than _forty-one_ years old, and it is possible that he is a year or two
older; for thirty-eight years ago he was broken to use. He is at present
on the retired list, only occasionally being called upon to lend a
helping shoulder to his younger colleague; but his intellect is as fresh
and as full of expedients as ever. No horse ever knew better how to save
himself, to spare effort and prolong his powers; no one was ever so
cunning to slip his halter, open the feed-box, and supply the
phosphates, the necessity of which to him he knew as well as any
“scientist.” I have seen him, through a crack in a board shanty used
while the stable was building, lift and lay aside with his teeth six
boxes which were piled atop of one another, until he found the oats at
the bottom. Then, when my head appeared at the window, he instantly gave
up his leisurely, luxurious munching of the grain, opened his jaws to
their fullest extent, thrust his muzzle deep into the box, and gravely
walked back to his stall with at least a quart of oats in his mouth.
This horse had a playful habit of snapping at my arm when he was
harnessed for a drive. (I always talk to a horse before starting, as a
matter of common politeness.) Of course I never flinched, and his teeth
often grazed my sleeve as he struck them together. One day, more than a
dozen years ago, he was in rather reckless spirits and snapped a little
too vigorously, catching my arm actually in his jaws. I scarcely felt
the bite, but I was very much surprised. The horse, however, showed such
unmistakable signs of regret and distress that I simply said, “Never do
that again!” And he never did! From that moment, he gave up the habit of
years; he laid back his ears, or feigned anger in other ways, but he
never again made believe to bite. This, certainly, goes far beyond the
temporary sorrow for an unintentional injury which may be referred to an
animal’s affection. What else is conscience than knowledge of wrong made
permanent by a memory which forbids the repetition of the wrong?
The other instance was furnished by a creature which is popularly
supposed to be as stupid as it is splendid,—a peacock! This, being a
long-lived bird, and therefore dowered with a richer experience than
other domestic fowls, ought to be wiser in proportion; yet I have never
heard of the peacock being cited as an example of either intelligence or
moral sense. The bird is vain, it is true; but if vanity indicates lack
of intelligence, what will become of men and women? I have often watched
“John” (the name we gave him and which he always recognized) spreading
his tail before a few guinea-fowl, who were so provokingly indifferent
to the rayed splendor that he invariably ended by driving them angrily
away. On the other hand, can I ever forget the simple, untiring
attachment of the gorgeous creature? The table at which I wrote stood
near a bay-window, so that I had the true left-hand side-light, with a
window at my back. As soon as I took my place there, after breakfast,
the peacock flew upon the window-sill, and, whenever I failed to notice
him, the sharp taps of his bill upon the glass reminded me of his
presence. Then I turned, and, as in duty bound, said, “Good morning,
John!” after which he continued to sit there, silent and content, for
two or three hours longer. The peacock is ordinarily a shy fowl, but
John was bold enough to eat out of our hands.
As often as spring came, however, it was impossible to prevent his
depredations in the garden. He had a morbid taste for young cabbage and
lettuce plants, especially when they were just rooted after being set
out, and he would sometimes pick a whole bed to pieces while the
gardener’s back was turned. For awhile I amused myself by testing his
powers of dissimulation. I waited behind a clump of bushes until he was
fairly on his way to the garden, making long, swift strides, with
depressed neck and tail, and then I suddenly stepped forth. In the
twinkling of an eye John stood upright, walked leisurely in the opposite
direction, and seemed quite absorbed in the examination of some trifling
object. His air and manner, to the tips of his feathers, expressed the
completest ignorance of a garden. He would spread his tail, call to the
other fowls, peer under the hedge, and in similar ways attempt to
beguile me out of sight of his secret aim. If I humored him for a few
moments, he was always found a good many yards nearer the garden when I
turned again. I have never seen a more hypocritical assumption of
innocence and indifference in any human being.
