rabbit's mortal enemies:
450,000 well-armed men and boys, regularly licensed and diligently
gunning throughout six weeks of the year, and actually killing
each year about 3,500,000 rabbits!
200,000 farmers hunting on their own farms, without licenses.
Predatory animals, such as dogs, cats, skunks, foxes and weasels.
Predatory birds: hawks, eagles and owls.
Destructive elements: forest fires, rain, snow and sleet.
Now, is it not a wonder that _any_ rabbits remain alive in
Pennsylvania? But they are there. They refuse to be exterminated.
Half of them annually outwit all their enemies--smart as they
are; they avoid death by hunger and cold, and they go on breeding
in defiance of wild men, beasts and birds. Is it not wonderful--
the mentality of the gray rabbit? Again we say--the wild animal
must think or die.
In recognizing man's protection and friendship, the rabbit is as
quick on the draw as the gray squirrel. In our Zoological Park
where we constantly kill hunting cats in order that our little
wild neighbors, the rabbits, squirrels and chipmunks may live, the
rabbits live literally in our midst. They hang around the
Administration Building, rear and front, as if they owned it; and
one evening at sunset I came near stepping out upon a pair that
were roosting on the official door-mat on the porch. There are
times when they seem annoyed by the passage of automobiles over
the service road.
To keep hungry rabbits from barking your young apple trees in
midwinter, spend a dollar or two in buying two or three bushels of
corn expressly for them.
The sentry system of the Prairie-"Dog" in guarding "towns" is very
nearly perfect. A warning chatter quickly sends every "dog"
scurrying to the mouth of its hole, ready for the dive to safety
far below. No! the prairie-"dog," rattlesnake and burrowing owl
emphatically do NOT dwell together in peace and harmony in the
burrow of the "dog." The rodent hates both these interloping
enemies, and carefully avoids them. The pocket gopher does his
migrating and prospecting at night, when his enemies are asleep.
The gray squirrel builds for itself a summer nest of leaves. At
the real beginning of winter the prairie-"dog" tightly plugs up
with moist earth the mouth of his burrow; and he packs it with his
nose. The round-tailed muskrat of Florida (_Neofiber alleni_)
builds a little platform over the water of the marsh in which it
lives, on which it builds its nest high and dry. The Hudsonian red
squirrel will bark and scold at a human intruder for half an hour.
In Chapter IV I have already accorded the beaver a place with the
most intelligent animals of the world. The books that have been
written concerning that species have been amply justified. It is,
however, impossible to refuse this important animal a place in any
chapter devoted to the mental traits of rodents, and I deem it
fitting to record here our latest experience with this remarkable
species.
Our Last Beaver Experiment. In the autumn of 1921 we emptied and
cleaned out our Beaver Pond. The old house originally built by the
beavers in the centre of the pond, was for sanitary reasons
entirely removed. Work on the pond was not finished until about
October 25; and the beavers had no house.
It seemed to me a physical impossibility for the beavers to begin
a new house at that late date and unassisted finish it by the
beginning of winter. One beaver had escaped, and for the remaining
three such a task would be beyond their powers. I decided to give
them a helping hand, provided they would accept it, by providing
them with a wooden house, which they might if they chose, entirely
surround and snugly cover with mud and sticks.
But would they accept it in a grateful spirit, and utilize it? One
cannot always tell what a wild animal will do.
With loose earth a low island with a flat top was built to carry
the house. Its top was six inches above high-water mark, and (that
would, if accepted) be the floor of the permanent house. A good,
practicable tunnel was built to an underwater entrance.
Upon that our men set a square, bottomless house of wood, with
walls two feet high, and a low roof sloping four ways. Over all
this the men piled in a neat mound a lot of tree branches of kinds
suitable for beaver food; and with that we left the situation up
to the beavers. The finish of our work was made on October 28.
For a week there were no developments. The beavers made no sign of
approval or disapproval. And then things began to happen. On
November 5 we saw a beaver carrying a small green branch into the
house for _bedding!_ That meant that our offering was going
to be accepted.
