives it is to be found, and
it is always visible, but especially when the silence of night has
fallen upon the tundra, even though the sun be shining overhead. It
never entirely forsakes its haunts, but, at the most, descends from
the heights to the low grounds in winter. It is lively and nimble,
pert and self-possessed, jealous and quarrelsome towards its rivals,
affectionate and devoted towards its mate and young. Its life resembles
that of our partridge, but its general behaviour has a much greater
charm. It is the embodiment of life in the desert. Its challenging
call rings out through the still summer night, and the coveys enliven
the wintry tundra, forsaken by almost all other birds. Its presence
gladdens and charms naturalist and sportsman alike.
During summer the golden plover, which also must be described as a
faithful child of the tundra, is to be met almost everywhere. As the
swift ostrich to the desert, the sand-grouse to the steppes, the
rock-partridge to the mountains, the lark to the corn-fields, so the
golden plover belongs to the tundra. Gay as its dress may be, they are
the colours of the tundra which it wears; its melancholy cry is the
sound most in keeping with this dreary region. Much as we like to see
it in our own country, we greet it without pleasure here, for its cry
uttered day and night makes us as sad as the tundra itself.
With much greater pleasure does one listen to the voice of another
summer guest of the region. I do not refer to the tender melodies
of the blue-throated warbler, which is here one of the commonest of
brooding birds and justly named the “hundred-tongued singer”, nor to
the ringing notes of the fieldfare, which also extends to the tundra,
nor to the short song of the snow bunting, nor to the shrill cries of
the peregrine falcon or the rough-legged buzzard, nor to the exultant
hooting of the sea-eagle or the similar cry of the snowy owl, nor
to the resounding trumpet-call of the musical swan or the plaintive
bugle-like note of the Arctic duck, but to the pairing and love cry of
one or other of the divers--a wild, unregulated, unrestrained, yet
sonorous and tuneful, resonant and ringing northern melody, comparable
to the roar of the surge or to the thunder of a waterfall as it rushes
to the deep. Wherever a lake rich in fish is to be found, with a secret
place in the reeds thick enough to conceal a floating nest, we find
these children of the tundra and the sea, these soberly-joyous fishers
in the calm fresh waters and fearless divers in the northern sea.
Thence they have come to the tundra to brood, and back thither they
will lead their young as soon as these are able, like themselves, to
master the waves. Over the whole extent of the tundra they visit its
waters, but they prefer to the broad inland lakes the little ponds on
the hills along the coast, whence they can daily plunge, with their
wildly jubilant sea song, into the heaving, bountiful ocean, which is
their home.
From the sea come other two birds very characteristic of the tundra.
The eye follows every movement of the robber-gulls with real delight,
of the phalarope with actual rapture. Both breed in the tundra: the
one on open mossy moors, the other on the banks of the most hidden
ponds and pools among the sallows. If other gulls be the “ravens of the
sea” the skuas may well be called the “sea-falcons”. With full justice
do they bear the names of robber and parasitic gulls, for they are
excellent birds of prey when there is no opportunity for parasitism,
and they become parasites when their own hunting has been unsuccessful.
Falcon-like they fly in summer through the tundra, in winter along
the coast regions of the North Sea; they hover over land or sea to
find their prey, then swoop down skilfully and gracefully and seize
without fail the victim they have sighted. But even these capable
hunters do not scruple, under some circumstances, to become bold
beggars. Woe to the gull or other sea-bird which seizes its prey within
sight of a skua! With arrow-like swiftness he follows the fortunate
possessor uttering barking cries, dances, as if playfully, round him
on all sides, cunningly prevents any attempt at flight, resists all
defence, and untiringly and ceaselessly teases him till he gives up
his prize, even though it has to be regurgitated from his crop. The
life and habits of the Arctic skua, its skill and agility, its courage
and impudence, untiring watchfulness and irresistible importunity
are extraordinarily fascinating; even its begging can be excused, so
great are its charms. Yet the phalarope is still more attractive. It
is a shore bird, which unites in itself the qualities of its own order
and those of the swimming birds, living, as it does, partly on land,
partly in the water, even in the sea. Buoyant and agile, surpassing
all other swimming birds in grace of motion, it glides upon the waves;
quickly and nimbly it runs along the shore; with the speed of a snipe
it wings its zigzag flight through the air. Confidently and without
fear it allows itself to be observed quite closely, and in its anxiety
for the safety of its brood usually betrays its own nest, with the
four pear-shaped eggs, however carefully it has been concealed among
the reeds. It is perhaps the most pleasing of all the birds of the
tundra.[13]
[Illustration: Fig. 9.--Skuas, Phalarope, and Golden Plovers.]
