complex chambers and circular galleries do justice to an artist. The
space of ground covered by a single mole's roads and galleries is
almost unbelievable; in every direction from the fortress they run, and
are sunk at various depths, according to the condition of the mole's
hunting-grounds, which are really the spaces of ground through which he
tunnels. Worms and underground insects are his chief food. Sometimes he
ploughs along the surface of the ground, and exposes his back as he
works; but if the weather is dry, he ploughs deeply into the earth for
worms. He fills his storehouse with earth-worms for winter use, and he
finds it necessary to bite their heads off, which leaves them inert but
not dead. This cannot be done in the summer months without the heads
re-growing and the worms crawling away. The mole knows the exact
temperature best suited for keeping his meat fresh!
A most interesting and beautiful family of miner-cousins of the moles
are the shrews. They are excavators of great ability, and because of
their nocturnal habits are rarely seen alive. They are very similar to
the mole, though much more handsome. Their domicile is built of dry
grass at the end of a tunnel.
The shrew mole of North America is a ground-digger of great ingenuity.
He is second only to the mole in the extent and pretensions of his
engineering and tunnelling. His eyes are very small and deeply hidden
in his fur. During the day he constantly comes to the surface of the
earth, and one may catch him by driving a hoe or spade underneath him.
Another underground-dweller is the elephant shrew of South America. He
has a long nose, thick fur, short ears, and, unlike his cousins, he
loves to bask in the warm sunshine. At the least signal of alarm he
darts away to his subterranean home. As a mining engineer he is
unexcelled; he sinks his tunnels by first boring an almost perpendicular
shaft, and then making his burrows at an angle. It is a sad day for
earth-worms when he decides to locate in their vicinity!
It is not an easy task to classify the homes of animals. Many of them
have characteristics that entitle them to be placed under several
groupings. The otter, for example, might be classed as a cave-dweller,
as he seeks refuge in caves; yet he also rears his young in underground
nests as a burrowing animal. But few naturalists believe that he does
his own digging. This is not surprising when we remember that there are
many other animals that live in caves and grottoes, and like the otter,
seek ready-made homes for their convenience. Among these may be
mentioned three American salamanders, bats, and a few strange mice, who
seek darkness and constant temperature, and therefore find caves best
suited to their needs.
The same is true of the weasel, who is thought to be a great burrower,
but in fact, like our remote cave-dwelling ancestors, makes his home
only in caves, in rocky crevices, and under the gnarled roots of old
trees. He is a bright-eyed little creature, with a slender snake-like
neck and red body. He is a great friend of mankind, as he does more
toward eradicating mice and other nocturnal depredators than all the
rat-catchers in the land. His home is quite ordinary compared to that of
the more ambitious underground-dwellers.
A near cousin of the weasel, and a most ingenious engineer and miner, is
the badger. He is a tenement-dweller and builds his home in the deep,
shady woods. His home is rather pretentious with several chambers, and a
most delightfully furnished nursery which is warmly padded with dry
grass and moss.
The badger, once so plentiful in England and America, is fast passing
away because of the increase of towns and cities. As soon as the forest
in which he dwells is drained and converted into farm land, the badger
disappears. He is driven from the soil where he once held sway, and is
one of those unfortunate animals which are eliminated by man-made
civilisation.
The fox of the Far North is a famous excavator, and his underground home
which shelters and protects him from the extreme cold is most spacious.
It is a strange fact that these cunning little animals rarely make their
homes away from others of their kind. Sometimes twenty to thirty are
found in close proximity. And their owners are unquestionably the
smartest, keenest, and quickest creatures that roam the wilds. While
some of their deeds are questionable, their quick wits and nimble bodies
excite our admiration.
These arctic foxes really build small cities, and their semi-social life
may be accounted for by the peculiar suitability of the place which they
select for a habitation. Their homes are usually in a sandy hill, where
it is very easy for them to burrow; and the strangest part of the whole
city is that each burrow is complete and entirely independent in itself.
There are many winding paths and tunnels in each house, but each belongs
exclusively to its owner and never winds into a neighbour's house. In
case of danger the fox has many directions in which he may escape.
The nursery is the most carefully arranged of all the rooms. It is
rather small and is directly connected with the main outer chamber
somewhat like the nursery of the mole. So skilfully is it situated that
it sometimes happens a hunter will dig into a fox's burrow and never
discover the nest of young, and later the clever mother will return to
carry away her babes, which are usually five to six in number. Adjoining
the nursery are two or three storage rooms filled with food for the
winter. The number of bones usually found in the basement indicates that
a great variety of ducks, fish, hares, lemming, and stoats are regularly
eaten, and that the average fox family does not want for food.
The arctic fox is not only a beauty in his coat of pure white, but is
unusually brainy. Persecuted animals, like persecuted human beings,
become very wise. Nature is kind to the fox in his arctic home, and in
the winter turns his coat snow white so that he may easily escape his
enemies--especially men, who seek his beautiful fur and edible body. He
is skilled in his distrust of wires, sticks, guns and strings! No man
knows better than he the meaning of foot-tracks in the snow, and how
long they have been there, and which way they lead; thus, those that
survive their enemies have acquired extreme wisdom, and keep carefully
away from everything that is at all suspicious to their eyes and
nostrils.
The Siberian fox is one of those wise creatures that has defied in a
most extraordinary way his handicaps, and, refusing to admit them, has
boldly selected the strangest dwelling-place known to the animal
world--the horn of the mountain sheep. This unique dwelling-place has
been the home of the Siberian fox for ages, and his ancestors have known
no other. The mountain sheep, which are giants among their kind, have
the longest horns in proportion to their size of any animal in
existence. The argali of Siberia is the largest of all sheep, and is
equal in bulk and weight to an average-sized ox, with horns
proportionally large. The horns of these animals are strikingly like
those of the Rocky Mountain sheep of America, except they are much
larger. They spring up from the forehead, tilt backward, then boldly
curve below the muzzle, before finally again pointing upward and
tapering into a sharp and delicate point. They are hollow, though
exceedingly stout and elastic, and strengthened on the outside by a
number of ridges or horny rings set very close together. They are found
in large numbers in this land of perpetual ice and snow, and it is
thought that they break from the sheep's heads very easily.
It is not uncommon to find them lying in a spot which has been a
battlefield, where two sheep in attempting to settle some dispute have
fought and fallen. It is not long after they have thus fallen before
they are utilised by Mr. Fox. He stores himself carefully away in these
roomy horns, one of which Mrs. Fox uses as a nursery, finding it a snug,
safe, and warm place to rear her little family.
The other varieties of foxes, especially the grey and red, are not so
skilled in home-making. This may be due to the fact that they do not
have need of such elaborate houses as their arctic cousins. Again, it
may be that the existence of numerous deserted homes of badgers, or even
rabbits, makes it unnecessary for them to spend their time in building
homes of their own. It is much easier to enlarge the ready-made burrow
of a rabbit than to dig a new tunnel, of course.
If there is no ready-made burrow to be had, then the wise fox sets to
work and scoops out his own. Herein he sleeps all the day, and comes
forth only at night. A small chamber from the main room serves as the
nursery, and here the babies are born and nurtured. Nothing is more
beautiful than to see the entire family--mother, father, and
children--come forth at evening to play. The young are as sportive as
pups, but they never wander far from home. Their broad heads, grey
coats, short tails and awkward appearance would lead no one to think
that they were the children of handsome, nimble-limbed, intelligent Mrs.
Fox!
Woe to the dog that enters Mrs. Fox's home! She is a pugilist of the
first order, and knows how to fight far better than the average bull
terrier. It requires a very savage dog to kill her, and he is apt to be
minus an ear when the battle is over.
Red and grey foxes are similar in intelligence, but differ in many other
ways: the former are like the gipsies in always moving about from place
to place, while the latter stick to one general locality, although their
hunting-grounds may range for several miles in all directions. Red foxes
seem actually to enjoy being hunted by dogs; in most cases they will
outrun the dogs, and rarely seek protection from caves or rocks.