There came a season when even the patience of old friendship was too
severely tried. The peacock was presented to a friend, who lived two or
three miles away and was the possessor of a couple of hens. I missed the
morning tap at my window, the evening perch on the walnut-tree, the
unearthly cries which used so to startle guests from the city, but
consoled myself with thinking that our loss was his gain, for we had
never replaced his lost spouse. He had been gone about a week, when one
evening the familiar cry was heard from a grove on the farm, nearly half
a mile from the house. Next day, John was seen in a weedy field, but
slipped out of sight on finding he was detected. We let him alone, and
in the course of a fortnight he had advanced as near as the
chestnut-tree which I proudly exhibit to strangers as one of the
antiquities of America, for it was growing when Charlemagne reigned in
Aix-la-Chapelle and Haroun al-Raschid in Bagdad. He now allowed himself
to be seen, but utterly refused to recognize any member of the family.
When we called him by name, he instantly walked away; when we threw him
food, he refused to touch it. Little by little, however, he forgave us
the offence; in another fortnight he roosted on the walnut-tree, and at
the end of the second month I heard his tap of complete reconciliation
on the window. But the exile and mortification had chastened his nature.
From that day the young plants were safe from his bill; he lived with us
three or four years longer, but was never once guilty of the same fault.
No one denies that an animal is easily made to understand that certain
things are forbidden. Discipline, alone, may accomplish thus much. But
when two creatures so far removed as a horse and a peacock assimilate
the knowledge to such an extent that the one gives up a habit and the
other resists a tempting taste, we must admit either the germ of a moral
sense or an intellect capable of positive deduction.
The same horse once revealed to me the latter quality in a surprising
way. On telling the story privately, I find that it is sometimes
incredulously received; yet I am sure that no one who cherished the
proper respect for animals will refuse it credence. In the company of a
friend, I was driving along a country road in a light, open buggy. I
paid no attention to the horse, for he could turn, back, or execute any
other manœuvre in harness, as well without as with a driver. Halting at
a house where my friend wished to call, I waited for him outside.
Presently the horse looked back at me, twisting his body between the
thills in a singular fashion. I perceived that he had some communication
to make and said, “What is the matter now, Ben?” Thereupon, by twisting
a little more, he managed to hold up his right hind foot, and I saw that
the shoe had been lost. “That’s right,” said I; “you shall have a new
shoe as soon as we get to the village.” He set down his foot, and for a
moment seemed satisfied. Then the same turning of the head and twisting
of the body were repeated. “What, Ben! is anything else the matter?” I
asked. He now lifted up the left hind foot, which was still shod. I was
quite at a loss to understand him, and remained silent. He looked back
at me, out of the corner of his eye, and evidently saw that I was
puzzled, whereupon he set down his foot and seemed to think. Almost
immediately he lifted it up again, and shook it vigorously. The loose
shoe rattled! There was a positive process of reasoning in this act, and
it is too simple and clear to be interpreted in any other way.
I have had plenty of opportunity, yet very little time, to study bird
nature; but ever since I saw a gentleman, in the park at Munich, entice
the birds to come and feed from his hand by standing perfectly still and
whistling a few soft, peculiar notes, I have been convinced of the
possibility of a much more familiar intercourse. Simply by feeding such
birds as remain through the winter, and keeping sportsmen off the place,
all varieties of birds soon became half tame. In the summer, when the
windows were opened, they entered the house every day, and I frequently
found that a bird which had once been caught and released readily
allowed itself to be caught a second time. Once a little red-breasted
creature, with a black head, lay exhausted in my hand, overcome with the
terror and mystery of a glass pane. At first I thought it dead; but
suddenly it hopped upon its feet, looked in my face with bright,
piercing eyes, and chirped a few notes, which distinctly said, “Did you
deliver me? Am I really free?” Then, still chirping, it slowly hopped up
my arm to the shoulder, sang a snatch of some joyous carol, and flew
away, brushing my cheek as it went. Another time, when I picked up some
callow cat-birds out of the deep grass and replaced them in the nest,
the parents actually dashed against my head in their distress and rage;
but after I had retired a few minutes to let them be reassured, they
allowed me to approach the nest without interrupting their talk with the
young ones. Even a hummingbird, drenched and chilled by a September rain
soon learned to be happy in a basket of warm cotton, and to sip sugared
water out of a teaspoon.
