BEASTS AND REPTILES.
The animals came in one by one
Till Noah, he thought they would never have done.
And they all came into the Ark.
For to get out of the rain.
Rats! Hamlin Town (with Bishop Hatto thrown in) cannot offer a
comparison with our sufferings from these pestilent vermin.
During the day time they contented themselves with playing in twos and
threes about the house, getting in the way of our feet, and generally
making themselves a nuisance. But at night when we had retired to rest,
they came in their hundreds, from their homes beneath the house, and to
use an expressive Americanism "simply bought the place."
I am not naturally a "Mrs. Gummidge," but in this instance I am certain
I suffered more than any others in Remyo. Why the rats should have
preferred my room I know not, but undoubtedly they did. They gave balls
every night on my dressing table, and organised athletic sports, chiefly
hurdle races, on the floor. They had glorious supper parties on my
trunks, leaving the whole place scattered with half-eaten walnuts, bits
of biscuit, and morsels of cheese. They had concerts and debating
societies in the still hours of the night, brawls and squabbles at all
times; and true to tradition, made nests inside my Sunday hats, helping
themselves to such of my finery as took their fancy.
As I have said, they came in their hundreds, and I was powerless against
them. In vain did I sit up in bed and "shoo" and clap my hands, they
would pause for an instant, as the revellers in Brussels paused when
they heard the cannon of Quatre Bras, then: "On with the dance let joy
be unconfined, no sleep till morn when rats and walnuts meet," and the
noise would become more deafening than ever. I think they grew to enjoy
my "shooings;" "the more noise the merrier" was evidently their motto;
but one night when I dozed off after making myself particularly
disagreeable, a large rat sprang upon my pillow, tore aside the mosquito
curtains, and hit me violently with its tail. They are revengeful
creatures.
And what appetites they had? Poison they scoffed at, but ate everything
else that was not soldered up in tin boxes, (from our Christmas pudding,
to the Baby's pelisses, and my best gloves). Their most criminal act of
depredation, was in regard to my brother's pipe. It was a beautifully
grained pipe which I took out from England for a Christmas present. On
Christmas Eve the rats penetrated into the drawer where I kept it, tore
away the wrappings, and set to work. In the morning nothing was left but
the stem, the perforated and jagged remains of the bowl, and a little
heap of chawed bits of wood. My brother was very angry when I broke the
news to him, but it wasn't my fault, they were his rats; he ought to
have had them under better control.
We got a dog, but he was useless. He was a pariah puppy, of respectable
parents; a cheery, popular fellow, who had so many evening engagements
among his friends in the village, that he could scarcely ever spare a
night at home; and during the day time he mostly slept. My sister and I
both disliked him, she because he would worry the Baby's legs, I because
he developed such an unbounded devotion to my shoes.
He never attached himself to other shoes in this way, but mine he would
not leave alone. He carried some off every day and hid them behind the
furniture, or if he had a quiet ten minutes to himself, he buried them
in the compound. Many a long lost shoe did we discover when turning out
the drawing room, or digging up the flower beds. The others were amused
at this frolicsome trait, but it was rather a stupid joke really.
I was assured by the inhabitants of Remyo that mosquitos are unknown
there during the cold weather. If this be really the case, there must
have been a special pilgrimage, and obviously I was the object of their
attentions. Fresh from England, they welcomed me with a delight that
ought to have been highly gratifying; nor could they do enough to show
their unbounded appreciation of me. I obtained mosquito curtains, but I
suppose I was clumsy in the manipulation of them, for I spent many a
lively night in the company of two or three enthusiasts who kept me
awake by their odious "ping-ping" song, and their still more odious
attentions.
There is a district in Burmah, I am told, where the cattle are provided
with mosquito curtains, and I can quite believe it, for if they can be
so obnoxious in the hills in the cold weather, what must they be in the
plains in the heat! All creatures have their work in this world, and I
suppose the mosquito was created to subdue female vanity; one cannot
well be vain with such a complexion as they gave me.
But let me quit this melancholy subject; it is impossible to be jocular
with a mosquito, and strong language would be out of place in this book.
Rats are not the only creatures in Remyo with whom we were forced to
share our meals. The place abounds in ants, beetles, and "creeping
things innumerable," and all these must live; which necessity we
recognised, but wished they could live elsewhere.
On the whole, I think the ant is the most objectionable of insects.
There is a Burmese fable concerning an ant and a lion which tells how
the ant was rewarded for assistance rendered to the lion, by receiving
permission to go everywhere, and so that this prerogative may be fully
exercised, the ant has, apparently, been gifted with matchless ingenuity
in devising means to overcome all obstacles. Amongst other
accomplishments it must have acquired the art either of swimming, flying
or bridge building, for even the dishes of water, in the centre of which
we placed our meals, were ineffectual.
The worthy Dr. Watts tells us to "go learn of the ant to be prudent and
wise," but though it is with the most submissive humility that I venture
to contradict such an authority on natural history as the gifted author
of "How doth the little busy bee," yet I must confess that I do not
recognise in the ants the first of the virtues indicated. They
devastated a full box of chocolates in a single night, which surely was
hardly prudent, unless they possess iron constitutions.
It was without doubt profitable for us to have constantly before us the
example of the clever and industrious ant, and we tried to profit
thereby, but at times we could not help feeling that the sluggard would
have been the more acceptable companion; the ant is so painfully
energetic, especially in the matter of absorbing food--the sluggard, I
feel sure, had more regard for his digestion.
I never learned to distinguish the names of the innumerable crawling
creatures whom we met at table at meal times. Their sole characteristic
is greed, and they kept me continually reminded of the plagues of
Egypt, for they came in unlimited numbers, settling on the food,
darkening the air with their numberless forms, and devouring everything
eatable! They are eminently objectionable, and I defy the most devout
lover of natural history and "beasties" generally, to find any pleasure
in their society.
One evening I was dining out, and towards the middle of dinner I
perceived a large, hideous object nestling among the profuse flower
decorations on the table. It didn't appear to me a very pleasant table
companion, but as no one else remarked it, and as I dislike appearing
disconcerted by the habits of strange countries, I said nothing about it
so long as the creature remained quiet. But when at last it came out
from its lair, and curling up its long tail made a run at me, I left the
table hurriedly.
To my relief the other guests also displayed uneasiness, for the object
of my dislike was a scorpion, which had, it was supposed, been brought
into the room with the flowers, and had remained hidden from all eyes
but mine until its unwelcome disclosure of itself. There ensued an
exciting chase up and down the table after the animal, till it was at
length caught between two table spoons and drowned in a finger bowl.
By little excitements of this kind the entertainments in Burmah are
often enlivened. Some doubt has been cast upon this story by sceptical
Europeans, but if any require proof, I can refer them to eminent members
of the I. C. S., (men whom none would dare to doubt), who will assure
them that such occurrences are frequent; in fact that the first place
one would look for a scorpion would be among the flowers upon a dinner
table!
When watching the antics of a plump good tempered Jim Crow, as he
disports himself upon a pleasant English lawn, or when listening to his
peaceful "cawing" among the shady trees on a hot summer's day, one
little dreams that this same harmless, law-abiding creature, when
exposed to the degenerating influences of the east, becomes transformed
into the most disreputable vagabond upon the face of the earth.
The impudent thefts by jackdaws have long been famed, but no words can
describe the unbounded presumption of the Burmese crows.
They are always on the watch, and if food be left for an instant in a
room with open door or window, they enter, and settle on the table
without a moment's hesitation, helping themselves to anything that takes
their fancy, in the coolest manner imaginable. When the loogalays carry
the dishes of food from the kitchen to the house, these same impish
crows pounce down on them and bear away any tempting morsels, well
knowing that the men have their hands full, and cannot make reprisals.
They appear to know by instinct the approach of meal times, and settle
in crowds on the veranda rail or the window ledge, ready to carry off
the food directly one's back is turned, and in the meanwhile they pull
faces at us, and make rude remarks, for all the world like a collection
of vulgar little street boys.
They know no fear; they only mock and mimic "shooings" and hand
clappings, and would laugh, I am sure, at the most awe-inspiring
scare-crow ever erected. They sometimes go so far as to deliberately
settle on the table and take a peck out of the cake, while one is
sitting there, and then before they can be caught, they give a cheeky
"caw," bow ironically, and flutter back to rejoin their admiring
comrades (who have doubtless dared them to the act) on the veranda. I do
not believe there exists any other creature in the world possessed of
such boundless cheek.
They have a strong sense of humour of a practical-joking kind, and one
of their amusements in Remyo was to lure us away from the tea table by
feigned attacks upon our pots of hyacinth bulbs, which they uprooted in
the most devastating manner. We would fly out to the protection of our
precious bulbs, and return to find our cakes devoured or carried away,
by a reserve body of crows, who had been waiting in ambush behind the
door.
They occasionally combine forces with other thieves. The most wearing
half hour I ever spent was one devoted to protecting the interest of the
cake and the cream jug, from the hostile attacks of half a dozen crows
and two kittens. While I lifted down the latter from the table the
former settled upon the cake, and when I turned my attentions to them,
the kittens returned to the charge. Mercifully, allies are not usually
forthcoming; only young, ignorant, and disobedient kittens would
associate with the disreputable crows; all properly brought up birds and
beasts avoid association with them. Even the vultures, who sat all day
on the trees shading the hospital, were contemptuous of those wicked
"gamin" the crows.
Dogs abound in every Burmese village, and they and the pigs are the
chief scavengers of the place. Their number is legion, for it is
contrary to the Buddhist religion to take life, so all puppies are
allowed to live; and as it is further considered an act of merit to feed
them, they have a fairly pleasant existence.
The pariah dog performs his scavenging duties conscientiously, but he
possesses few other merits to recommend him to one's esteem. He is at
best a stupid, noisy, thieving brute, whose "customs are nasty and whose
manners are none;" he occupies his time eating, sleeping, and fighting,
and his chief amusement is to snap at the heels of the European, and lie
across the road to upset the unwary bicyclist. Periodically, when the
pest becomes unbearable, a day of slaughter is appointed by the Majesty
of the Law, and all dogs who have no owner are poisoned. But in spite of
this rigorous measure, there never seems much diminution in the numbers.
Our neighbour possessed three English dogs,--two terriers and a
greyhound. They had, no doubt, been well brought up, but had been led
astray by evil companions, and they joined in the campaign which the
rats, crows, and other creatures carried on against us. They delighted
to creep into our compound, trample on the flower beds, steal my cakes
(perhaps the household was not altogether sorry for that), and make away
with our tennis balls. One day, they drove a herd of ponies all over our
beloved garden, and then retired chuckling, to watch from a safe
distance, our desperate attempts to induce the bewildered creatures to
find the gate.
The greyhound, I think, would have been a harmless creature, but the
terriers possessed a full share of the devilry of their breed, and urged
him to accompany them in all their audacious tricks. I believe it was
they who persuaded three goats (the chief destroyers of our kitchen
garden) to commence their raiding expeditions into our grounds, for the
goats always appeared from the neighbourhood of the dog's kennels, and
there was generally one terrier, at least, watching when Po Sin's
energetic chase of the goats over the radish beds began.
Other animals there were in the neighbourhood of Remyo, dwellers in the
jungle, very different from the mischievous crew I have just described.
Tiger, bear, panther, cheetah, soft-eyed gyee, hares, jackals, and
others. Sometimes, as night drew near, I tried to picture how the
inhabitants of the jungle would be waking from sleep and preparing for
their busy night's work.
The "Jungle Books" had of course inspired me with a great interest and
affection for all these animals, especially "Baloo" the bear, and
"Bagheera" the black panther, and I continued to love them so long as
they remained at a respectable distance, but when, at times, they made
expeditions into our neighbourhood, my admiration changed to awe.