The subsequent chronology of that beaver house is as follows:
Nov. 10. The beavers pulled all our brush away from the house,
back to a distance of six or seven feet. The house stood fully
exposed.
Nov. 11. They began to pile up mud and sticks against the base of
the south wall.
Nov. 15. Mud-building to cover the house was in full progress.
Nov. 17. Much of our brush had been placed in the stock of food
wood being stored for winter use in the pond west of the house.
Nov. 29. The outside of the house was completely covered up to the
edges of the roof. The beavers were working fast and hard. No
freezing weather yet.
Dec. 15. The roof was not yet covered. Ice had formed on the pond,
and house-building operations were at an end until the spring of
1922.
XV
THE MENTAL TRAITS OF BIRDS
In comparison with mammalian mentality, the avian mind is much
more elementary and primitive. It is as far behind the average of
the mammals as the minds of fishes are inferior to those of
reptiles.
Instinct Prominent in Birds. The average bird is more a creature
of instinct than of reason. Primarily it lives and moves by and
through the knowledge that it has inherited, rather than by the
observations it has made and the things it has thought out in its
own head.
But let it not for one moment be supposed that the instinctive
knowledge of the bird is of a mental quality inferior to that of
the mammal. The difference is in kind only, not in degree. As a
factor in self-preservation the keen and correct reasoning of the
farm-land fox is in no sense superior to the wonderful instinct
and prescience of the golden plover that, on a certain calendar
day, or week, bids farewell to its comfortable breeding-grounds in
the cold north beyond the arctic circle, rises high in the air and
launches forth on its long and perilous migration flight of 8,000
miles to its winter resort in Argentina.
The Migrations of Birds. Volumes have been written on the
migrations of birds. The subject is vast, and inexhaustable. It
is perhaps the most wonderful of all the manifestations of avian
intelligence. It is of interest chiefly to the birds of the
temperate zone, whose summer homes and food supplies are for four
months of the year buried under a mantle of snow and ice. All but
a corporal's guard of the birds of the United States and Canada
must go south every winter or perish from starvation and cold. It
is a case of migrate or die. Many of the birds do not mind the
cold of the northern winter--if it is dry; and _if they could be
fed in winter,_ many of them would remain with us throughout
the year.
Consider the migratory habits of our own home favorites,
and see what they reveal. After all else has been said, bird
migration is the one unfathomable wonder of the avian world.
Really, we know of it but little more than we know of the songs of
the morning stars. We have learned when the birds start; we know
that many of them fly far above the earth; we know where some of
them land, and the bird calendars show approximately when they
will return. And is not that really about _all_ that we do
know?
[Illustration with caption: MIGRATION OF THE GOLDEN PLOVER From
"Bird Migration,", by Dr. W. W. Cooke, U. S. Department of
Agriculture, 1915.]
What courage it must take, to start on the long, tiresome and
dangerous journey! How do they know where to go, far into the
heart of the South, to find rest, food and security? When and
where do they stop on the way to feed? Vast areas are passed over
without alighting; for many species never are seen in mid career.
Why is it that the golden plover feels that it is worth while to
fly from the arctic coast to Argentina?
Let any man--if one there be--who is not profoundly impressed by
the combined instinct and the reasoning of migratory birds do
himself the favor to procure and study the 47-page pamphlet by Dr.
Wells W. Cooke, of the U. S. Department of Agriculture, entitled
"Bird Migration." I wish I could reproduce it entire; but since
that is impossible, here are a few facts and figures from it.
The Bobolink summers in the northern United States and southern
Canada, and winters in Paraguay, making 5000 miles of travel each
way.
The Scarlet Tanager summers in the northeastern quarter of the
United States and winters in Colombia, Equador and northern Peru,
a limit to limit flight of 3,880 miles.
The Golden Plover (_Charadrius dominicus_).--"In fall it
flies over the ocean from Nova Scotia to South America, 2,400
miles--the longest known flight of any bird. In spring it returns
by way of the Mississippi Valley. Thus the migration routes form
an enormous ellipse, with a minor axis of 2,000 miles and a major
axis stretching 8,000 miles from arctic America to Argentina."
