tiger hunting with elephants is practiced, elephants with good
courage are at a premium. No elephant is fit to carry a howdah in
a line of beaters, with a valuable sahib on board, unless its
courage can stand the acid test of a wounded tiger's charge. When
an elephant can endure without panic an infuriated tiger climbing
up its frontispiece to get at the unhappy mahout and the hunter,
that elephant belongs in the courageous class. The cowardly
elephant screams in terror, bolts for the rear, and if there is a
tree in the landscape promptly wrecks the howdah and the sportsman
against its lower branches.
A "rogue" elephant always reminds me of my Barbados boatman's
description of a pugnacious friend: "De trouble is, he am too
brave!" A rogue elephant will attack anything from a wheelbarrow
to a hut, and destroy it. The peak of rogue ambition was reached
on a railway in Burma, near Ban Klap, in March 1908, when a rogue
elephant "on hearing the locomotive whistle, trumpeted loudly and
then, lowering his head, charged the oncoming train. The impact
was tremendous. Such was the impetus of the great pachyderm that
the engine was partially derailed, the front of the smoke-box
shattered as far as the tubes, the cow-catcher was crushed into a
shapeless piece of iron, and other damages of minor importance
were sustained. The train was going thirty-four miles per hour,
and the engine alone weighed between forty and fifty tons.
"Of course the elephant was killed by the shock, its head being
completely smashed.... It is believed that this particular rogue
had been responsible for considerable damage to villages in the
vicinity of Lopbusi. A number of houses have been pulled down
recently and havoc wrought in other ways."
On another occasion a vicious rogue elephant elected to try
conclusions with a railway train. In 1906, on the Korat branch of
the Siamese State Railway, a bull elephant attacked a freight
train running at full speed. He charged the rushing locomotive,
with the result that the locomotive and several cars were derailed
and sent down the side of the grade, and two persons were killed.
The elephant was killed outright and buried under the wreck of the
train. This occurred in open country, where there was no excuse
for an elephant on the track, and therefore the charge of the
rogue was wholly gratuitous.
Captive elephants whose managers are too humane to punish them for
manifestations of meanness become spoiled by their immunity, just
as mean children are spoiled when fond and foolish parents feel
that their little jackets are too sacred ever to be tanned. Such
complete immunity is as bad for bad elephants as for bad
children, but in practice the severe punishment of an elephant
with real benefit to the animal is next door to an impossibility,
and so we never attempt it. We do, however, inflict mild
punishments, of the fourth order of efficiency.
Animals and Men. Among the animals that are most courageous
against man are the species and individuals that are most familiar
with him, and feel for him both contempt and hatred. The cat
scratches, the bad dog bites, the vicious horse kicks or bites,
and the mean pet bear, tiger, ape, leopard, bison or deer will
attempt injury or murder whenever they think the chance has
arrived. I know a lady whose pet monkey is a savage and mean
little beast, and because she never thrashes it as it deserves,
both of her arms from wrist to elbow have been scarified by its
teeth.
Mr. E. R. Sanborn, official photographer of the Zoological Park,
once made an ingenious and also terrifying experiment. He made an
excellent dummy keeper, stood it up, and tied it fast against the
fence inside the yard of our very large and savage male Grevy
Zebra. Then he posed his moving picture camera in a safe place,
and the keeper turned the zebra into the yard. The moment the
bad zebra caught sight of the presumptive keeper,--at last within
his power,--he rushed at the dummy with glaring eyes and open
mouth, and seized his victim by the head. With furious efforts he
tore the dummy loose from its moorings, whirled it into the middle
of the yard, where in a towering rage he knelt upon it, bit and
tore its heart out. Of course the unfortunate dummy perished. The
zebra reveled in his triumph, and altogether it was a fearsome
sight.
CAUTION. A thoroughly cowardly horse _never_ should be
ridden, nor driven to anything so light that a runaway is
possible. Such animals are too expensive both to human life and to
property. A dangerous horse can be just as great a risk as a bad
lion or bear.
IV.--THE BASER PASSIONS
XXII
FEAR AS A RULING PASSION
If we were asked, "Which one may be called the ruling passion of
the wild animal?" we would without hesitation answer,--it is fear.
From the cradle to the grave, every strictly wild animal lives,
day and night, in a state of fear of bodily harm, and dread of
hunger and famine.
"Now the 'free, wild life' is a round of strife, And of
ceaseless hunger and fear; And the life in the wild of the
animal child Is not all skittles and beer."
The first thing that the wild baby learns, both by precept and
example, is safety first! When the squalling and toddling bear cub
first goes abroad, the mother bear is worried and nervous for fear
that in a sudden and dangerous emergency the half-helpless little
one will not be able to make a successful get-away when the alarm-
signal snort is given. During the first, and most dangerous, days
in the life of the elk, deer and antelope fawn, the first care of
the mother is to hide her offspring in a spot cunningly chosen
beside a rock, beside a log, or in thick bushes. In the absence of
all those she looks for a depression in the earth wherein the fawn
can lie without making a hump in the landscape. The first impulse
of the fawn,--even before nursing if the birth occurs in
daylight,--is to fold its long legs, short body and reptilian neck
into a very small package, hug the earth tightly, close its eyes
and lie absolutely motionless until its mother gives the signal to
arise and sup. Such infants may lie for long and weary hours
without so much as moving an ear; and the anxious mother strolls
away to some distance to avoid disclosing her helpless offspring.
Now, suppose you discover and touch an elk or a deer fawn while
thus hiding. What will it do? Nine times out of ten it will bound
up as if propelled by steel springs, and go off like an arrow from
a bow, dashing in any direction that is open and leads straight
away. The horrified mother will rush into view in dangerously near
proximity, and I have seen a wild white-tailed deer doe tear
madly up and down in full view and near by, to attract the danger
to herself.
Thousands of men and boys have seen a mother quail flop and
flutter and play wounded, to lead the dangerous boy away from her
brood of little quail mites, and work the ruse so daringly and
successfully as to save both her babies and herself. I well
remember my surprise and admiration when a mother quail first
played that trick upon me. I expected to pick her up,--and forgot
all about the chicks,--until they were every one safely in hiding,
and then Mrs. Quail gave me the laugh and flew away.
Was it strategy? Was it the result of quail thought and reason? Or
did it come by heredity, just like walking? To deny the cold facts
in the quail case is to discredit our own ability to reason and be
honest.
Fear is the ruling emotion alike of the most timid creatures, and
also the boldest. Of course each wild animal keeps a mental list
of the other animals of which he is not afraid; and the predatory
animal also keeps a card catalogue of those which he may safely
attack when in need of food.
But, with all due consideration to mighty forearm, to deadly claws
and stabbing fangs, there is (I think) absolutely no land animal
that is not afraid of something. Let us progressively consider a
few famous species near at hand.
The savage and merciless weasel fears the fox, the skunk, the wolf
and the owl. The skunk fears the coyote which joyously kills him
and devours all of him save his jaws and his tail. The marten,
mink and fisher have mighty good reason to fear the wolverine, who
in his turn cheerfully gives the road to the gray wolf. The wolf
and the lynx carefully avoid the mountain lion and the black bear,
and the black bear is careful not to get too close to a grizzly.
Today a cotton-tail rabbit is not more afraid of a hound than a
grizzly bear is of a man. The polar bear once was bold in the
presence of man; but somebody has told him about breech-loading
high power rifles; and now he, too, runs in terror from every man
that he sees. The lion, the tiger, the leopard and the jaguar all
live in wholesome fear of man, and flee from him at sight. The
lordly elephant does likewise, and so does the rhinoceros, save
when he is in doubt about the identity of the biped animal and
trots up to get certainty out of a nearer view. Col. Roosevelt
became convinced, that most of the alleged "charging" of
rhinoceroses was due to curiosity and poor vision, and the desire
of rhinos to investigate at close range.
Today the giant brown bears of Alaska exhibit less fear of man
than any other land animals that we know, and many individuals
have put themselves on record as dangerous fighters. And this
opens the door to the great Alaskan controversy that for a year
raged,--chiefly upon one side,--in certain Alaskan newspapers and
letters.
Early in 1920, certain parties in Alaska publicly asked people to
believe that W. T. Hornaday in his "published works" had set up
the Alaskan brown bear as "a harmless animal." All these
statements and insinuations were notoriously false, but the
repetition of them went on right merrily, even while the author's
article portraying the savage and dangerous character of the brown
bear was being widely circulated in the United States through
_Boys' Life_ magazine.
The indisputable facts regarding the temper of the great Alaskan
brown bears are as follows: Usually, unless fired at, these big
brown bears flee from man at sight of him, and by many experienced
Alaskan bear hunters who can shoot they are not regarded as
particularly dangerous, save when they are attacked by man, or
think that they are to be attacked.
They are just now the boldest of all bears, and the most
dangerous.
They often attack men who are hunting them, and have killed
several.
They have attacked a few persons who were not hunting.
Where they are really numerous they are a menace and a nuisance to
frontiersmen who need to traverse their haunts.
In all places where Alaskan brown bears are quite too numerous for
public safety, their numbers should thoroughly be reduced; and
everywhere the bears of Alaska should be pursued and shot until
the survivors acquire the wholesome respect for man that now is
felt everywhere by the polar and the grizzly. Then the Alaskans
will have peace, and our Alaskan enemies possibly will cease to
try to discredit our intelligence.
The most impressive exhibition of wild-animal fear that Americans
ever have seen was furnished by the African motion pictures of
Paul J. Rainey. They were taken from a blind constructed within
close range of a dry river bed in northern British East Africa,
where a supply of water was held, by a stratum of waterproof clay
or rock, about four feet below the surface of the dry river bed.
By industrious pawing the zebras had dug a hole down to the water,
and to this one life-saving well wild animals of many species
flocked from miles around. The camera faithfully recorded the
doings of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hartebeests, gnus,
antelopes of several species, wart-hogs and baboons.
The personnel of the daily assemblage was fairly astounding, and
to a certain extent the observer of those wonderful pictures can
from them read many of the thoughts of the animals.
Next to the plainly expressed desire to quench their thirst, the
dominant thought in the minds of those animals, one and all, was
the _fear of being attacked._ In some species this ever-
present and harassing dread was a pitiful spectacle. I wish it
might be witnessed by all those ultra-humane persons who think and
say that the free wild animals are the only happy ones!
With the possible exception of the sanguine-tempered elephants,
all those animals were afraid of being seized or attacked while
drinking. One and all did the same thing. An animal would approach
the water-hole, nervously looking about for enemies. The fore feet
cautiously stepped down, the head disappeared to reach the water,
--but quickly shot upward again, to look for the enemies. It was
alternately drink, look, drink, look, for a dozen quick
repetitions, then a scurry for safety.
Even the stilt-legged and long-necked giraffes went through that
same process,--a mouthful of water greedily seized, and a fling of
the head upward to stare about for danger. Group by group the
animals of each species took their turns. The baboons drifted down
over the steep rocky slope like a flock of skimming birds, and
watched and drank by turn. Having finished, they paused not for
idle gossip or play, but as swiftly as they came drifted up the
slope and sought safety elsewhere.
And yet, it was noticeable that during the whole of that
astounding panorama of ferae naturae unalloyed by man's baleful
influence, no species attacked another, there was no fighting, nor
even any threatening of any kind. Had there been a white flag
waving over that water-hole, the truce of the wild could not have
been more perfect.
Effect of Fear in Captive Animals. Among captive wild animals, by
far the most troublesome are those that are obsessed by slavish
fear of being harmed. The courageous and supremely confident
grizzly or Alaskan brown bear is in his den a good-natured and
reliable animal, who obeys orders when the keepers enter the den
to do the daily housework and order him to "Get up out of here."
The fear-possessed Japanese black bear, Malay sun bear and Indian
sloth bear are the ones that are most dangerous, and that
sometimes charge the keepers.
Our famous "picture lion," Sultan, was serenely confident of his
own powers, his nerves were steady and reliable, and he never
cared to attack man or beast. Once when by the error of a fellow
keeper the wrong chain was pulled, and the wrong partition door
was opened, the working keeper bent his head, and broom in hand
walked into what he thought was an empty cage. To his horror, he
found himself face to face with Sultan, with only the length of
the broom handle between them.
