power savages shew of tracking men and beasts over immense
distances. Many travellers have spoken of this as something almost
miraculous, yet it is only the result of careful observation of
certain well-known signs; and we have here before us a collection
of very common-sense hints on the subject. In countries like ours
every trace of foot-print or wheel-track on roads and paths is soon
obliterated or hopelessly confused; but it is otherwise in the
wilderness, where neither man nor beast can conceal his track. In
Kaffirland, when cattle are stolen, if their foot-prints are traced
to a village, the headman is held responsible for them, unless he
can shew the same track going out. A wagon-track in a new country
is practically indelible. 'More especially,' say our authors, 'is
this the case if a fire sweeps over the plain immediately after,
or if the wagon passes during or after a prairie fire. We have
known a fellow-traveller recognise in this manner the tracks his
wagon had made _seven years before_, the lines of charred stumps
crushed short down remaining to indicate the passage of the wheels,
though all other impressions had been obliterated by the rank
annual growth of grass fully twelve feet high.' Sometimes the
original soil being disturbed, a new vegetation will spring up
along the wagon-track, and thus mark out the road for miles. Even
on hard rock a man's bare foot will leave the dust caked together
by perspiration, so that a practised eye will see it; and even
if there is no track, a stone will be disturbed here and there,
the side of the pebble which has long lain next the ground being
turned up. If it is still damp, the man or beast that turned it
has passed very recently. If a shower of rain has fallen, the track
will tell whether it was made before, during, or after the shower;
similar indications can be obtained from the dew; and another
indication of the time that has elapsed since a man passed by is
furnished by the state of the crushed grass, which will be more or
less withered as the time is longer or shorter. Other indications
are drawn from the direction in which the grass lies; this tells
how the wind was blowing at the time the grass was crushed; and by
noting previous changes of the wind, one learns the time at which
each part of the track was made. Much too can be learned from the
form of the foot-prints. Savages generally turn their toes in, in
walking; white men turn theirs out. A moccasin print with the toes
turned out would indicate that a white man in Indian walking-gear
had gone by; and almost every foot has a print of its own, which
enables an experienced tracker to follow a single track amongst
a dozen others. Similarly the character of the print will tell
whether the man who made it walked freely or was led by others;
whether he was in a hurry or travelling slowly; whether he carried
a burden; and if he were sober or tipsy. A horse-track is equally
well marked. It tells when the horse galloped, where he walked,
when he stopped to feed or drink; and a scattering of sand and
gravel will tell when he was startled by any strange sight. In
all this two things are needed--sharp sight and careful training.
The elephant often makes a very curious track as he walks; if he
suspects danger, he scents the ground with the tip of his trunk,
and this makes a well-marked serpentine line in the dust. Elephants
have changed their tactics since rifle-pits were introduced.
Formerly, when their chief danger was a pitfall, the leader of the
herd felt the ground inch by inch; and if he detected the covering
of a trap, tore it off and left it open. Now they rely much more
on scent, and in this way, often from a great distance, detect
the hunter lurking near their drinking-places. If so, they will
sometimes travel fifty or a hundred miles to another stream or
pool.--Such is a specimen of this generally amusing book.
FANCHETTE, THE GOAT OF BOULAINVILLIERS.
AN EPISODE OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS.
While the German army inclosed in its iron grasp the most brilliant
and pleasure-loving city of Europe, transforming in a moment its
epicurean population into a people of heroes, the environs once so
gay and so beautiful had experienced a change almost as great. Most
of the detached villas were deserted, or occupied by the enemy,
and the villages whose regular inhabitants had either taken refuge
in Paris or fled to a distance, were repopulated by a singular
assemblage of individuals belonging to all classes of society, and
bound together only by the tie of a common nationality, and the
necessity of finding a shelter and providing for their daily wants.
The hamlet of Boulainvilliers, which had been thus abandoned, had
received an entirely new colony, and its beautiful avenue carpeted
with turf of the most lovely green, had all the appearance of a
camp. As long as the season would permit, cooking was carried on
in the open air, and groups were constantly to be seen surrounding
the fires and exchanging accounts of their mutual misfortunes.