(Cooke.) The Arctic Tern (_Sterna paradisaea_), is "the
champion long-distance migrant of the world. It breeds as far
north as it can find land on which to build its nest, and winters
as far south as there is open water to furnish it food. The
extreme summer and winter homes are 11,000 miles apart, or a
yearly round trip of 22,000 miles." (Cooke.)
By what do migrating birds guide their courses high in air on a
pitch-dark night,--their busy time for flying? Do they, too, know
about the mariner's Southern Cross, and steer by it on starlit
nights? Equally strange things have happened.
The regular semi-annual migrations of birds may fairly be regarded
as the high-water mark of instinct so profound and far-reaching
that it deserves to rank as high as reason. To me it is one of the
most marvelous things in Nature's Book of Wonders. I never see a
humming-bird poised over a floral tube of a trumpet creeper
without pausing, in wonder that is perpetual, and asking the
eternal question: "Frail and delicate feathered sprite, that any
storm-gust might dash to earth and destroy, and that any enemy
might crush, _how_ do you make your long and perilous
journeys unstarved and unkilled? Is it because you bear a charmed
life? What is the unsolved mystery of your tiny existence in this
rough and cruel world?"
We understand well enough the foundation principles of mammalian
and avian life, and existence under adverse circumstances. The
mammal is tied to his environment. He cannot go far from the
circumpolar regions of his home. A bear chained to a stake is
emblematic of the universal handicap on mammalian life. Survive or
perish, the average land-going quadruped must stay put, and make
the best of the home in which he is born. If he attempts to
migrate fast and far, he is reasonably certain to get into grave
danger, and lose his life.
The bird, however, is a free moral agent. If the purple grackle
does not like the sunflower seeds in my garden, lo! he is up and
away across the Sound to Oyster Bay, Long Island, where his luck
may be better. Failing there, he gives himself a transfer to
Wilmington, or Richmond, via his own Atlantic coast line.
The wonderful migratory instincts of birds have been developed
and intensified through countless generations by the imperative
need for instinctive guidance, and the comparatively small
temptation to inductive reasoning based on known facts. Evidently
the bird is emboldened to migrate by the comfortable belief that
somewhere the world contains food and warmth to its liking, and
that if it flies fast enough and far enough it will find it.
As a weather prophet, the prescience of the bird is strictly
limited. The warm spells of late February deceive the birds just
as they do the flowers of the peach tree and the apple. Often the
bluebirds and robins migrate northward too early, encounter
blizzards, and perish in large numbers from snow, sleet, cold and
hunger.
The Homing Sense of Birds. We can go no farther than to say that
while the homing instinct of certain species of birds is quite
well known, the mental process by which it functions is
practically unknown. The direction instinct of the homing pigeon
is marvelous, but we know that that instinct does not leap full-
fledged from the nest. The homer needs assistance and training.
When it is about three months old, it is taken in a basket to a
point a mile distant from its home and liberated. If it makes good
in returning to the home loft, the distances are increased by easy
stages--two, three, five, ten, twenty, thirty, fifty and seventy-
five miles usually being flown before the bird is sent as far as
100 miles. The official long-distance record for a homing pigeon
is 1689.44 miles, held by an American bird.
The homing instinct, or sense, is present in some mammals, but it
is by no means so phenomenal as in some species of birds. In
mammals it is individual rather than species-wide. Individual
horses, dogs and cats have done wonderful things under the
propulsion of the homing instinct, but that instinct is by no
means general throughout those species. Among wild animals,
exhibitions of the home-finding instinct are rare, but the annals
of the Zoological Park contain one amusing record.
For emergency reasons, a dozen fallow deer once were quartered in
our Bison range, behind a fence only sixty-six inches high.
Presently they leaped out to freedom, disappeared in the thick
northern forests of the Bronx, and we charged them up to profit
and loss. But those deer soon found that life outside our domain
was not the dream of paradise that they had supposed. After about
a week of wandering through a cold, unsympathetic and oatless
world those were sadder and wiser deer, and one night they all
returned and joyously and thankfully jumped back into their range,
where they were happy ever after.