We had a parrot but once, and that only for a few weeks. The bird was a
mystery to me, and I found him almost too uncanny to be a pleasant
acquaintance. Our parrot came directly from a vessel, but from what port
I neglected to learn; he apparently understood the English language, but
would not speak it. He preferred toast and coffee to any other diet, and
was well-behaved, although tremendously exacting. When he became a
little accustomed to us, he would sing the gamut, both upward and
downward, in an absent-minded, dreamy way, as if recalling some memory
of an opera-singer. He would sit beside me on a perch, seemingly
contented, until he saw that I was absorbed in writing. Then he mounted
to the table, planted himself on the paper directly in the way of the
pen, or managed, by nips of the ears and hair, to get upon the top of my
head and make coherent thought impossible. Once, remembering Campbell’s
ballad, I ventured—though with some anxiety, for I half expected to see
him flap round the room with joyous screech, drop down and die—to speak
to him in Spanish. He was surprised, interested, and at first seemed
inclined to answer in the same tongue; but after reflecting half an hour
upon the question he shook his head and kept the secret to himself. No
phrase or word of any kind could be drawn from him; yet the same bird,
seeing my daughter a week after we had given him away to a friend,
suddenly called her by name! The parrot should have been the symbol of
the Venetian Council of Ten.
Three weeks after the great fire in Chicago, in 1871, I saw a parrot
which had saved itself from the general fate of all household treasures
there. It had belonged to my old friend, Mrs. Kirkland, and was doubly
cherished by her daughter. When it was evident that the house was
doomed, and the red wall of flame, urged by the hurricane, was sweeping
towards it with terrific speed, Miss Kirkland saw that she could rescue
nothing except what she instantly took in her hands. There were two
objects, equally dear,—the parrot and the old family Bible; but she was
unable to carry more than one of them. After a single moment of choice,
she seized the Bible and was hastening away, when the parrot cried out,
in a loud and solemn voice, “Good Lord, deliver us!” No human being, I
think, could have been deaf to such an appeal; the precious Bible was
sacrificed and the parrot saved. The bird really possessed a superior
intelligence. I heard him say “Yes” and “No” in answer to questions, the
latter being varied so as to admit, alternately, of both replies; and
the test of his knowledge was perfect. In the home where he had found a
refuge there were many evening visitors, one of whom, a gentleman, was
rather noted for his monopoly of the conversation. When the parrot first
heard him, it listened in silence for some time; then, to the amazement
and perhaps the confusion of all present, it said very emphatically,
“You talk altogether too much!” The gentleman, at first somewhat
embarrassed, presently resumed his interrupted discourse. Thereupon the
parrot laid his head on one side, gave an indescribably comical and
contemptuous “H’m-m!” and added, “There he goes again!”
If the little brain of a bird contains so much, manifested to us simply
because its tongue may be taught to utter articulate sounds, why have we
not a right to assume a much greater degree of intelligence in animals
to whom articulation is impossible? If dogs or horses were capable of
imitating our speech, as well as comprehending it, would they not have a
great deal more to say to us? Articulation is a mechanical, not an
intellectual peculiarity; but in the case of the parrot, and notably the
_mino_, it is generally so employed as to prove very much more than
routine and coincidence. I never saw a mino but once. I entered the
vacant reading-room of a hotel early in the morning, took up a paper,
and sat down, when suddenly a voice said, “Good morning!” I saw nothing
but what seemed to be a black bird in a cage, and could not have
believed that the perfectly human voice came from it, had it not once
more said, in the politest tone, “_Good_ morning!” I walked to the cage,
and looked at it. “Open the door and let me out, please!” said the bird.
“Why, what are you?” I involuntarily exclaimed. “I’m a mino!” answered
the amazing creature. It was the exact voice of a boy of twelve.