A painter of Fleurs, bearing the English or rather Scotch name of
MacHenry, was among these refugees. He had brought with him from
Colombes, where he had before resided, a remarkably beautiful white
goat called Fanchette. This creature, to which her master was much
attached, figures in the most of his pictures. Light and graceful
as a gazelle, she is represented sometimes cropping delicately the
green branches of the hedgerows and bushes, sometimes entangled in
a maze of brier-roses, their pink blossoms and green leaves falling
around her in elegant garlands, and contrasting well with the snowy
whiteness of her skin.
Fanchette was a universal favourite; and few there were at
Boulainvilliers who would not have deprived themselves of a morsel
of the bread sometimes so hard to procure, that they might reserve
a mouthful for the goat, which, however, the saucy thing would only
accept from her particular friends.
The grace and rare intelligence of the animal frequently relieved
the miseries of the siege. All were surprised at the wonderful
education her master had succeeded in giving her. He had even
taught her something of his art; and it was really extraordinary to
see the sensible creature busily employed in arranging pebbles on
the ground, so as to form a rude resemblance to a human profile,
often grotesque enough, but still such as one occasionally sees
on human shoulders; and looking at her work, one could not help
thinking that after all the _lower animals_ are perhaps not so far
inferior to us as we suppose.
The art with which Fanchette selected from a bunch of flowers
each one that was named to her was really marvellous. Roses,
wallflowers, tulips, camellias, were promptly chosen from the
number, and it was rare indeed that she made the least mistake. Two
centuries ago they would have burned the poor beast for a witch.
The exercise which she preferred to all others consisted in
catching on her horns a series of brass rings which her master
threw up in the air. This she did with the greatest address; and
when she had got a dozen or so of them encircling her brow like a
diadem, she would begin jumping and galloping and shaking her head
to make them jingle, till, over-excited by their rough music, she
would end by dancing in the most fantastic style on her hind-feet,
till tired at length with her exertions, she would bound towards
her master and throw the rings at his feet.
Among those who had found refuge in the hamlet was a child of five
years old, called Marie, the daughter of a peasant whose farm had
been burned by the invaders. She was an object of general interest
in the little colony on account of her gentle manners, and the
sweet but suffering expression of her pale infantine features.
A year or two previously she had been so severely bitten in the
arm by a vicious dog that the limb had to be amputated, and her
delicate constitution had never recovered the shock. Fanchette
soon took a great fancy to the little girl; and the doctor having
advised her to be fed as much as possible upon milk, MacHenry
offered that of the goat. It was beautiful to see the pleasure with
which the affectionate creature took upon herself the office of
nurse, and the avidity with which the child sucked in the grateful
nourishment which was giving her new life. Fanchette became every
day more and more attached to Marie. She rarely left her, except
when wanted by her master for some new study; and when it was
ended, and MacHenry set her at liberty, saying: 'Now be off to
Marie,' with what joy the creature bounded away, and how rejoiced
was the little one to have again by her side her darling Fanchette!
Nestling her head under the child's hand, a world of loving things
were interchanged in their mute caresses.
It once happened that a lady having in her hand a crown of
artificial ivy which she had picked up somewhere, probably the
_débris_ of a school _fête_ during happier times, placed it on
the head of the little Marie. Fanchette, rising on her hind-legs,
examined it with comical curiosity; and having made up her mind on
the subject, scampered off to an old tree close by, around whose
trunk the real ivy twined in thick and glossy wreaths, butted at
it with her horns, twisting it round them, and tearing off long
trailing garlands. She then ran back in triumph to throw her
treasures at the child's feet, saying as clearly as if she had the
gift of speech: 'Look! This is better than the coarse imitation
they have decked you with; this is the real thing!'
Another day the child was looking at herself in a mirror, and
Fanchette immediately began to do the same. The expression of
sadness and wonder in her eyes seemed to say so plainly: 'Why are
Marie and I so different? If I were like her I could speak to her,
and then we should love each other still better!'