Recognition of Sanctuary Protection. In this field of precise
observation and reasoning, most birds,--if not indeed all of
them,--are quick in discernment and accurate in deduction. The
great gauntlet of guns has taught the birds of the United States
and Canada to recognize the difference between areas of shooting
and no shooting. Dull indeed is the bird mind that does not know
enough to return to the feeding-ground in which it has been safe
from attack. The wild geese and ducks are very keen about
sanctuary waters, and no protected pond or river is too small to
command attention. Our own little Lake Agassiz, in the New York
Zoological Park, each year is the resort of hundreds of mallards
and black ducks. And each year a number of absolutely wild wood
ducks breed there and in spite of all dangers rear their young.
Our wild-fowl pond, surrounded by various installations for birds,
several times has been honored by visiting delegations of wild
geese, seven of which were caught in 1902 for exhibition.
The most astounding example of avian recognition of protection
and human friendship is the spectacle of Mr. Jack Miner's wild
goose sanctuary at Kingsville, Ontario, not far from Detroit. With
his tile works on one side and his home on the other, he scooped
out between them clay for his factory and made a small pond. With
deliberate and praiseworthy intention Mr. Miner planted there a
little flock of pinioned wild Canada geese, as a notice of
sanctuary and an invitation to wild flocks to come down for food,
rest and good society.
Very slowly at first the wild geese began to come; but finally the
word was passed along the line from Hudson Bay to Currituck Sound
that Miner's roadhouse was a good place at which to stop. Year by
year the wild geese came, and saw, and were conquered. So many
thousands came that presently Mr. Miner grew tired of spending out
of his own pocket more than $700 a year for goose corn; and then
the Canadian government most commendably assumed the burden, and
made Mr. Miner's farm a national bird preserve. [Footnote: Mr.
Miner is writing his wild-goose story into a book: and the story
is worth it!]
The annals of wild life protection literature contain many records
and illustrations of the remarkable quickness and thoroughness of
sanctuary recognition by birds. On the other hand I feel greatly
annoyed by the failure of waterfowl to reason equally well
regarding the decoys of duck-shooters. They fail to learn, either
by experience or hearsay, that small flocks of ducks sitting
motionless near a shore are loaded, and liable to go off. They
fail to learn that it is most wise to settle well outside such
flocks of alleged ducks, and that it is a fatal mistake to plump
down on the top of a motionless bunch.
Protective Association of Wasps and Caciques. The colonizing
caciques, of South America, representing four genera, are very
solicitous of the safety of their colonies. In numerous cases,
these colonies are found in association with wasps, one or more
nests invariably being found near the nests of the birds. It is
natural to infer that this strange association is due to the
initiative of the birds. When monkeys attack the birds, the birds
need the stinging insects.
As usual in the study of wild creatures, the first thing that we
encounter in the wild bird is
Temperament. On this hangs the success or failure of a species in
association with man. Temperament in the most intellectual wild
creatures is just as evident and negotiable to the human eye as
colors are in fur or feathers.
A vastly preponderating number of bird species are of sanguine
temperament; and it is this fact alone that renders it possible
for us to exhibit continuously from 700 to 800 species of birds.
Sensible behavior in captivity is the one conspicuous trait of
character in which birds mentally and physically are far better
balanced than mammals. But few birds are foolishly nervous or
hysterical, and when once settled down the great majority of them
are sanguine and philosophical. Birds of a great many species can
be caught in an adult state and settled down in captivity without
difficulty; whereas all save a few species of mammals, when
captured as adults, are irreconcilable fighters and many of them
die far too quickly. In a well-regulated zoological park nearly
every animal that has been caught when adult is a failure and a
nuisance.
To name the species of birds that can be caught fully grown and
settled down for exhibition purposes, would create a list of
formidable length. It is indeed fortunate for us that this is
true; for the rearing of nestlings is a tedious task.
A conspicuous exception to the rule of philosophic sedateness in
newly caught birds is the loon, or great northern diver. That bird
is so exceedingly nervous and foolish, and so persistent in its
evil ways, that never once have we succeeded in inducing a loon to
settle down on exhibition and be good. When caught and placed in
our kind of captivity, the loon goes daft. It dives and dives, and
swims under water until it is completely exhausted; it loses its
appetite, and very soon dies. Of course if one had a whole marine
biological station to place at the disposal of the foolish loon,
it might get on.