The startled and helpless keeper stood still, and said in a calm
voice, without batting an eye.
"Hello, Sultan."
Sultan calmly looked at him, wonderingly and inquiringly, but
without even a trace of excitement; and feeling sure that the
keeper did not mean to harm him, he seemed to have no thought of
attacking.
The keeper quietly backed through the low doorway, and gently
closed the door. Had the keeper lost his nerve, _and shown
it,_ there might have been a tragedy.
Lions are the best of all carnivorous performing animals, because
of their courage, serenity, self-confidence and absence of jumpy
nerves. Leopards are the worst, and polar bears stand next, with
big chimpanzees as a sure third. Beware of all three.
Exceptions to the Rule of Fear. Fortunately for the wild animal
world, there are some exceptions to the rule of fear. I will
indicate the kinds of them, and students can supply the individual
cases.
Whenever a wild animal species inhabits a spot so remote and
inaccessible that man's blighting hand never has fallen upon it,
nor in any way influenced its life or its fortunes, that species
knows no fear save from the warring elements, and from predatory
animals. The wonderful giant penguins found and photographed
near the south pole by Sir Ernest Shackleton never had seen nor
heard of men, never had been attacked by predatory animals or birds.
You may search this wide world over, and you will not find a more
striking example of sublime isolation. Those penguins had been
living in a penguin's paradise. The sea-leopard seals harmed them
not, and until the arrival of the irrepressible British explorer the
spell of that antarctic elysium was unbroken.
[Illustration
with caption: PRIMITIVE PENGUINS ON THE ANTARCTIC CONTINENT,
UNAFRAID OF MAN (From Sir Ernest Shackleton's "Heart of the
Antarctic," by permission of William Heinemann and the J. B.
Lippincott Company, publishers)]
Those astounding birds knew no such emotion as fear. Under the
impulse of the icy waves dashing straight up to the edge of the
ice floes, those giant penguins shot out of the water, sped like
catapulted birds curving through the air, and landed on their
cushioned breasts high and dry, fully ten feet back from the edge
of the floe. They flocked together, they waddled about erect and
serene, heads high in air, and marched close up to the ice-bound
ship to see what it was all about. Men and horses freely walked
among them without exciting fear, and when the birds gathered in a
vast assemblage the naturalists and photographers were welcomed
everywhere.
And indeed those birds were well-nigh the most fortunate birds in
all the world. The men who found them were not low-browed
butchers thinking only of "oil" or "fertilizer"; and they did not
go to work at once to club all those helpless birds into masses of
death and corruption. Those men wondered at them, laughed at them,
photographed them, studied them,--and _left them in peace!_
What a thundering contrast that was with the usual course of Man,
the bloody savage, under such circumstances! The coast of Lower
California once swarmed with seals, sea-lions and birds, and the
waters of the Gulf were alive with whales. Now the Gulf and the
shores of the Peninsula are as barren of wild life as Death
Valley.
The history of the whaling industry contains many sickening
records of the wholesale slaughter by savage whalers of newly
discovered herds of walrus, seals and sea birds that through
isolation knew no fear, and were easily clubbed to death en masse.
Wild creatures generally subscribe to the political principle that
in union there is strength. In the minds of wild animals, birds
and reptiles, great numbers of individuals massed together make
for general security from predatory attacks. The herd with its
many eyes and ears feels far greater security, and less harrowing
fear, than the solitary individual who must depend upon his own
two pair. The herd members relax and enjoy life; but the solitary
bear, deer, sheep, goat or elephant does not. His nerves always
are strung up to concert pitch, and while he feeds or drinks, or
travels, he watches his step. A moving object, a strange-looking
object, a strange sound or a queer scent in the air instantly
fixes his attention, and demands analysis.
On the North American continent the paramount fear of the wild
animal is aroused to its highest pitch by what is called "man
scent." And really, from the Battery to the North Pole, there is
good reason for this feeling of terror, and high wisdom in fleeing
fast and far.
Said a wise old Ojibway Indian to Arthur Heming:
"My son, when I smell some men, and especially some white men, I
never blame the animals of the Strong Woods for taking fright and
running away!"
And civilization also has its terrors, as much as the wilderness.