A tiger was the first visitor; he killed two ponies in the stable of a
neighbour. Then a black panther commenced to parade, nightly, the road
between our house and the club. He snapped up a little terrier which was
trotting along at its master's heels one evening; he was reported to
have been seen many times about dusk, slinking along by the road side,
and one man broke a record on his bicycle, followed by an innocent and
admiring pariah dog which he mistook for the panther. There is no doubt
that the panther really did for a time haunt the road, but he was so
useful as an excuse for the men to stay late at the club till they could
get a lift down in someone else's dog-cart (an excuse that appeared
quite convincing to their nervous wives) that he almost became an
institution.
From the first I distinctly disliked jackals. My bedroom window opened
upon the back veranda, and one night I was awakened by a noise, and
looking out I saw two of these beasts (I did not know at the time what
they were) walking softly up and down devouring some food which the
loogalays had left there.
For some time I watched them, fascinated by these shadowy dark forms
creeping about in the moonlight. Then, remembering that the back door
was unfastened, that I was most probably the first person they would
encounter should they enter, and that I had promised faithfully to
return to England in six months, I thought it time to rouse my
brother-in-law.
Accordingly, I crept from my room, wakened him and my sister, and told
them to get up, to bring their guns, and follow me, as the back veranda
was full of wild animals, who might at any moment break into the house.
They were both singularly uninterested in my information (indeed my
brother only sleepily murmured "let them break" and went to sleep again)
but I insisted, and at last he rose in a very bad temper and came to
inquire into the cause of my alarm.
Of course, the noise he made tumbling about and opening the door scared
our visitors, and when he went out, the veranda was empty. A few
scathing remarks about my powers of imagination were all the thanks I
received for thus saving the lives of the family. Ingratitude, thy name
is brother-in-law!
After that my visitors came frequently, but I felt that I would rather
die than risk more sarcasm, and when I found they had no evil
intentions I grew rather to enjoy watching them. Their marvellous
quickness, their caution, and the silence of their movements seemed to
give a faint suggestion of what jungle life must be, though, of course,
the jackal compared with the nobler animals, is no more than "Jacala,
the belly that runs on four feet."
After a while, our visitors were inspired to show their gratitude by
nightly serenades. Gratitude is always delightful to meet with in man or
beast, but I wished their's had taken some other form. A jackal's voice
is powerful but unpleasant, and has a mournful effect upon the nerves.
Of dead beasts I saw many. The jungle round Remyo seemed to be a perfect
menagerie, and a noble panther, tiger or bear was often borne in triumph
into the station and deposited in the centre of the Club compound, to be
admired of all beholders.
When no time could be spared for an organised shoot, a reward would be
offered for the carcase of any panther or cheetah which might have been
annoying a neighbouring jungle village, and the animal, when killed, was
always brought in to be shown to my brother by the claimants of the
reward. It was a little startling at first to have bears, panthers,
etc., casually brought and deposited at one's front door, but we grew
accustomed to it after a while, as one grows accustomed to all things
but hanging. On one occasion some natives brought in the body of a huge
leopard which had killed and eaten a man near their village (a most
unusual proceeding for a leopard), and a terrible looking animal it was,
with huge claws and teeth, and a sneaking deceitful face. The whole
incident was disagreeably gruesome.
On another occasion we were presented with two live bear cubs, whose
parents had been killed. They were dear little fluffy brown creatures,
and we longed to keep them, but they generally become a great nuisance
when older, as they are always treacherous, and capable any day of
trotting into the village and killing half a dozen people as a morning's
amusement.
I was strangely lucky (or unlucky, I hardly know which to call it) in
the matter of snakes, for I did not see a single live snake during my
visit. I constantly expected to meet one in the compound or jungle, but
I never even found one coming up the water-hole in the bath-room, or
coiled up in my bed. The creatures never came near me, even though I
spread out the skin of a huge rock snake in the compound, in the hopes
that its relations (as is invariably the custom with snakes in books)
might be induced to assemble.
