She was kept on board a small steamer that runs on the Ogowe River. This
ape was full of mischief, and had to be tied or watched constantly to
keep her out of harm. She had learned to untie all kinds of knots, so
that it was very difficult to keep her confined.
On one occasion when I was aboard this steamer her master tied her with
a long line to one of the rails alongside the boat. As a rule she always
untied the knot next to her first, but on this occasion a new kind of
knot had been tied. About six feet from her neck a single loop was tied
around one of the iron rails along the side of the deck; then the long
noose end of the string was taken to a stanchion about four feet away,
and securely tied in the angle formed by the stanchion and the rail. The
chimpanzee tried in vain to untie the single knot in the line which was
near to her; but as one end was fastened to her neck and the other to
the post, there was no loose end to draw through. She slacked the knot,
however, as far as possible, but could find no loose end; she drew it
tight again, and then examined it. Again she slacked it, and examined
each strand separately; she traced one strand of it to the post, then
she traced the other to her neck. For a moment she sat as if in deep
study; then she slipped the knot along the railing, until it was near
the stanchion. She slackened it, and surveyed it with care; she climbed
down upon the deck, and pulled first at one strand, then another. Then
she climbed around the stanchion and back again; she climbed up over the
railing, down on the outside, and back again. She climbed through
between the rails and back again two or three times, and again examined
the knot; she tightened the loop, and moved it along the rail to the
place it was first tied; she climbed up and again examined the knot; she
drew first one end and then the other, but found them both fast; she
drew the loop out as far as it would come, and, holding it in her hands,
she examined each strand of it again; then she cautiously lifted it and
put it over her head, crawled through it and the loop was undone. When
the loose line dropped on the deck, with one end still fastened to her
neck and the other to the post, she realized that she had untied the
aggravating loop in the middle. To release the end fast to the post was
only the work of a moment; the look of triumph on her face was enough to
satisfy any one that she was conscious of her victory. As soon as she
was released she gathered the line in a roll in her hands, and set out
to explore the boat again.
Away in the interior of the Esyra country I arrived at a town in which
there lived a fine strong chimpanzee about five years old; he was
playing with the children in the open space between the houses, and
appeared to take as much interest in the game as any one of them. When
they discovered a white man in the town they all came to take a look,
and he showed as much concern as any one else. After a time he came to
me and climbed upon my lap; he became a little too familiar, and I had
him taken away. Then he and the children resumed their play for a while,
and in the mean time I inquired into his history. He was captured in the
forest near the town when he was a little babe, and had lived there ever
since as one of the family. He ate and played with these children, slept
in the same houses with them, and did not seem to realize that he was
not a human being.
He belonged to one of the King's sons, who told me that the ape could
talk, and that he could understand him. He entertained me with a number
of feats that the animal had been taught to do. They were not mere
tricks performed for amusement, but they were acts of usefulness. In
fact, he was made to occupy somewhat the place of a servant.
One of the things that he required him to do, by way of entertaining me,
was to go to the spring and bring a gourd of water. He was reluctant to
do this, but he did it. As soon as he delivered the water to his master
he ran away and joined the children in their play. I expressed a desire
to see him fill the gourd with water, and his master called him again,
gave him the vessel, and we went with him. He dipped the gourd in the
water with the mouth downward, and having submerged it, turned it on its
side, and lifted it up. There was only a little water in the gourd; he
repeated this act a number of times until the gourd was almost filled;
his master said that as long as the water continued to bubble at the
mouth of the gourd the ape would continue to dip it in, showing that he
was aware of the cause of the bubbling.
This ape knew all the people of the town by name, and knew his own name;
he was required to aid the children in bringing firewood from the
forest, and many other chores about the town.
[Illustration: CONSUL IN STREET ATTIRE.]
[Illustration: CONSUL RIDING HIS WHEEL.]