The grey fox, on the other hand, cares little for racing, but seeks
protection among rocky cliffs where the dogs are at a disadvantage. Here
none but the smallest canines may enter the holes and crannies, and they
are usually wise enough to stay out. Hunters are thoroughly familiar
with the tactics of the fox family, and therefore select the red ones
for their sport.
The foxes are truly famed for their cunning, and when other animals try
to play tricks on them, the trick usually turns out in the foxes'
favour. During the winter season these wise creatures are sometimes hard
pressed for food. Birds and small animals are hard to catch, and the
farmers' chicken houses are closed. It is then that the wise fox needs
all his wit and wisdom, for he oftentimes becomes the hunted as well as
the hunter. His chief enemies are the puma and the timber wolf, but they
are seldom able to get him.
The prairie-dog is so talented that he might be classed under several
headings; he is sociable, a burrower, and especially gifted in the art
of constructing underground "dog towns." He is rarely called by his
Indian name, _Wish-ton-wish_, and we know him only as the prairie-dog.
Evidently he was given this name because of his yelping bark, which
resembles the cry of a young domestic dog.
He is a good-looking but rather curious little animal. He has a round,
flat head, and garish-red fur, and a stout little body. He makes an
affectionate pet, and loves the society of human beings. When he decides
to start a town, he usually succeeds, for he is an exceedingly prolific
animal, and his extensive burrows seem to have no ends. They are rather
large, and run to great depths. In the western part of the United
States, especially on the big prairies, the prairie-dog towns often
cover large areas. They are usually dug in a sloping direction, and
descend four to six feet in depth, and then suddenly rise upward again.
Hundreds of these little tunnels are dug in such close proximity to each
other that it is quite unsafe for cattle and horses to pass over them.
This is the chief reason why ranchmen do not like the otherwise harmless
little animals of the prairies.
These dog towns are most curious, and a visit to one of them well repays
the traveller. Strangely enough, the prairie-dog is exceedingly
inquisitive and this very quality often costs the little animal his
life. Mr. Wood, in describing the prairie-dog's habits, says that this
wise little Westerner, when perched on the hillocks which we have
already described, is able to survey a wide extent of territory and as
soon as he sees a visitor, he gives a loud yelp of alarm, and dives into
his burrow, his tiny feet knocking together with a ludicrous flourish as
he disappears. In every direction similar scenes are enacted. The
warning cry has been heard, and immediately every dog within a hundred
yards repeats the cry and leaps into his burrow. Their curiosity,
however, cannot be suppressed, and no sooner have they vanished from
sight than their heads are seen protruding from their burrows. Sometimes
hundreds of them will be peeping from their homes at one time, their
beautiful eyes sparkling as they cautiously watch the enemy's every
movement.
The prairie-dog is truly a tenement dweller, and his home is occupied
not only by his own kind, but by owls and rattlesnakes. Most naturalists
believe that these incongruous families live in perfect harmony; but it
is a well-known fact that the snake occasionally devours the young
prairie-dogs, and he must be considered by them as an intruder who
procured board and lodging without their consent. The owls, on the other
hand, are supposed to do no harm, although it may be that they also
occasionally feast on a tender young pup.
The magnificent little animals known to scientists as vizcachas, and
whose homes are on the pampas of South America, are the most skilled
builders of underground cities in the animal world. Their villages or
cities are called "vizcacheras" and are provided with from ten to twenty
mouths or subway entrances, with one entrance often serving for several
holes. If the ground is soft, it is not uncommon to find twenty to
thirty burrows in a vizcachera; but if the ground is rocky and hard,
only four or five burrows are found. These wide-mouthed, gaping burrows
are dug close together, and the entire town usually covers from one
hundred to two hundred square feet.
The vizcacheras are different from other underground animal cities; some
of the burrows are large, others are small. Most of them open into a
subterranean main-street at from four to six feet from the entrance;
from this street other streets wind and turn in all directions, like a
man-made subway, and many of them extend clear into other streets or
subways, thus forming a complete network of underground passageways. All
the tunnelled-out dirt is brought to the surface and forms a large mound
to prevent the water from entering the cities.
According to W. H. Hudson, in _The Naturalist in La Plata_, "in some
directions a person might ride five hundred miles and never advance half
a mile without seeing one or more of them. In districts where, as far as
the eye can see, the plains are as level and smooth as a bowling-green,
especially in winter when the grass is close-cropped, and where the
rough giant-thistle has not sprung up, these mounds appear like brown or
dark spots on a green surface. They are the only irregularities that
occur to catch the eye, and consequently form an important feature in
the scenery. In some places they are so near together that a person on
horseback may count a hundred of them from one point of view."
Unlike some burrowing animals, the vizcacha does not select a spot where
there is a bank or depression in the soil, or roots of trees, or even
tall grass; knowing that they only attract the opossum, skunk,
armadillo, and weasel, he chooses an open level plot of ground where he
can watch in all directions for enemies while he works.
The great or main entrance to some of these underground cities is
sometimes four to six feet in diameter. A small man stands shoulder deep
in them. The going and coming of these little vizcachas would almost
lead one to believe that they have a primitive city government, and are
ruled according to definite laws. Their cities stand for generations,
and many of the old human inhabitants tell of certain vizcacheras around
them which existed when their parents were living. The founder of a new
village is usually a male; and he goes only a short distance from the
other villages to establish his new colony.
These cities are by no means occupied by their builders alone, but have
their undesirables within their borders. The unique style of burrowing
which the vizcachas employ benefits several kinds of birds, especially
the Minerva, and one species of the swallows, which build their nests in
the bank-like holes in the sides of the vizcacha's cities. Several
insects, among which may be mentioned a large nocturnal bug, with red
wings and shiny black body, also seek the same shelter; another foreign
inhabitant is a night-roaming cincindela, with dark green wing-cases and
pale red legs, which remind one of oriental jewels. There are also no
less than six species of wingless wasps, beautifully coloured in red,
black, and white. Dozens of spiders and smaller insects that live in and
near the vizcacheras, which are everywhere sprinkled over the pampas,
pass in and out among the streets recognising their respective friends
and enemies.
The home life in these communities is most interesting. The burrowers
remain indoors until late in the evening during the winter, but in
summer appear before the sun sets. One of the larger males is the first
to appear, as if to see if everything is safe from danger; if it is,
others immediately pop up and take their places at the entrance to the
burrow. The females are smaller than the males, and stand up that they
may see everything that happens. Curiosity struggling within them for
mastery is often the cause of their death. Tiny swallows hover over the
entrances, like myriads of large moths, with never-ending low, mournful
cries.
Of all the incongruous inhabitants of the vizcacheras, the fox is the
most dreaded and the least welcome. To appease his growls and snarls the
vizcachas are sometimes forced to let him occupy one of their rooms for
a season, or even permanently. During a part of the year he appears
quite unassuming and indifferent to the general affairs of the
household, and he really goes quite unnoticed, even though he may be
sitting on the mound in the family group. But when the vizcachas appear
in the spring, the fox begins to become interested in the nursery and as
soon as the older animals are away he devours the young. Occasionally,
if the fox is hungry, or if he has another friend to aid him, he will
hunt the vizcachera from end to end, battling with the old, and usually
killing all the young. It often happens that the mother vizcacha, when
her babes are large enough to follow her, will take them away to another
place that is safer.