One evening Marie, who was sitting by her mother's side, began to
fidget and complain of an uneasy sensation in her back. Her mother,
busily engaged with some work, and thinking the child was only
disposed to be troublesome, examined it slightly, and told her to
be quiet; but the poor little thing continued to complain, when,
the mother getting out of temper, gave her a sharp slap. Fanchette,
who was present at this scene, presented her horns in a threatening
attitude to the woman, and gently stroked the shoulders of her
little friend with her foot. At the sight of the dumb animal's
eloquent appeal, the woman began to relent, and calling the child
to her, examined more carefully the state of things, when she
found, to her horror, one of those large and poisonous caterpillars
called in French 'processionnaires,' which had painfully irritated
the delicate skin of the child.
It was about this time that MacHenry, continuing his artistic
labours in spite of all the difficulties of the situation, resolved
on taking for the subject of a new picture his goat Fanchette
nursing the little Marie. Fanchette lent herself with her usual
intelligence and docility to his wishes; and Marie was represented
lying among grass and flowers with her four-footed friend bending
over her. This picture, which was afterwards regarded as one of
MacHenry's best works, obtained the most signal success at the
Paris Exhibition of Modern Art--the truthfulness of the design, the
freshness of the colouring, and the grace of the composition being
equally striking.
But these bright autumn days soon passed away, and many may
recollect the bitter cold of the sad Christmas of that dismal
winter. Poor little Marie suffered so severely from it, that
after a vain attempt to recall some warmth by lighting a fire of
brushwood, the only fuel that could be procured, her mother, as a
last resource, put her into her little bed, in the hope that by
heaping upon her all the clothing she could procure, the child
might regain a little heat; but it was in vain: no heat came, and
the blood had almost ceased to circulate in her frozen limbs.
At this moment Fanchette arrived, and without waiting for an
invitation, sprang upon the bed. It was in vain they tried to drive
her away; she only clung the closer to her nursling, and covering
the child with her body, soon restored her to warmth and animation.
There was one among the temporary inhabitants of Boulainvilliers
for whom Fanchette entertained an unmitigated aversion; this was
a knife-grinder of the name of Massicault. His appearance was
certainly not calculated to produce a favourable impression, for
his features were repulsive and his expression disagreeable. A
low forehead, a scowling eye, and a short thick-set figure were
the principal physical traits of this personage; nor were they
redeemed by those of his moral character. He had for his constant
companion a large ill-favoured bull-dog with a spiked collar, who
seemed to share all the evil instincts of his master. Every one
wondered how the knife-grinder managed to feed this animal at a
time when it was so hard to find the merest necessaries of life for
human beings--and that too without ever seeming to do a hand's turn
of work; for all day long he was lounging about, and it was rare
indeed to hear the noise of his wheel. When any one--alarmed at
the threatening aspect of the brute, who never failed to growl and
shew his fangs when approached--asked his master to call him off,
Massicault used only to reply with an ill-natured laugh: 'He has
not begun yet to eat such big morsels as you; but there's no saying
what he may do one of these days!'
MacHenry was sorry that his goat partook of the general dislike to
this man. He would have rather wished that she should have tried by
her winning caresses to soften his rugged nature, and bring him to
love the gentle creature that had gained all other hearts; but as
we shall see in the sequel, things turned out very differently.
On one of the last fine days of that sad year, a crowd having
gathered round her while her master was amusing himself by
exhibiting her intelligence in the selection of the fruit and
flowers he named, in which she acquitted herself with her usual
sagacity, MacHenry bade her fetch an apple. There were some still
hanging on a tree in a neighbouring garden; but instead of running
off as usual to the well-known place, she went right up to the
knife-grinder, and pushing aside with her paws the skirts of his
coat, displayed two pockets stuffed with something, which the
crowd, amid shouts of laughter, declared to be stolen apples. The
artist tried to call off his goat, and the man drove her away with
curses; but two vigorous peasants immediately laid hold of him, and
insisted on seeing the contents of the suspicious pockets; which
proved to be, as all had supposed, apples stolen from the tree in
question. The discovery only increased the rage of Massicault, who
swore with the most fearful oaths that he had never touched one of
them, and that the apples found in his possession had been given
to him by a friend. Though none believed him, several, in order
to get rid of a disagreeable affair, feigned to do so, and he was
finally let off; but many thought they had thus got a clew to the
authorship of several robberies recently committed to the prejudice
of different members of the little community.