One of the most intelligent and quite the best educated chimpanzee that
I have ever seen is Consul II. He is an inmate of the Bellevue Gardens
at Manchester, England. He is the most humanlike in his manners of any
of his kind that have ever been known in captivity. The many clever
feats done by this ape would fill a small volume; he has not been
trained to perform them as tricks, simply to amuse or entertain
visitors, but many of them he has taken up of his own accord, having
seen others do so. The feat that impressed me most was his skill in
riding a tricycle, and his taste for that sport. He often takes his
machine without being told, and rides all about the place; if he finds
it lying on its side, he sets it upright, adjusts the handle-bar, mounts
it, and takes a ride. He propels it with ease and guides it with
dexterity. No boy of his own age can handle it with more skill. He rides
all about the place, around the walks and drives, all over several acres
of ground; he steers it around the posts and corners, around the curves
of the paths, makes his way through crowds of people without colliding
with them. He amuses himself by the hour at this pastime. When he tires
of it he sometimes shoves the vehicle up in some corner and leaves it.
Consul also smokes cigar, cigarette, or pipe. He often finds a cigar
stub about the place, picks it up, puts it in his mouth, and goes to his
keeper for a light. One amusing habit he has is that of spitting; he is
not very skilful in this, but is persistent. However, he has the
politeness not to spit on the floor; he spreads a piece of paper on the
floor, and uses it as a cuspidor.
Consul uses a handkerchief the same as a person does; he eats with a
knife and fork, cuts up his food with ease, and never uses his fingers
in eating; he can blow a horn, but does not attempt to carry any tune.
He knows the first three letters of the alphabet, which he has painted
on a set of blocks; when asked for any one of the three, he will select
it and hold it up.
I regard the feats described above, except the last one, as being
rational, and the result of the innate faculties of the actors. We are
only beginning to understand the mental characteristics of animals, but
our researches in that field are bearing abundant fruit, and we are now
beginning to realize that all of these humbler creatures are component
parts of the great scheme of life. When man becomes more fully impressed
with the fact that all creatures think and feel in the same manner as
himself, although not to the same degree, it will make the bonds of
fellowship closer between him and nature.
THE CIRCUS IN THE COUNTRY.
BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.
Nearbye is a very small village, and a country village at that, for it
is approached by wagon roads only, and the silence of the streets is
never broken by the whistle of a locomotive, as the nearest railway is
seven miles off. The shows that come to Nearbye are few and far between,
and the people consider them such events that they mark epochs in the
history of the town. As in other places an old inhabitant would speak of
the year the war began, in Nearbye the people say, "The summer that
_Uncle Tom's Cabin_ was played in the Shoemakers' Lot," or "The autumn
that the negro minstrels came to town." Now these two shows were ten
years apart, but every one remembers the earlier one perfectly, except
the children, who have been born since the honest folk of Nearbye wept
over the tribulations of Uncle Tom. And even these think they remember
the theatrical performance under the tent in the Shoemakers' Lot. This
self-deception is due to the fact that they have heard so much about the
show that they have persuaded themselves that they saw it. But these two
shows have been entirely eclipsed in glory within the past little while,
for there was a circus in Nearbye a few weeks ago--a real circus, with a
caged lion and tiger, with an elephant, a camel, and a giraffe, as the
menagerie part, while there performed in the ring bare-back riders--both
men and women--who cavorted around the ring right merrily, and jumped
through paper-covered hoops as though they actually enjoyed that kind of
thing. Barnum, in my opinion, did much to spoil the circus as we see it
in the great cities. Three or four rings in which performances are going
on at the same time are extremely bewildering, and few spectators can
give such undivided attention to one ring as to keep entire track of all
that goes on in it. After an evening at the one-ring circus in the
country I am persuaded that I am right in my opinion, and that the
old-fashioned circus has much greater power to please than "the greatest
show on earth."
I was Miss Kitty's guest when the circus came to Nearbye, and this
attention on her part was in recognition of the fact that I had taken
her to the Barnum show at Madison Square Garden last spring. I consider
that I have been amply repaid. But, really, the best part of the show
was not under the circus tent. I doubt very much whether there was a
small boy within four miles of Nearbye who slept a wink the night before
the circus was to arrive. If any of them slept at all at night, it is
very certain that none of them continued that sleep into the daylight,
for long before the sun was up the roads leading to the village were
dotted here and there with groups of hurrying and impatient youngsters
hastening to the Shoemakers' Lot to welcome the arrival of the circus
caravan, and to superintend the erection of the tent. Pretty nearly all
the small boys in the township were on hand three hours before the first
of the circus wagons came. The long wait had tried their patience sadly,
and the gay tricks on each other with which they had beguiled the
earlier time of waiting had either been exhausted because the country
boy's repertoire of pranks is limited, or because their spirits had been
stilled by anxiety. It was rather the spirits that had given out than
the pranks, I fancy, for I saw evidence now and then of a gulped-down
sigh and a half-concealed tear when John or Tom or Billy would reach the
sad conclusion that the circus was not coming after all. But the first
wagon drove up at half past eight, and by eleven all had arrived. The
tent was pitched in short order, the ring was made, the side show was in
full working order, and the circus people were as much at home as they
ever get to be in their wandering lives.
The small boys were not the only persons attracted to Nearbye in the
early hours--not by a jugful, as the average farmer in the Nearbye
neighborhood would be apt to say if he were writing this article. People
of both sexes and all ages, from the gray-haired great-grandmother to
the infant in the arms, came or were brought, as each case required,
until there was not a vacant fence post eligible for a hitching-place
within half a mile of the circus tent. If half a dozen holidays could
have been combined into one, not one-third so many people would have
been attracted to Nearbye as were brought by this little circus. Some
city people who had gone to Nearbye for their summer vacations put on
airs about the show, and laughed at the enthusiastic excitement of the
country folk. Miss Kitty observed this in two young men who had been
made welcome on the tennis-court at her father's place, and flushed with
shame that she should know, even ever so slightly, persons of such
affected pretension. She shook her curly little head and whispered to
me: "We ought not to know them; they can't be gentlemen." Dear little
soul, I dare say she was right. We ought not to have known them, and
probably they were not gentlemen; but she will learn, when she gets to
be a grown woman, that if she confines her acquaintance only to real
ladies and real gentlemen--that is, to men and women who never put on
airs and never inconsiderately assume to be better than they are, and
who never scoff at simplicity--she will have a very narrow circle, and
will know fewer people than almost anybody in the world. But few of the
country people cared for the rudeness that Miss Kitty resented. They did
not even notice it. They had come to Nearbye to have a good time and to
see the sights, all unconscious that they furnished amusement to any
one.
As a rule they brought their dinners with them, and at twelve o'clock
they attacked baskets and pails for the good things in them. Eating,
with hard-working people, whether of the city or country, is not a time
of conviviality. They eat because they are hungry, and they get through
with the business as quickly and unceremoniously as possible. The dinner
hour, therefore, on this day of the circus did not as a rule last more
than ten minutes. There was another long wait of nearly two hours. But
this wait was relieved somewhat, for every now and then the old lion
roared portentously, and filled the souls of the youngsters with
delightful apprehension. At one o'clock the slit in the tent, by
courtesy called a door, was opened, and the people filed in. By half
past one nearly every seat was filled, and the show might have begun
then without disappointment to any, for there was no one else to come.
All were there save the bedridden; even the two blind people in the
township had come to hear, though they could not see.
Of course the show began with what I believe they called in the
programme the Grand Entrée. And of course every one who has ever been to
a circus will recall how the ladies and gentlemen of the company come
into the ring on horseback, and ride round and round with distinguished
courtesy towards each other and towards the audience, and then ride out
again. This recalls to those who have heard of such a time the days of
chivalry, and some others see in the men and women in the
sawdust-covered ring the heroes of their story-books. Miss Kitty had
just been reading Charles and Mary Lamb's _Tales from Shakespeare_, and
one of the ladies suggested to her the fair Rosalind, while the
gentleman who cantered by her side seemed very like the bold Orlando.