The most wise looking creatures (always excepting the elephants) which I
saw were the Burmese bullocks. Their grave, thoughtful, placid faces
reminded me of the images of Gaudama. As they crawl along their way
drawing the creaking bullock carts to the bazaar, or trot merrily
through the jungle, taking gaily-attired Burmans to attend a Pwé, they
have ever the same patient, quiet, abstracted expression, as though
this menial work is to them a mere appendage to the deeper life of
meditation. This is what their expression conveys to me; some think it
denotes stupidity.
The cattle belonging to the Burmese appear to be most independent
animals. Each morning they wander away into the jungle at their own
sweet wills, returning at night of their own accord for the milking. We
were much astonished one day, when, in answer to our request that the
milk might be brought earlier in future, the milkman replied with much
"shekkohing" and humility that it could not be, as the cow did not wish
to return earlier from her walk. The Burmans are very casual in their
treatment and care of the cattle, numbers of which fall victims to
tigers and other rapacious beasts.
This chapter would not be complete without a word or two about the
Burmese ponies; but who am I, who never could make head or tail of any
pony's propensities, to presume to describe their character? Very small
and wiry are they, very devoted to polo (which they understand quite as
well as their masters, and which they play with the same keenness);
conceited and obstinate; but obedient and affectionate to their masters,
and possessing as great a love of a joke as a Burman himself.
One of our ponies, "Pearl," a lovely little animal, and a splendid polo
player, possessed all these characteristics. With her master or mistress
she was as gentle and submissive as anyone could desire, but she assumed
the most unpardonable airs towards all the rest of the world. She
received caresses and attentions with a haughty disdain, turned up her
nose at any but the very best food, and led her poor sais a most trying
time. I admired her from afar, but we never became intimate; she
evidently despised me, and had the most disagreeable knack of making me
feel ignorant and small. She was too much of a lady to show her dislike
by kicks or snaps, and treated an enemy with scornful indifference until
he attempted to ride her, when (to use a modern colloquialism) she soon
managed to get a bit of her own back.
"Stunsail", another of our ponies, was a good old soul, of worthy
character but worthless value. He had missed his vocation in life, for
he ought most certainly to have been a circus pony. He was full of
tricks, not frolicsome or spontaneous ones, but tricks carefully
acquired by long hours of practice, such as bowing to ladies, salaaming
for bananas, and lying down, pretending to be dead. It was nice of him
to have taken the trouble to acquire these accomplishments, but his
fondness for displaying them at all times was often very disturbing to
his rider.
Our third pony "John" we always thought a quiet, easy-going individual,
until we lent him to a lady who was paying a short visit to Remyo. She
was not an accomplished horse-woman, but would not for the world have
confessed to the fact, for she liked to pose as quite fearless, and
devoted to riding.
"John's" strong sense of humour first became apparent in his treatment
of her. He soon gauged the extent of the lady's equestrian powers, and
enjoyed himself immensely. He did not unseat her or bolt with her: his
humour was of a much finer quality; he merely consistently refused to do
anything she wished. When she intended a short ride, "John" would keep
her out for hours; when she was prepared for an afternoon's expedition,
"John" would bring her home after a half-mile canter. If she announced
her wish to visit her friends at the far side of the station, "John"
would take her for a gallop through the jungle; when she donned her
oldest habit to go a quiet country ride "John" would insist upon her
calling upon her smartest neighbours, and would walk up to the front
door and stand there until she was obliged to dismount and enter.
There was no limit to the mischievous devilry of that pony. When poor
Mrs. F. rode out with the rest of the station, her troubles were even
greater. When her companions suggested a gallop, "John" wilfully
assumed his slowest walk; and when everyone was riding slowly and
conversing pleasantly together, the poor lady would suddenly, without
any apparent reason, break off in the middle of a sentence, and set off
at the wildest gallop through the jungle, or turn round and ride
furiously for home. Nothing would induce her to confess that she could
not manage her pony, so she was obliged to invent the wildest excuses
and explanations for her conduct. Others thought it was her
eccentricity, but we knew it was "John."