This misadventure excited in the knife-grinder a violent hatred
against Fanchette, which was heartily shared by his worthy
companion the bull-dog. The latter was an object of special terror
to poor little Marie. Fanchette seemed to understand the fears of
the child, and whenever the dog approached her, she would lower
her horns, as if to protect her nursling and defy her enemy.
These demonstrations of valour were generally successful, the dog
slinking off with glaring eyes and drooping tail.
One day Fanchette nestled up close to her master, putting her foot
upon his arm, and having succeeded in gaining his attention, ran
off to a particular spot, where she stopped to sniff the grass, and
then trotting back, she renewed several times the same manœuvre.
MacHenry, persuaded that something extraordinary must be the
matter, rose and followed her. When she reached the spot, putting
aside like a terrier dog the long herbage with her feet, she
displayed to view a leather pocket-book, which the artist picked up
and examined. An instant sufficed to shew that it belonged to the
knife-grinder, and its contents proved that this man was one of the
numerous spies the Germans had constantly and everywhere in their
service. He found besides in this pocket-book, pushed under the
covering, the picture of a child, one of those common photographs
which have no other merit than a certain resemblance.
The very day that this pocket-book was found a frightful scene took
place. Little Marie was sitting on a low stool eating a morsel of
bread, which she was sharing with Fanchette, when the bull-dog
chanced to pass. The animal stopped for a moment, and looked at
her; then as if overcome by the temptation, he suddenly darted at
her and snatched at the bread. He was prevented, however, by the
goat, and with a toss of her horns she sent the ferocious beast
sprawling to some distance; but he was only stunned, not seriously
hurt; and furious at his repulse, he sprang upon the poor goat,
seized her by the throat, and shook her with rage. Marie uttered
piercing shrieks, and MacHenry having got hold of a stick, ran to
the rescue. A sharp blow on the head caused the dog to lose his
grip of poor Fanchette, and turn against his new enemy, seizing
him by the shoulder; but a peasant coming to the assistance of
the artist, forced the dog again to let go; and limping off and
growling, he at last took refuge beside his master, who all the
while had been an unmoved spectator of the scene.
Great was the general grief at the sight of poor Fanchette
motionless on the grass, bleeding profusely from the wound in her
throat; and strong the indignation excited by the ferocity of the
dog and the conduct of its brutal master. Many were the threats
muttered against both; and there is little doubt that the dog at
least would soon have paid the penalty he deserved had Fanchette's
wound been mortal; but on examination it was found to be less
serious than it appeared, and her master's care of her soon
effected a complete cure. The inhabitants of the hamlet, however,
resolved not to let slip the opportunity for getting rid of the
obnoxious knife-grinder. This ill-favoured individual was received
whenever he shewed himself with cries of 'Be off and quickly too,
and be thankful we do not throttle your wretch of a dog first.'
Unable to resist the general storm of indignation, the man and his
worthy companion were about to take their departure; but they had
hardly reached the entrance of the village, when they were met by
a party bringing along with them an orphan boy of about six or
seven years of age, whose parents had been found murdered some days
previously in one of the detached cottages of the neighbourhood,
which some still ventured to inhabit. The child, at the sight of
the knife-grinder and his dog, uttered a loud cry and covered his
eyes with his hands.
'What is the matter, my poor little fellow?' asked one of the
by-standers. At length he was able with difficulty to reply, his
words interrupted with deep sobs: 'That man! that dog! It was they
that killed my mother! I saw it all from behind the curtain in
which I was hid.'
Every one looked in astonishment at his neighbour, not knowing
whether to believe the strange assertion of the child; when
MacHenry produced the pocket-book and informed those around him
of its contents. The child immediately cried out that it was his
mother's; and had any doubt remained it would have been dispelled
by looking at the portrait that was contained in it, for its
resemblance to the poor little boy was striking.
In presence of such proof, there could be no hesitation, and two
men immediately set off in pursuit of the fugitive; but he had
already got a considerable advance, and fear lent him wings, so
that before they could reach him he had gained the protection
of the German outposts. He did not succeed, however, in evading
the fate he merited, for shortly after the news arrived that the
wretched man had fallen into the hands of a detachment of French
_francs-tireurs_, and having been convicted of being concerned in
the burning of a farm, was immediately condemned and shot.
MacHenry adopted the orphan boy, and never had cause to repent of
his generous action. 'I have now two children,' he used gaily to
say; 'for my gentle intelligent Fanchette is almost as dear to me
as if she were a human creature!'
LIME-JUICE.
Some interesting facts have been communicated to us, arising out of
the publication of our recent article on 'Lime-Juice' (March 24,
1877). It appears that some years ago Messrs Sturge of Birmingham
established a Company for developing the resources of the island
of Montserrat in the West Indies. Attention was directed chiefly
to the production of genuine lime-juice, mainly for the extraction
therefrom of citric acid, of which Messrs Sturge are extensive
manufacturers in this country. With this object in view, they
paid sedulous attention to the maintenance of extensive lime-tree
plantations. All the ripe sound fresh fruit is selected first,
for the production of lime-juice, while the remainder becomes
available for citric acid. The juice is bottled immediately on its
arrival in this country. In 1874 the Company were the owners of no
less than five hundred lime-trees in full bearing in the little
island of Montserrat; and the number has since been increased by
the conversion of unprofitable sugar-plantations into profitable
lime-tree plantations. The collection and manipulation of the ripe
limes give healthy employment to large numbers of women and young
persons.
When Dr Leach, medical officer on board the _Dreadnought_, called
public attention in 1866 to the recent appearance of scurvy in
merchant-ships, he induced the Board of Trade to take up the
matter seriously. This led to the passing of an Act in 1867,
ordering the provision of lime-juice or lemon-juice in every
merchant and passenger ship, and its use every day by every
person on board. It is, however, known that lemon-juice is not so
effective as lime-juice as an anti-scorbutic; and that, moreover,
the best lime-juice does not require to be 'fortified' with ten
or fifteen per cent. of alcohol to preserve it, which appears to
be necessary for lemon-juice and inferior lime-juice. In the navy
more strictness is observed. Lime-juice _only_ is permitted; it
must be prepared from ripe sound fruit, gathered in particular
months of the year; and must bear analytical tests touching its
citricity, flavour, and condition. As a consequence, scurvy is
now almost unknown in the royal navy, except in the case of the
recent Arctic Expedition, the particulars of which will no doubt
be fully investigated and set forth by the Admiralty Committee
duly appointed for that purpose. The navy is, we believe, supplied
invariably with the best lime-juice only, to the exclusion of
lemon-juice, and also to the exclusion of such juice of the real
lime as requires, on account of its poorness of quality, to be
fortified or 'doctored' with strong crude spirit. Very likely, in
this as in so many other instances, cheapness is at the bottom of
the whole affair: mercantile lemon-juice (even if called by the
name of the lime) being cheaper than navy lime-juice. If so, it
affords a sad instance of the misuse of the good word economy;
for it certainly is not economical to imperil the health of the
crews in trading-ships, and of passengers in emigrant-ships, by
the use of that which is 'cheap and nasty.' Something there is in
the common juice which renders it very unpalatable to the men, who
often shirk their prescribed dose unless strictly watched. Let us
hope that the Report of the Arctic Committee will strengthen the
hands of the Board of Trade to deal with this matter.
AFFECTION IN BIRD-LIFE.