When this act was over, we were treated to performances by acrobats and
gymnasts, and each one seemed more wonderful than any of the rest. Each
tumbler, each jumper, each contortionist, each trapeze-swinger, each
tight-rope walker was enthusiastically applauded, and the feats of all
were regarded by the appreciative audience as entirely wonderful. This
must have been very gratifying to the actors. But what pleased best were
the acts where horses took part. Country people know about horses, and
have opinions of those who ride and drive them. The young lady who rode
two bare-back horses at once, now with a foot on each horse and now
riding one and driving the other, easily bore off the palm. When she ran
by the side of one of her steeds, as he cantered round the ring, and
vaulted to his back without touching either mane or rein, and landed
squarely upon her little feet, and then stood upright, the audience was
so filled with wonder and admiration that there was a pause before the
applause began. This evidently excited more wonder and admiration than
anything else--more indeed than the bespangled woman who confidingly
put her head in the lion's mouth, more than the other one who permitted
the elephant to walk over her and then to pick her up with his trunk.
But that which diverted the audience most of all was the trick mule--the
mule so resourceful of pranks that he threw all the boldest riders among
the ambitious youth of Nearbye. When Mike, the young man who is both
hostler and barkeeper at the White Horse Tavern, wrapped his legs round
the mule's neck and caught hold with both hands of the little fellow's
slippery tail the people in the circus tent nearly went wild with
delight. It was a hard tussle between Mike and the mule, but the latter
rolled over on Mike, who let go, and scampered out of the ring defeated,
and terrified lest the mule should kick him.
The two city young men before mentioned sat near us at the performance.
They were mightily tickled at Mike's discomfiture. Miss Kitty had not
noticed them since expressing a doubt whether they were proper
acquaintances. What was my surprise now to hear her speak to one of
them, "You try it, Mr. Simpkins," she said; "I am sure you could ride
that poor little mule." Mr. Simpkins declined in a way which implied
that Miss Kitty was right, that he could ride the mule if he chose. Miss
Kitty was evidently disappointed, and I am very much afraid that instead
of being sure that Mr. Simpkins could ride the mule, she was very sure
he could not. I have never spoken to her about her effort to entice Mr.
Simpkins to make himself ridiculous, because I was not at all sure that
she was not wrong thus to try to get revenge on one who had made merry
at the expense of the simple and honest people who were her friends and
neighbors. But even though the feeling was a very wrong one it was very
human, and I shared in it myself.
For a week after the circus, Nearbye was more deserted than I have ever
known it before. The next Sunday comparatively few people came to
church. The circus had been too much for them. They had to stay at home
to recover from the excitement of so unusual an entertainment. If the
merry clown should ever care to retire from the sawdust ring, and should
choose Nearbye as a home, I am sure the people would make him right
welcome; and if he wanted an office, I am certain that he could have the
pick, and be either constable or justice of the peace, whichever suited
him the better. The storekeepers of Nearbye for a fortnight after the
circus had gone could not make change for a bill, as the circus
treasurer had taken away with him pretty nearly all the silver coins in
the township. This circus will doubtless be talked of in Nearbye when
many of the barelegged boys who came at daylight to see it have
grandsons eager in their turn for the passing shows, and when Miss Kitty
has taken to spectacles and caps, and prefers a cozy corner within-doors
to the breezy piazza or the hammock beneath the apple-trees.
Many stories are told of actors and musicians who give tickets to their
washwomen, their boot-makers, or to others who cannot afford to pay to
hear the great ones with whom their trades may have brought them into
contact. Seldom, however, do we hear an anecdote with a twist to it like
this one concerning Paganini, and so it is possibly worth telling. One
of his biographers is responsible for it, but he prefaces the story with
the explanation that the great violinist was a most eccentric man, and
although as a rule very generous, he was also at times guilty of petty
meannesses. This was one of those times. He was to perform in a concert,
for which the price of seats was very high. His washwoman had been
bemoaning the fate which made her unable to afford to be present.
Finally Paganini wrote out an order for a seat in the top gallery, and
handed it to her. She thanked him effusively, and boasted to her friends
of the present she had got. Great was her surprise, therefore, when she
presented her bill for his laundry at the end of the week to have
Paganini request her to deduct from the amount of his indebtedness the
price of the ticket he had given her to the concert.
ALL SEASONS.
I love to play in winter-time,
When all the earth is white with snow,
When down the gleaming shining hill
My long red sled can go.
I love to play in summer-time,
When in the pond beneath the trees
My pretty ship, with sails puffed out,
Goes skimming in the breeze.
MARIE L. VAN VORST.
A RUN FROM AN "INDIAN DEVIL."
BY TAPPAN ADNEY.
Two generations have passed away from Tobique since the first settlers
came, yet so little has man encroached upon the wild domain that the
gaunt moose often stops and lingers with the friendly cattle, the shaggy
bear as the spring comes round levies tribute on the defenceless flocks,
while the balsam smells as sweet, and the crinkle of the crisp snow
beneath the moccasined foot is still as pleasant music as of old. The
woods seem changed but little; boys have turned men, the men have turned
gray, and just a little more moss lies on the fallen tree-trunks. Yet
the same change has passed over Tobique as has passed over all the
backwoods of Maine and Canada. The dreaded panther, or "Indian devil,"
as it is known, seldom troubles one now, or startles the forest with its
awful cry--so human, so bloodcurdling, that its very mention sends a
thrill through one's body.
The dangers of the woods are exaggerated. No living thing is match for a
man, and every creature among predatory beasts shuns the society of man.
There are exceptions, as there are seasons when our black bear should
not be provoked. So in the experience of every woodsman there have been
times when the rule has been broken, and it is the man that has been
hunted.
Raish Turner, now a man of some fifty years of age, still lives at the
Red Rapids, on Tobique. I have stopped at his hospitable dwelling--back
a ways from the river, on the slope of the hill, near the timber. There
was still the old, low cow-shed alongside the barn, and I have been with
him along the old wood road directly back of his place that was the
scene of an exciting adventure of his.
Raish, still called "Raish," as when he was a boy of sixteen and hauled
wood with oxen, has not forgotten the story, nor yet the long white scar
above his temple that he will carry to his grave.
The story is known to every one on Tobique, but it needs to be heard
from Raish himself, the sturdy, kindly old back-woodsman, with homespuns
in boot-tops, knife sheathed at his belt, and generally an axe over his
shoulder.
In the fall of one year, thirty-four years ago, about first fall, two
hunters came out of the woods from Pokiok stream, which lay some five
miles back of Red Rapids. They came with rather more speed than is
customary with those who travel solely for pleasure. Their story, of
which they sought to conceal nothing, and which was listened to the more
gravely because of their reputation as brave men, was that in the night
something had come around the camp, which was an open shelter with a
fire in front. The growling of their dog awakened them.
They listened, peering into the darkness, and as they listened they
heard a cry. It was not an owl, nor any wild-cat. It seemed at first
afar off, not loud, like a child in awful distress, and it affected them
strangely. Their dog began to tremble, and show fear that he had never
shown before, even before a bear. The hunters jumped to their feet,
kindled the fire, which threw a ruddy glare all around.
The thing, which they knew perfectly well, came nearer, uttering now
and then that awful cry. They sat with their guns on their knees,
speaking in whispers; but it did not attack them, and when daylight came
it withdrew. When the sun rose they broke camp and made for the
settlement.
Small wonder, then, that there was a stir in the settlement, for the men
were known to be bold, fearless hunters, and, moreover, this was the
first panther that had come near enough to bother them, for whatever the
men in the timber-camps might have to tell, such things did not greatly
trouble the settlers along the river.
Not long after that a woman living only two farms below went to the door
at noonday, and saw, or thought she saw, across the field, a creature
which she said was bigger and longer than any dog, trot away across the
lot and enter the woods, looking back once or twice as it ran.