There are other odd exceptions to the rule of normal bird conduct.
Some of our upland game birds, particularly the Franklin grouse
and ptarmigan of the Rocky Mountains, display real mental
deficiencies in the very necessary business of self-preservation.
WILDNESS AND TAMENESS OF THE RUFFED GROUSE. The ruffed grouse is
one of the most difficult of all North American game birds to keep
in captivity. This fact is due largely, though not entirely, to
the nervous and often hysterical temperament of this species. Some
birds will within a reasonable time quiet down and accept
captivity, but others throughout long periods,--or forever,--
remain wild as hawks, and perpetually try to dash themselves to
pieces against the wire of their enclosures. Prof. A. A. Allen of
Cornell once kept a bird for an entire year, only to find it at
the end of that time hopelessly wild; so he gave the bird its
liberty.
However, in this species there are numerous exceptions. Some wing-
tipped birds have calmed down and accepted captivity gracefully
and sensibly, and a few of the cases of this kind have been
remarkable. The most astonishing cases, however, have been of the
tameness of free wild birds, in the Catskills, and also near the
city of Schenectady. A great many perfectly truthful stories have
been published of wild birds that actually sought close
acquaintance with people, and took food from their hands.
We have been asked to account for those strange manifestations,
but it is impossible to do so. It seems that in some manner,
certain grouse individuals learned that Man is not always a killer
and a dangerous animal, and so those birds accepted him as a
friend,--until the killers came along and violated the sanctuary
status.
It is both necessary, and highly desirable for the increase of
species, that all wild birds should fly promptly, rapidly and far
from the presence of Man, the Arch Enemy of Wild Life. The species
that persistently neglects to do so, or is unable, soon is utterly
destroyed. The great auk species was massacred and extirpated on
Funk Island because it could not get away from its sordid enemies
who destroyed it for a paltry supply of _oil_.
The Fool Hen and Its Folly. In our own country there exists a
grouse species so foolish in its mind, and so destitute of the
most ordinary instinct of self-preservation that it has been known
for many years as "the Fool Hen." Definitely, it is the Franklin
Grouse (_Conachites franklini_), and its home is in the
foothills of the Rocky Mountains. This famous and pitiable victim
of misplaced confidence will sit only eight feet up on a jack pine
limb, beside a well travelled road, while Mack Norboe dismounts,
finds a suitable stick, and knocks the foolish bird dead from its
perch. I have seen these birds sit still and patiently wait for
their heads to be shot off, one by one, with a .22 calibre
revolver when all points of the compass were open for their
escape.
All this, however, must be set down as an unusual and phenomenal
absence of the most natural instinct of self-protection. The
pinnated grouse, sage grouse, Bob White quail and ptarmigan
exercise but little keen reason in self-protection. They are easy
marks,--the joy of the pot-hunter and the delight of the duffer
"sportsman."
Dullness of Instinct in Grouse and Quail. The pinnated grouse,
which in Iowa and the Dakotas positively is a migratory bird, does
know enough to fly high when it is migrating, but seemingly this
species and the sage grouse never will grow wise enough to save
themselves from hunters when on their feeding grounds. In
detecting the presence of their arch enemy they are hopelessly
dull; and they are slow in taking wing.
The quail is a very good hider, but a mighty poor flyer. When a
covey is flushed by a collection of dogs and armed men, the
lightning-quick and explosive get-away is all right; but the
unshot birds do not fly half far enough! Instead of bowling away
for two or three miles and getting clear out of the danger zone
and hiding in the nearest timber, what do they do? They foolishly
stop on the other side of the field, or in the next acre of brush,
in full view of the hunters and dogs, who find it great fun to
hustle after them and in fifteen minutes put them up again. Thus
it is easy for a hunting party to "follow up" a covey until the
last bird of it has been bagged.
Just before the five-year close season on quail went into effect
in Iowa, this incident occurred: