By M. DE LACAZE DUTHIERS, of the Institute of France.
I had occasion in a note published several years ago in the _Revue
Scientifique_ to mention a parroquet which I have since continued to
observe, the manifestations of whose intelligence are both interesting
and instructive. Many acts of birds are difficult of interpretation.
To speak only of their songs, the meanings of most of the innumerable
varieties of sounds which they produce, and of their diverse
warblings, escape us completely. It is not possible to find the
meaning of these things except by forming suppositions and hypotheses,
or by catching the connections between cries and acts. But instances
of the latter kind are extremely rare in comparison with the great
majority of the manifestations made by animals.
Thus, to select examples which every one can observe, when a canary
bird is warbling in its cage and becomes deafening, or when a lark
rises straight up in the air and _incantat suum tirile tirile_--sings
its _tirile tirile_--as Linnæus picturesquely expresses it; when a
tomtit, leaping from branch to branch of a willow or among the reeds,
repeats its florid warblings; when a raven croaks; when a blackbird
whistles--what significance can we attach to their songs and their
cries? Certainty is impossible, and we can only form more or less
plausible hypotheses concerning the interpretation of them.
The parrot furnishes us one more aid in this matter than other birds,
and this helps us, to a certain extent, in overcoming the difficulty
of interpretation. It has an articulate voice, and when we have taught
it a few words, the meaning which it gives them may be better divined
by us according to the tone and the rapidity or slowness of its
utterance. This permits us to discover the feelings that move it, for
we can better judge from an articulate sound than from one that is
merely musical.
Much has been written on the language of animals. It is neither my
desire nor my intention to repeat here all that may have been said on
this subject. It would take too long and would be of no use. I have
often witnessed facts that may be of interest to those who are
occupied with the mental manifestations of animals. I will simply
relate them; and of such as are already known, I will merely mention
them anew, admitting in advance a priority for others which I do not
demand for myself.
There can be no doubt that animals communicate their impressions by an
inarticulate voice. Common sense and the most superficial observations
are opposed to the negative of this proposition. But when a canary
bird warbles till it stuns us, or a nightingale sings in the shadows
on the fine nights of June, can we follow and discover the
significance of those modulations--now sharply cadenced, now slowly
drawn out, and ending with a trill long and accurate enough to
challenge the most skillful musician?
All the poets of every country have constantly sung of the songs of
Philomela. But their fervent and enthusiastic verses cast little light
on the value of the nightingale's song. It is said that the male sings
for the entertainment of the sitting female, but there is no proof of
the assertion. The note warning of the approach of danger is easier to
recognize. The bird utters a short, hoarse cry, and repeats it with a
succession of _trrre, trrre_, which is impossible to mistake. When we
hear this cry we may be sure that an enemy is near. Music gives way to
a cry of distress and warning, and the female leaves her nest if the
sounds become piercing. What do we know of the gobbling of the turkey,
which the whistling and the cries of children excite? They are
doubtless responses to those challenges; but what do they mean?
The crowing of the cock, recurring regularly at fixed hours, has some
signification, but we cannot comprehend it. If on a fine afternoon in
autumn the cock crows, and repeats his strain between two and four
o'clock, the countrymen in some places will say there will be a fog on
the morrow, and they are generally not mistaken. Hens do not mistake
his notes either; when a leader of the troop, coming upon a spot rich
in food, utters his peculiar chuckle, they run from all around to
share the find with him. It is evident that the cock has called them
and they have understood him. These facts indicate that there is some
definite sense in this inarticulate language; and examples of it,
taken from other groups, might be multiplied.
The dog, intelligent animal as he is, manifests his affection on
meeting his master, with peculiar cries which vary with the intensity
of his joy. No one could confound these notes of pleasure with those
which he utters when he is angrily driving away a beggar, or when he
meets another dog of unpleasant appearance and puts himself in the
position of attack.
An interesting study of the voice of the dog on guard may be made in
the country at night. If another dog barks in the distance, the house
dog answers in a peculiar manner. He gives a few growls, stops, seems
to listen, begins again, very often getting answers; and, after two or
three interruptions, he terminates his barking with abrupt yelps, loud
at the beginning and long drawn out, and gradually dying away. This
ending of his cries is habitually accompanied by his raising his head
and throwing it back. I have often, when within the house, on hearing
the watch dog bark in this way, opened the window to assure myself on
the subject, and distinguished, as I could not do with the windows
closed, the voice of another watch dog barking in the same way in the
distance--the barkings of the two dogs alternating, one answering the
other. There is in such cases an evident communication of impressions.
One of the dogs, having had his attention aroused by some unusual
noise, has transmitted his impression to the other, as sentinels
posted at intervals call out theft warnings one to another. I have
often repeated this observation during the long evenings of winter.
Another example, little known in thickly populated countries, is drawn
from a curious scene which I witnessed during a winter passed in
Perigord Noir. We had remarked that for several nights the three watch
dogs, a young and an old male and a bitch, howled often toward
midnight, but in a peculiar way. One night in particular, during their
tedious concert, just as we had got to sleep, they mingled with their
cries howlings like those they would have uttered if they had been
beaten, with a shading hard to define, but which we perceived plainly;
and we remarked that, leaving their kennel in the avenue that led up
to the lodge, they had come to close quarters with one another at the
gate, with alternating howlings and plaintive cries. Inquiring in the
morning for the cause of these singular cries, the peasants told me
that a wolf had passed, and predicted that it would return. They said,
too, that a neighbor's hunting bitch had disappeared, and its bones
had been found in the fields near a wood. We were awakened again about
midnight by the cries of the dogs, and the scene was renewed. Informed
as we now were of the nature of what was going on, we ran to one of
the windows, whence we could see, in the clear light of the moon, all
that passed. The three dogs were cowering against the gate, the oldest
one howling by the side of the others, while the younger one and the
bitch were exposed at intervals to the attacks of another animal,
browner than they, and of about their size, without defending
themselves, but moaning as if they were undergoing a vigorous
correction.
Frightened, doubtless, by the opening of the blinds of the first story
above him, the strange animal had gone away and was sitting in the
middle of the road. We could only see that he had straight ears. While
we were going down to get a gun the visitor came back to his charge on
the dogs, which had begun howling after he left them, and resumed the
cries significant of chastisement when they were attacked again. For
some reason, perhaps because he heard the click of the gun, the foe
drew back and sat down in a garden walk, concealed by a bunch of
shrubbery. The three dogs, notwithstanding our reiterated urging, were
no more disposed to pursue him than before. If the assailant had been
a dog they would have rushed upon him, but they stayed cowering at the
gate and howled distressfully. The bitch was most affected, and they
all seemed paralyzed by fear. It is said in the country that bitches
are especially liable to be attacked by wolves. It was so here. The
most certain feature in the matter was the terror of the animals. They
were capable of resisting the attack three times over. The young dog
was a savage one, and passers-by were afraid of the bitch; but that
night they were terrorized, and all incapable of defending themselves.
Their cries were therefore due to the same cause as in the preceding
night--the presence and attacks of the wolf. I could not have realized
their meaning if I had not been a witness of the scene--that is, I
could not have correlated the cries and the acts.
A shot at the animal behind the bushes was followed by a hoarse cry.
He was hit, and ran; but, in spite of our urgings, the dogs stayed at
the gate and only stopped howling. Under any other conditions, upon
the signal of the shot they would all have started in pursuit of the
wounded animal.
A wolf came to the farm during the last winter (1890-91) and attacked
the same bitch. He would have carried her off, for he had seized her
by the throat, if we could judge from the stifled cries she uttered;
but this time he found with her a new watch dog--a mountain bitch from
the Pyrenees--of a breed that attacks the wolf and the bear. The wolf
would have been caught if he had not run away. He did not return, for
he had been attacked, and learned what he had to deal with.
The Pyrenean breed furnishes excellent watch dogs. I knew one of
remarkable traits. At evening he would go round the house, giving two
or three growls at each door. With his head raised he seemed to listen
to his fine voice, then he would start again and go to another door.
He seemed desirous to show those who were observing him that he was
attending to his post as guardian. He then went away in silence along
the walk, through a dark, rising hedgerow, leaping the slight hillock,
yelping toward the wood. He listened, yelped again, and went in. There
was never any failure in this performance, but every evening as night
was coming on he began his round, which no one had taught him. It was
all done in his function as a guard. It would be hard to determine
what his yelps meant, but there were in them an inflection, a
sonorousness, and a continuance quite different from those he uttered
when pursuing a passer-by or when going to meet a person coming toward
the house. Every one who has a watch dog is able to tell by the sound
of his barking when a person is coming up, and usually what sort of a
visitor it is.
The peasants' dogs of the southwest of France dislike the country
millers, because of the long whips which they are always carrying and
snapping, and with which the dogs, running after them, are often
struck. From as far off as the snapping of the whip can be heard, the
dogs come to wait for the millers and pursue them; and it is easy to
recognize when the millers are passing, by the behavior of the dogs.
There is in this also a significance, at once aggressive and
defensive, in the cries which one can, by giving a little attention,
soon learn to distinguish.
Another example of the reality of the various meanings of the cries of
the dog under different circumstances is afforded by the companies
that collect around a female in heat.
I have a very intelligent and experienced brach hound, the same which
with the bitch had to face the attack of the wolf. He amuses me much
at my country lunches. Hunting dogs which have been much with their
masters at lunch do not like to have the drinking glass offered them.
This dog was much afraid of the glass, and I had only to present it to
him at lunch time to make him keep his distance. I used to keep my
door open at lunch, for the amusement of observing how I could make
him stop exactly at the threshold without stepping over it. If he had
passed over it I could always send him back by casting toward him a
few drops of water from the bottom of the glass after drinking.
Sitting, as was his habit, on the sill of the door, with the tip of
his muzzle never extending beyond the plane of the panels, he would
follow my motions with the closest attention, reminding me, if I
failed to give him a sign of attention, by a discreet, plaintive cry,
that he was there. But if I touched my glass, he would spring up at
once; if I filled it, he would put himself on guard, utter a kind of
sigh, sneeze, lick his lips, yawn, and, shaking his ears briskly, make
little stifled cries. Then he would grow impatient, and more and more
watchful and nervous. When I lifted my glass to my lips he would draw
back, working gradually nearer to the farther door, and at last
disappear and hide. One who was looking at him without seeing me could
tell by his wails and his attitude the level and position of my glass.
When the glass was horizontal, I could see only about half of his
head, with one eye regarding me fixedly, for that was usually the
critical moment--the one, also, when the wails and restraints were
most demonstrative of the anxious fear of my poor animal.
When we dine in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor, the dogs
are usually all put out. There are four of them, three young and not
experienced, and this old, sagacious brach hound. He insists on coming
in, and, to gain his purpose, tries to have the door opened. Although
no person may be coming up the walk, he dashes down it barking, all
the others going along too and yelping with him; then he stops,
remains a little behind after having got the others out of the way,
and, turning his head from moment to moment, looks to see if the door
has been opened, for we generally go to it to see who has come. In
that case the feigned attack is successful, and the dog, who has
evidently meant to give the alarm so as to have the door opened, comes
in at once and claims a place at the table. He has accomplished his
end, for the door is usually shut without paying attention to his
having got in. I have frequently witnessed this stratagem, and when,
during my kitchen dinner, I suddenly hear the dogs yelping after the
brach hound has begun, I am pretty sure that nobody is in sight.
I have forgotten where I found the next story of an old dog who was
also very sagacious. Hunting dogs, when they grow old, become
rheumatic, or are at least debilitated with pains. We know, too, that
they crave heat, and get as near the fire as possible--a craving which
increases as they grow older. One such dog, older than the others, and
slower in getting into the lodge on returning from the hunt, was often
crowded away from the fire by the other livelier dogs getting all the
best places before him. Finding himself thus turned out in the cold,
he would dash toward the door barking, when the others, supposing it
was an alarm, would rush away too, while the old rheumatic went to the
fire and selected a place to suit him.
It is not necessary to dwell upon the intelligence shown by such acts.
But it is hardly contestable that the old animal, who knows how to
play such tricks upon his less experienced companions, deceives them
by his intonations, while he is well aware that no enemy is
approaching the house; but he does it scientifically, by the
inflections of his voice, as a man speaking to other men would do in
announcing the arrival of an imaginary enemy.
Inarticulate cries are all pretty much the same to us; their
inflections, duration, pitch, abruptness, and prolongation alone can
inform us of their purpose. But experience and close attention have
shown us the connection of these variations with the acts that
accompany or precede them. Animals evidently understand these
inflections at once. We cannot better compare the language of animals
than with what takes place in a pleasant sport, a kind of pantomime of
the voice or language which many youth doubtless understand, and which
I venture to refer to here to aid in more easily conceiving of the
communication of thought among animals by sounds which seem to us all
alike. When I was engaged in hospitals, the evenings in the guard room
were sometimes enlivened by the presence of a companion who excelled
in humorous mimicry. He would represent a man in liquor who had
stopped at a fountain that flowed with a gentle sound, somewhat like
that of his own hiccough. A single oath, pronounced in different
tones, was sufficient to enable us to comprehend all the impressions,
all the states of mind through which this devotee of Bacchus passed.
The oath, at first pronounced slowly and with an accent expressing
relief, represented a feeling of satisfaction, with shadings of
prolonged exclamation which it would be hard for one to imagine
without suggestion. The continued flowing of the fountain made our
drunken man impatient, and he wanted it to stop. This state of mind
was translated by a new modulation of the same word. In a little while
the gurgling of the fountain produced astonishment. Was it possible
that he, with all the liquid he had imbibed, could vomit so much and
for so long a time? This mental condition was expressed by a new
modulation of the same oath. The first movement of surprise over,
resignation follows, and our man decides to wait patiently for the
end. A period of half lethargy was easily represented by the slowness
and weakness of the man's voice while living up to this decision; but
when he comes out of this sleepy condition and hears the fountain
again, he is possessed with fear; he cannot understand the flood he is
pouring out--he dares not move--he believes he is lost. Gradually the
fumes of the liquor pass away, and, his mistake being recognized, the
drunkard is taken with a laughing and a gayety which are indicated by
the same oath repeated in tones corresponding with the satisfaction he
is then enjoying. This making the series of impressions a man passes
through comprehensible by a single word, varied in pronunciation and
utterance, is very like the language of animals, which is always the
same, and the significance of which is given by variety of intonations
corresponding with sensational conditions.
The mewing of the cat is always the same; but what a number of mental
conditions it expresses! I had a kitten whose gambols and liveliness
entertained me greatly. I understood well, when it came up to me
mewing, what the sound meant; sometimes the kitten wanted to come up
and sleep in my lap; at other times it was asking me to play with it.
When, at my meals, it jumped on my knees, turned round, looked at me,
and spoke in a coaxing and flattering way, it was asking for something
to eat. When its mother came up with a mouse in her jaws, her muffled
and low-toned mew informed the little one from a distance, and caused
it to spring and run up to the game that was brought to it. The cry is
always the same, but varied in the strength of the inflections and in
its protraction, so as to represent the various states of mind with
which my young animal is moved--just as it was with the drunken man in
the mimicry scene. These facts are probably well known to all
observers of animals.
We have seen that this tonality of the watch dog's cries is competent
to indicate that a person is coming to the house. We find similar
cries of warning uttered by birds. When I was a professor in the
faculty of Lille, I frequently visited the well known aged Professor
of Physics, M. Delezenne. He had a working room at the end of a
garden, in which a laughing mew wandered. From the time that any one
came in till he went out, this bird made the vocal explosions to which
it owes its name; and the good professor was certain, without ever
being mistaken, that somebody was coming to his laboratory. He was
notified. My Jaco in Paris has a warble that answers the ringing of
the bell. If we have not heard the bell, we are notified by Jaco of
its ringing, and, going to the door, find some one there. I have been
told of a parrot belonging to the steward of a lyceum which had heard
the words "Come in," when any one rang the bell. He never failed to
cry, "Come in," when the bell moved, and the visitor was embarrassed
at seeing nobody after having been invited to open the door.
Instances in which the cries of birds had an incontestable and precise
signification are numerous; let me refer to a few of the best known.
The cackle of a hen, after having laid an egg and left her nest, is
decidedly characteristic. Her clucking when she is impelled to sit on
her eggs, or when she is calling her chicks, is no less demonstrative.
There is not a farmer who does not recognize it and understand it. In
these things we see the relation between the tone of the prating or
cluck of the hen and her acts. But when a nightingale sings all night,
or a goldfinch whistles, or a raven croaks, we cannot so easily
interpret the significance of their inarticulate sounds. The finch
calls its mate by uttering a few notes followed by a long trill.
Matches of a barbarous character, based on this habit, I were held in
the north of France while I was living at Lille, between 1855 and
1860. I do not know whether they have been suppressed or not, but the
laws for the protection of animals ought to take cognizance of them.
The gamesters put out the eyes of the male finches, and made them,
thus blinded, compete as singers, for which purpose they brought their
cages into proximity. When the birds heard and recognized one
another's voices, they made their appeal to the female; the one that
renewed his amorous trills most frequently, protracted them longest
and to the last, gained the prize. The bird that was declared victor
received a medal amid the applause of a large and enthusiastic crowd;
and considerable wagers were staked upon the result. I have heard that
these poor blinded birds sometimes fell down exhausted with singing,
and kept on calling the absent female till they died, not being
willing to yield to a rival, who on his side was also keeping up his
equally useless appeals.
These finch contests were suggested after the meaning of the song of
the birds was learned. But when these birds, which are more usually
isolated--whence they have been named _Fringilla coelebs_, or
celibates--hop around our houses and also utter their amorous trills
at another than the mating season, they are evidently not calling the
female. Should we not then seek to determine by the tone whether their
call, which is always the same, is amorous or not?
In countries where flocks of turkeys are raised one can learn very
quickly from their gobblings when they have captured a hare. If they
meet him standing still or lying down, they form in a circle around
him, and, putting their heads down, repeat continually their peculiar
cries. The hare remains quiet, and it is sometimes possible to take
him up, terrorized as he is in the midst of the black circle of
gobbling beaks and heads. The language of the turkeys is at that time
incontestably significant. It is warlike, and similar to that of the
males when they are fighting. In the present instance they have joined
for war, and they make it on the frightened hare.
My Jaco, like all parrots, which are excellent imitators, pronounces a
few words and repeats them over and over again. Such birds amuse us
because the words they know sometimes happen to be ludicrously
fitting. A bird of this kind had been struck by the note sounded by
the wind blowing into a room through a crack in the glass work
whenever a certain door was opened; and he had become so perfect in
his imitation that they sometimes, on hearing the noise, went to shut
the door when it was not open.
Jaco formerly belonged to a very pious old lady who was accustomed to
say her litanies with another person. He had caught the words "Pray
for us," in the invocations to the several saints, and said them so
well as sometimes to deceive his learned mistress, and cause her to
think she was saying her litanies with two colleagues. When Jaco was
out of food, and any one passed by him, he would say, "My poor
Cocotte!" or "My poor rat!" in an arch, mawkish, protracted tone that
indicated very clearly what he wanted, and that his drinking cup was
empty. There was no doubt in the house as to his meaning; and whenever
one heard it he said: "He has nothing to eat." He was exceedingly fond
of fresh pits of apples and pears, and I was in the habit of
collecting them and keeping them to give him. So whenever, as I came
near him, I put my hand into my pocket he never failed to say: "Poor
Cocco!" in a supplicating tone which it was impossible to mistake. A
sugar plum is a choice morsel to him. He can tell what it is from a
distance when I hold it out in my fingers; and when I give it to him
he cannot restrain himself if it has been any considerable time since
he has had the delicacy. Usually, after having made the first motion
to get it, as if he were ravished and wanted to express his joy in
advance, he would draw back before taking it, and say, in a comical
tone, "Hold, my poor Cocotte!" His manner of thanking in advance is
likewise amusing. The expression of his eyes and the pose of his head
are all in accord with the tone of his exclamation. When he tastes the
plum he utters a series of _ahs_, and produces a kind of warble by
prolonging some of his notes and shortening up others. We find in
these examples, without doubt, that the articulate voice makes us
better able to judge the meaning of the impressions that are moving
the animal than inarticulate cries, or merely musical sounds. When
Jaco met a child for whom he had a great affection, he would promenade
on his perch, or turn the wheel, spreading out his tail and ruffling
the feathers of his head, while his eyes grew red with excitement if
the child was too slow in bestowing the accustomed caress. Then he
would stop, bend down his head, and, looking at his friend, say
pleasantly, "Jaco," in a tone and with a manner quite in contrast with
the pronunciation of the same word when he was hungry.
It is not the word he speaks that is of interest; he might have been
taught another, and it would have been the same; but it is the tone.
In this case, too, the articulation gives an easier clew to the
meaning the bird seeks to express, having a meaning according to the
manner of pronouncing it, than any isolated, simply musical sound,
like the song of the nightingale, canary bird, and warbler. This
became evident to me, not from observing animals for a few moments
without seeing them again, but from studying them continuously.
Jaco did not like solitude, and was talkative and fond of being
caressed, like all of his kind. One day, when there was no one in the
country house, all having gone out into the garden or the fields, I
heard him saying over what few words he knew, in different
inflections. I went quietly into the room where he was, without being
seen; but he heard my steps, although I walked in very cautiously,
hoping to surprise him. He ceased his chatter, listened, and, after a
silence, pronounced "Jaco" in a low tone, drawing out the end of the
word. He listened again, and repeated the word in the same tone; then,
after another silence, repeated it with a rise of the voice. I
continued observing him, and, as he heard no one, he raised his tone
gradually, repeating the same word, and ended at last with a genuine
cry of distress. The people ran in from without, supposing something
had happened to him. He then repeated his name in a lower tone, which
seemed to indicate his satisfaction at finding his isolation ended. I
went in myself, and his prattle unmistakably betrayed his gladness at
being no longer alone.
Is there not in this an act of real intelligence? While alone, the
parrot entertained himself by talking; but when he heard a sound he
hoped at first to see some one come; and when no one answered him, he
raised his voice, as a person would do who calls, and, getting no
reply, cried out louder and louder till he was heard and answered. The
meaning of the differences of intonation is as evident in this case as
in that of the drunken man. A parrot raised in the South had learned
to swear in the local _patois_. Being fond of coffee, he was sometimes
given a spoonful, which he would come awkwardly up to the table to
drink with his master. One day the master, not thinking of his bird,
had already added cognac to his coffee, and gave the parrot the
accustomed spoonful. The parrot took a swallow of it, and, in his
surprise at the novel taste, raised his head and repeated the oath in
a tone that excited laughter in all who were present. The cause of his
surprise being discovered, he was soothed, and then took his usual
ration with evident signs of contentment. The mimicry of language in
this case clearly represented the shade of the new impression he felt.
Jaco is very timid. In the evening, when he is put to roost in a close
and dark room, he is afraid of the shadow of his perch that is cast by
the light we carry in our hand; he eyes it, and utters a low cry,
which stops when the candle is blown out and he cannot see the shadow
any longer. He stands in dread of blows in the bottom of his cage,
because, having a wing broken, he cannot fly, and is afraid of
falling. Feeling his weakness, his language has a different tone from
the usual one. Large birds flying in the sky above him annoy him
greatly, and we can all tell by his voice when such a bird is near or
flying over. He inclines his head and chatters in a low tone as long
as the bird is in sight, paying no attention to anything else. Turkeys
and hens announce the approach of a bird of prey in a similar manner.
We find in the facts which we have related, as well as in many others
which are cited respecting the ways and habits of parrots, proofs of a
remarkable intelligence. These creatures are distinguished by the
unlimited affection which they bestow upon some persons, as well as by
their excessive dislikes, which nothing can explain. Jaco conceived an
extraordinary dislike for a maid who, although she took good care of
him, was in the habit of washing the bottom of his cage under a
faucet. He afterward discarded another person, whom he had liked so
much that she could do what she pleased with him, even to passing her
hand over his back and taking him by the tail, holding him in her
hands, or putting him in her apron--caresses of a kind that parrots do
not usually permit. Nothing astonished him or offended him. He proved
very inconstant toward her, and now, while better disposed toward the
other girl, he is furious against this one. A third miss has come to
capture his affection; and when he has been left asleep, or resting in
his cage, he has always the same word, but different in the inflection
wheedling, angry, or nearly indifferent, as either of the three
persons comes near him. Jaco's pronunciation is scanned in many
meters. Only one young student has had the privilege of retaining his
affection unmarred.
Jaco had been left in the country for a whole week in the winter.
Alone and isolated, he was taken care of by a person who was not
constantly with him. The young student, accompanied by a tutor, came
to pass a few days in the house. At the sight of the youth, Jaco,
surprised, called out, "Momon! Momon!" "It was affecting," they wrote
me, "to see so great signs of joy." I have also myself witnessed
similar signs of joy at the coming of the student. Jaco's speech at
such times is always in harmony with his feelings. In the pleasant
season Jaco's cage is put outdoors; and at meal times, knowing very
well what is going on within, he keeps up a steady course of suppliant
appeals for attention. His appeals cease at once if I go out with
fruit in my hand, and if I go toward him he utters a prattle of joy
that sounds like musical laughter. These manifestations indicate that
he is happy at seeing that he has been thought of.
I close these anecdotes, as I began them, by repeating that animals
communicate their impressions, and the feelings that move them, by
various modulations of their inarticulate cries, which are
incomprehensible to us unless we have succeeded by attentive
observation in connecting them with the acts that follow or precede
them. We have also seen that the articulation of a few words learned
by parrots aids us greatly in learning the meaning of these different
inflections.
The extension of these studies would furnish much of interest; but
further observations should be made upon the same animals for a
longtime continuously, relating especially to their peculiar instincts
as manifested by their various cries. We might then, by comparing and
relating acts and cries, reach the point of comprehending and perhaps
fixing the meaning in many cases where we are now in ignorance. Every
one has noticed a few facts, and has interpreted and related them, but
much is still wanting for the co-ordination of them in the point of
view of the signification of the language and communication of animals
among themselves. It has not been made in a general sense.
--_Translated for the Popular Science Monthly from the Revue
Scientifique_.
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