Likewise characteristic of the tundra are the birds of prey, or, at
least, their manner of life there is characteristic. For it is only on
the southern boundary of the region or among the heights that there
are trees or rocks on which they can build their eyries, and they are
perforce obliged to brood on the ground. Among the winding branches of
the dwarf-birch is the nest of the marsh-owl, on its crown that of the
rough-legged buzzard; on the bare ground lie the eggs of the snowy-owl
and the peregrine falcon, though the latter chooses a place as near as
possible to the edge of a gully, as though he would deceive himself by
vainly attempting to make up for the lack of heights. That it and all
the others are fully conscious of the insecurity of their nesting-place
is shown by their behaviour on the approach of man. From a distance the
traveller is watched suspiciously and is greeted with loud cries; the
nearer he approaches the greater grows the fear of the anxious parents.
Hitherto they have been circling at a safe distance, about twice as far
as a shot would carry, over the unfamiliar but dreaded enemy; now they
swoop boldly down, and fly so closely past his head that he distinctly
hears the sharp whirr of their wings, sometimes indeed he has reason
to fear that he will be actually attacked. Meanwhile the young birds,
which are visible even from a distance as white balls, bend timidly
down and await the approach of this enemy,--suspected at least, if not
known as such,--sitting so still in their chosen, or perhaps forced
position that one can sketch them without fear of being disturbed by a
single movement--a charming picture!
Many other animals might be enumerated if I thought them necessary
to a picture of the tundra. At least one more is characteristic--the
mosquito. To call it the most important living creature of the tundra
would be scarcely an exaggeration. It enables not a few of the higher
animals, especially birds and fishes, to live; it forces others, like
man, to periodic wanderings; and it is in itself enough to make the
tundra uninhabitable in summer by civilized beings. Its numbers are
beyond all conception; its power conquers man and beast; the torture it
causes beggars description.
It is well known that the eggs of all mosquitoes are laid in the water,
and that the larvæ which creep forth in a few days remain in the water
till their metamorphosis is accomplished. This explains why the tundra
is more favourable than any other region to their development, and to
their occurrence in enormous numbers. As soon as the sun, once more
ascending, has thawed the snow, the ice, and the upper crust of the
earth, the life of the mosquito, latent in winter but not extinguished,
begins to stir again. The larvæ escape from the eggs which have been
buried, but not destroyed, in the frozen mud; in a few days these larvæ
become pupæ, the pupæ become winged insects, and generation follows
generation in quick succession. The heyday of the terrible pests lasts
from before the beginning of the summer solstice until the middle of
August.
During the whole of this time they are present on the heights as in the
low grounds, on the mountains or hills as in the valleys, among the
dwarf-birches and sallow bushes as on the banks of rivers and lakes.
Every grass-stalk, every moss-blade, every twig, every branch, every
little leaf sends forth hundreds and thousands of them all day long.
The mosquitoes of tropical countries, of the forests and marshes of
South America, the interior of Africa, India, and the Sunda islands,
so much dreaded by travellers, swarm only at night; the mosquitoes
of the tundra fly for ten weeks, for six of these actually without
interruption. They form swarms which look like thick black smoke; they
surround, as with a fog, every creature which ventures into their
domains; they fill the air in such numbers that one hardly dares to
breathe; they baffle every attempt to drive them off; they transform
the strongest man into an irresolute weakling, his anger into fear, his
curses into groans.
As soon as the traveller sets foot on the tundra their buzzing is
heard, now like the singing of a tea-kettle, now like the sound of
a vibrating metal rod, and, a few minutes later, he is surrounded
by thousands and thousands. A cloud of them swarms round head and
shoulders, body and limbs, follows his steps, however quickly he moves,
and cannot possibly be dispersed. If he remain standing, the cloud
thickens; if he move on, it draws itself out; if he run as quickly as
possible, it stretches into a long train, but does not remain behind.
If a moderate wind is blowing against them, the insects hasten their
flight to make headway against the current of air; when the wind
is more violent all the members of the swarm strain themselves to
the utmost so as not to lose their victim, and pounce like pricking
hailstones on head and neck. Before he knows, he is covered from head
to foot with mosquitoes. In a dense swarm, blackening gray clothes,
giving dark ones a strange spotted appearance, they settle down and
creep slowly about, looking for an unappropriated spot from which
to suck blood. They creep noiselessly and without being felt to the
unprotected face and neck, the bare hands and the feet covered only
with stockings, and a moment later they slowly sink their sting into
the skin, and pour the irritant poison into the wound. Furiously the
victim beats the blood-sucker to a pulp, but while the chastising
hand still moves, three, four, ten other gnats fasten on it, while
others begin work on the face, neck, and feet, ready to do exactly as
the slain ones had done. For when blood has once flowed, when several
insects have met their death on the same place, all the rest seek out
that very spot, even though the surface becomes gradually covered with
bodies. Specially favourite points of attack are the temples, the
forehead just under the hat-brim, the neck and the wrist, places, in
short, which can be least well protected.