When we turn to the lower forms of life, a feeling of repulsion, if not
of positive disgust, checks our interest. Very few persons are capable
of fairly observing snakes, toads, lizards, and other reptiles which
suggest either slime or poison. The instinct must be natural, for it is
almost universal. I confess I should never select one of those creatures
as a subject of study; but in a single case, where the creature
presented itself unsolicited, and became familiar without encouragement,
it soon lost its repulsive character. It was a huge, venerable toad,
which for years haunted the terrace in front of my house. Strict orders
had been given, from the first, that he was not to be molested; and he
soon ceased to show alarm when any one appeared. During the warm weather
of summer, it was our habit to sit upon the terrace and enjoy the sunset
and early twilight. From hopping around us at such times, the toad
gradually came to take his station near us, as if he craved a higher
form of society and was satisfied to be simply tolerated. Finally he
seemed to watch for our appearance, and whenever we came out with chairs
and camp-stools for the evening he straightway hopped forth from some
covert under the box-bushes and took his station beside some one of us.
He was very fond of sitting on the edge of my wife’s dress, but his
greatest familiarity was to perch on one of my boots, where his profound
content at having his back occasionally stroked was shown in the slow,
luxurious winking and rolling of his bright eyes. His advances to us had
been made so gently and timidly that it would have been cruel to repel
them; but we ended by heartily liking him and welcoming his visits. For
several summers he was our evening companion; even the house-dog,
without command, respected his right of place. One May he failed to
appear, not from old age, for his term of life was far beyond ours, but
probably from having fallen victim to some foe against which we could
not guard him.
I found field-tortoises with dates nearly a hundred years old carved on
the under shell. Such an aged fellow never shows the same fear of man as
those of a later generation. Instead of shutting himself up with an
alarmed hiss, he thrusts out his head, peers boldly into your face, and
paws impatiently in the air, as much as to say, “Put me down, sir, at
once!” I once placed one of them on the terrace, and let him go. Nothing
could surpass the prompt business-like way in which he set to work. In a
few minutes he satisfied himself of the impossibility of squeezing
through the box-edgings, and recognized that there was no way of escape
except by the steps leading down to the lawn. This was an unknown
difficulty; but he was ready to meet it. After a careful inspection, he
mused for the space of a minute; then, crawling carefully to the edge,
he thrust himself over, quickly closing his shell at the same time, and
fell with a thump on the step below. When he reached the lawn, I noticed
that he struck an air-line for the spot where I found him.
I give these detached observations of various features of animal nature
for the sake of the interest they may possess for others. The man of
science may reject evidence into which the element of sympathy enters so
largely; but he may still admit the possibility of more complex
intelligence, greater emotional capacity, and the existence of a faculty
allied to the moral sense of man. If one should surmise a lower form of
spiritual being, yet equally indestructible, who need take alarm? “Yea,
they have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a
beast; for all is vanity,” said the Preacher, more than two thousand
years ago. But Goethe is more truly in accord with the spirit which came
with Christianity, when he put these words in the mouth of Faust:
“The ranks of living creatures Thou dost lead
Before me, teaching me to know _my brothers_
In air, and water, and the silent wood.”
VII
A Robber Region of Southern California[1]
I was lying upon my back, with my handkerchief over my face, trying to
imagine that I was asleep, when the welcome voice of the arriero shouted
in my ear: “Ho! _Placero!_ up and saddle!—the morning is coming and we
must reach Tepic to-day.” We fed our horses and sat on the ground for an
hour before the first streak of dawn appeared. Three or four leagues of
travel through a rich meadow-land brought us to the foot of the first
ascent to the table-land. Our horses were fast failing, and we got off
to walk up the stony trail. “I think we had better keep very close
together,” said my friend; “these woods are full of robbers, and they
may attack us.” Our path was fenced in by thorny thickets and tall
clumps of cactus, and at every winding we were careful to have our arms
in readiness. We walked behind our horses all the afternoon, but as mine
held out best, I gradually got ahead of the arriero. I halted several
times for him to come up, but as he did not appear, I thought it
advisable to push on to a good place of rest. My caminador had touched
the bottom of his capability, and another day would have broken him down
completely. Nevertheless, he had served me faithfully and performed
miracles, considering his wasted condition. I drove him forward up
ravines, buried in foliage and fragrant with blossoms. Two leagues from
Tepic, I reached the Hacienda of La Meca, and quartered myself for the
night. One of the rancheros wished to purchase my horse, and after some
chaffering, I agreed to deliver him in Tepic for four dollars!