The fox, no matter what is the color of his coat, or his given
name, is the incarnation of timidity and hourly fear. The
nocturnal animals go abroad and work at night solely because they
are afraid to work in the daytime. The beaver will cheerfully work
in daytime if there is no prospect of observation or interference
by man. The eagle builds in the top of the tallest tree, and the
California condor high up on the precipitous side of a frightful
canyon wall, because they are afraid of the things on the ground
below. In the great and beautiful Animallai Forest (of Southern
India), in 1877 the tiger walked abroad in the daytime, because
men were few and weak, but in the populous and dangerous plains he
did his traveling and killing at night, and lay closely hidden by
day.
Judging by the records of those who have hunted lions, I think
that naturally the lion has more courage and less fear of bodily
harm than any other wild animal of equal intelligence. By reason
of his courage and self-confidence, as well as his majesty of
physique, the lion is indeed well worthy to be called the King of
Beasts.
Among the few animals that seem naturally bold and ready to take
risks, a notable species is the gray wolf. But is it really free
from fear? Far from it. When in touch with civilization, from dawn
until dark the wolf never forgets to look out for his own safety.
He fears man, he fears the claws of every bear, he fears traps,
poison and the sharp horns of the musk-ox. Individually the wolf
is a contemptible coward. Rarely does he attack all alone an
animal of his own size, unless it is a defenseless colt, calf or
sheep. No animal is more safe from another than an able-bodied
bull from the largest wolf. The wolf believes in mass action, not
in single combat.
But there is hope for the harassed and nerve-racked children of
the wild. _The Game Sanctuary has come!_ Its area of safety,
and its magic boundary, are quickly recognized by the harried
deer, elk, sheep, goat and antelope, and right quickly do these
and all other wild animals set up housekeeping on a basis of
absolute safety. Talk about wild animals not "reasoning!" For
shame. What else than REASON convinced the wild mountain sheep in
the rocky fastnesses they once inhabited in terror that now they
are SAFE, even in the streets of Ouray, and that "Ouray" rhymes
with "your hay"?
On account of his crimes against wild life, man (both civilized
and savage) has much to answer for; but each wild life sanctuary
that he now creates wipes out one chapter. From the Cape to Cairo,
from the Aru Islands to Tasmania and from Banks Land to the
Mexican boundary, they are growing and spreading. In them, save
for the misdoings of the few uncaught and unkilled predatory
animals, fear can die out, and the peace of paradise regained take
its place.
HYSTERIA OF FEAR IN A BEAR. Among wild animals in captivity
hysteria, of the type produced by fear, is fairly common. A case
noticed particularly on October 16, 1909, in a young female Kadiak
bear, may well be cited as an example.
The subject was then about two and one-half years old, and was
caged in a large open den with four other bears of the same age.
Of a European brown bear male, only a trifle larger than herself,
she elected to be terror-stricken, as much so as ever a human
child was in terror of every move of a brutal adult tormentor.
Strangely enough, the cause of all this terror was wholly
unconscious of it, and in the course of an observation lasting at
least twenty minutes he made not one hostile movement. The greater
portion of the time he idly moved about in the central space of
the den, wholly oblivious of the alarm he was causing.
The young Kadiak, in full flesh and vigor, first attracted my
attention by her angry and terrified snorting, three quick snorts
to the series. On the top of the rocks she raced to and fro,
constantly eyeing the bear in the centre of the den. If he moved
toward the rocks, she wildly plunged down, snorting and glaring,
and raced to the front end of the den. If the bogey stopped to
lick up a fallen leaf, she took it as a hostile act and wildly
rushed past him and scrambled up the rocks at the farther end of
the den. This was repeated about fifteen times in twenty minutes,
accompanied by a continuous series of terrified snorts. She panted
from exhaustion, frothed at the mouth, and acted like an animal
half crazed by terror.
Not once, however, did the bogey bear pay the slightest attention
to her, and his sleepy manner was anything but terrifying.
These spells of hysteria (without real cause) at last became so
frequent that they seemed likely to injure the growth of a
valuable animal, and finally the bogey bear was removed to another
den.
XXIII
FIGHTING AMONG WILD ANIMALS