The language of these city-builders is most unusual; the males
frequently utter the most varied and astonishing cries. They are jarring
in the extreme, and are produced in the most leisurely manner, growing
louder and louder and finally ending with a slow quaver. At other times,
they grunt like small pigs. Hudson says that any quick noise, like the
report of a gun, produces a most startling effect among these little
animals. As soon as the report is broken on the stillness of the night a
perfect furore of cries issues forth from every direction. In a few
seconds it ceases for a momentary lull, and then suddenly breaks forth
again, louder than before. The tones of the different ones are so
different that the cries of nearby individuals may be plainly
distinguished amidst the babel of voices coming from the distance. It
sounds as if thousands upon thousands of them were striving to express
every emotion with their tiny tenor voices. No words can describe the
effect that these sounds produce. One of the most peculiar calls is the
special alarm-note, which is sharp, sudden, and shrill. It is reported
from one to another until every vizcacha is safe in his burrow.
But with all the kind and sociable qualities of these little animals,
they have characteristics which seem rather paradoxical, and chief among
these is their resentment of any intrusion of neighbours into their
burrows. Although a number of individuals may reside in adjoining
compartments in the same burrow, yet if one enters a burrow not his
own--woe is he! Even when pursued by fierce dogs a vizcacha will rarely
enter a room of another. If he does, he is immediately pounced upon by
the angry owner, and is usually driven clear out of the burrow. These
animals are undoubtedly far the most versatile and intelligent rodents
in the world.
A most unusual miner and underground dweller is the pocket gopher of
North and Central America. He is a rat-like animal, and is most
plentiful on the plains of the Mississippi region. He is unusual in
appearance, dressed in brown and grey fur, with tiny white feet, small
eyes and ears, and a short stubby tail. His feet are wonderfully strong,
and his fore-paws are armed with strong, curved claws. But he is famed
for his wonderful fur-lined pouches which open inside his cheeks and
serve a peculiar use.
His entire life, with rare exceptions, is spent underground. There he
makes long tunnels for the purpose of securing tender roots for food;
these tunnels are about twelve to eighteen inches below the surface, and
usually wind under the foot of a tree where a sinking passage goes down
four to five feet further and leads to a large living-room. This is the
family nest and nursery, lined with grass and soft fur which Mrs. Gopher
has taken from her own body. Adjoining the living-room is a storage bin
filled with nuts, dried bits of roots, tobacco, and potatoes.
Much that is exaggerated has been said in regard to the adaptability of
the gopher for his work. But it is a fact that he is of all the diggers
best suited for his task. He uses his strong teeth, like a trench-digger
uses a pick, to loosen the earth; and while his fore-feet are kept
constantly at work in digging and pressing the dirt back under the body,
the hind feet also aid in shovelling it still farther back. When a
sufficient amount has heaped up behind him, he performs the strangest of
all his feats--he turns around, and places his hands vertically against
his chin, thus forcing himself backwards, pushing the dirt ahead of
himself until it is forced out of the tunnel. At the outer end of the
tunnel is formed a little hillock.
Dr. Merriam has made a special study of the gopher, and in speaking of
the strange habit of running backwards, he says that even in carrying
food to one of his barns or storehouses the gopher rarely turns round
but usually runs backwards and forwards, over and over again like a
shuttle on its track.
The gopher uses his pouches for carrying food, not dirt. When he has
eaten a sufficient amount of food, he fills his pouches. If a potato is
too large to be carried in this way, he trims it off to the right size.
His method of emptying his pouches is most interesting; with his two
tiny paws he delicately presses the food from his cheeks.
The woodchuck is an American basement-dweller of considerable renown.
His peculiar whistling cry has won for him from the French the name of
_siffleur_; and we sometimes call him by the very inappropriate name of
ground-hog. He is a skilled weather prophet, and his appearance in the
early spring signifies that the winter is over. He never shows himself
until the cold is gone.
The home of the woodchuck is usually found under a hill, with a
sheltering rock to protect the entrance, which leads into a tunnel, from
twenty to thirty feet in length, finally ending by entering his home
proper. The tunnel descends obliquely for several feet, and again rises
towards the surface. His nest is rather large, and nicely lined with dry
grass and leaves, which serve as a carpet for the young woodchucks when
they come into the world. The young remain in the underground home until
they are about five months old, then they go out into the world for
themselves.