Footnote 1:
An episode from Taylor’s _Eldorado_. A narrative of Travel on the
Pacific Coast, 1849.
Tepic is built on the first plateau of the table-land.
I had been directed to call at the posada of Doña Petra, but no one
seemed to know the lady. Wandering about at random in the streets, I
asked a boy to conduct me to some mesón. I followed him into the
courtyard of a large building, where I was received by the _patron_, who
gave my done-over horse to the charge of the mozo, telling me I was just
in time for breakfast. The purchaser of my horse did not make his
appearance, notwithstanding I was ready to fulfil my part of the
bargain. I went the round of the different mesóns, to procure another
horse, and at last made choice of a little brown mustang that paced
admirably, giving my caminador and twenty dollars for him.
Leaving the mesón on a bright Sunday noon, I left the city by the
Guadalajara road. The plaza was full of people, all in spotless holiday
dress; a part of the exercises were performed in the portals of the
cathedral, thus turning the whole square into a place of worship. At the
tingle of the bell, ten thousand persons dropped on their knees,
repeating their aves with a light, murmuring sound, that chimed
pleasantly with the bubbling of the fountain. I stopped my horse and
took off my sombrero till the prayer was over.
My _priéto_—the Mexican term for a dark-brown horse—paced finely, and
carried me to the village of San Lionel, ten leagues from Tepic, two
hours before nightfall. I placed him securely in the corral, deposited
my saddle in an empty room, the key of which, weighing about four
pounds, was given into my possession for the time being, and entered the
kitchen. I found the entire household in a state of pleased
anticipation; a little girl, with wings of red and white gauze, and hair
very tightly twisted into ropy ringlets, sat on a chair near the door.
In the middle of the little plaza, three rancheros, with scarfs of
crimson and white silk suspended from their shoulders and immense tinsel
crowns upon their heads, sat motionless on their horses, whose manes and
tails were studded with rosettes of different colored paper and
streamers of ribbons. These were, as I soon saw, part of the
preparations for a sacred dramatic spectacle—a representation,
sanctioned by the religious teachers of the people.
Against the wing-wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end
of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered with
scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of the platform,
represented the manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched from its
top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church, bore a large
tinsel star, suspended by a hole in its centre. There was quite a crowd
in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared, coming up from the
lower part of the village. The three kings took the lead; the Virgin
mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-besprinkled
mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel; and several women, with
curious masks of paper, brought up the rear. Two characters of the
harlequin sort—one a dog’s head on his shoulders and the other a
bald-headed friar, with a huge hat hanging on his back—played all sorts
of antics for the diversion of the crowd. After making the circuit of
the plaza, the Virgin was taken to the platform, and entered the manger.
King Herod took his seat at the scarlet table, with an attendant in blue
coat and red sash, whom I took to be his Prime Minister. The three kings
remained on their horses in front of the church; but between them and
the platform, under the string on which the star was to slide, walked
two men in long white robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in
their hands. These were the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily
know from their solemn air, and the mysterious glances which they cast
towards all quarters of the heavens.
In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed behind
a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of “O pescator dell’onda.”
At the proper moment, the Magi turned towards the platform, followed by
the star, to which a string was conveniently attached, that it might be
slid along the line. The three kings followed the star till it reached
the manger, when they dismounted, and inquired for the sovereign whom it
had led them to visit. They were invited upon the platform and
introduced to Herod, as the only king; this did not seem to satisfy
them, and, after some conversation, they retired. By this time the star
had receded to the other end of the line, and commenced moving forward
again, they following. The angel called them into the manger, where,
upon their knees, they were shown a small wooden box, supposed to
contain the sacred infant; they then retired, and the star brought them
back no more. After this departure, King Herod declared himself greatly
confused by what he had witnessed, and was very much afraid this
newly-found king would weaken his power. Upon consultation with his
Prime Minister, the Massacre of the Innocents was decided upon, as the
only means of security.