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[Illustration: GOLDEN EAGLE [Photo by C. Reid]]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE HEART OF THE WILD
Nature Studies from Near and Far
by
S. L. BENSUSAN
Author of "A Countryside Chronicle," "Wild Life Stories,"
"Morocco," etc.
Illustrated with Actual Wild Life Photographs
London: John Milne
1908
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
TO SIR ROBERT HAY DRUMMOND-HAY, C.M.G.,
ETC., ETC.
DEAR SIR ROBERT,
I have but one regret in offering to you and to some small section of
lovers of wild life this bundle of stories, a regret that for the most
part they end with the violent death of the bird or beast whose
life-story is set out. One of my friendliest and most charming critics,
whom I would not willingly hurt or offend, told me lately that she will
read no more of my stories of bird and beast unless I promise to make
them end happily. I quoted Omar the Tentmaker in extenuation, and
pointed out that if we could shatter the sorry scheme of things and
remould it "nearer to the hearts desire" the lion and the lamb would lie
down side by side and the big game shooter would confine his skill to
the target. Then I added that for the time being the battle is to the
strong, and the explosive bullet and the hammerless ejector are to the
sportsman, but from the depth of a twelve year knowledge of the world
and a deep love of the life that is entrusted to our care, she turned
away declaring in great distress that I am "very horrid". Certainly I
was greatly abashed, even though I could not wish her to read this book.
You, no unworthy son of one who was a mighty hunter before the Lord,
know that these stories are true in substance if not in form, and that
such cruelty as is set out in its proper place is of the kind that man
has dealt in some way or another to the brute creation since the dim
far-off days when first he learned to fashion hatchet and spear and
knife. His excuse has passed, but the old-time savagery lingers. I have
done no more than set down what I have seen, though I have gifted bird
and beast with an intelligence they are not allowed to possess. You at
least will grant that there is some foundation for my lapse from the
grace in which serious naturalists thrive even to the second and third
edition of volumes that become works of reference to those who refuse to
admit imagination to their councils. You have seen much of the strange
camaraderie that exists in the African forest and on the heather-clad
hills of your native land, and you know that the philosophy of the
orthodox professor has not yet fashioned even in dreams all the wonders
of life in the heavens above and on the earth beneath and in the waters
under the earth. I am presumptuous enough to think that those of us who
have camped out under the canopy of the stars in the world's waste
places, and have followed the track for days and nights together, not
without privation, have caught glimpses of an order and union in the
wild life around us that will some day be recognised and investigated by
those who speak and write with more authority than I have even the
ambition to command. I must even confess, with all due humility, that I
am beyond the reach of rebuke for my attitude towards bird and beast so
long as it does not come from those, like yourself, whose experience of
the fauna and avi-fauna of North Africa, Southern Europe and the
Scottish Highlands is greater than my own.
S. L. BENSUSAN.
GREAT EASTON,
DUNMOW,
October, 1908.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
THE GOLDEN EAGLE
THE BADGER
THE CAMEL
THE RED GROUSE
THE ROEBUCK
THE WATER-RAT
THE FLAMINGO
HOB, THE FERRET
THE FIGHTING BULL
THE CUCKOO
THE SEAL
THE GIRAFFE
THE WHITE STORK
THE WILD BOAR
THE STORY OF A SLAVE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
GOLDEN EAGLE
BADGER
RED GROUSE
WATER-RAT
FERRET
YOUNG CUCKOO
A TWO DAYS' OLD CUCKOO EJECTING A YOUNG TITLARK FROM ITS NEST
WILD BOAR
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE HEART OF THE WILD
THE GOLDEN EAGLE
It is not easy to explain how the Red Fox and the Golden Eagle came to
be friends. Perhaps there were hours in the months of his extreme
loneliness when the great bird was pleased to unbend, and the fox was
the only living creature that was neither to be eaten nor feared. Then
they were near neighbours. From the rocky ledge upon which the eagle's
eyrie was set you could throw a stone to the fox earth. The Golden
Eagle, king of the air and monarch of all the wild life he surveyed,
could well afford to feel generously disposed to the fox in this wild
highland country, for poor Reynard by no means cut the gallant figure of
his brethren in Leicestershire and other homes of grass land. He went
dejected and lived poorly, liable to be shot on sight, no more than
vermin in the eyes of gamekeepers and foresters.
It was early morning, from his vantage-ground the King of the Air
surveyed his splendid hunting grounds. All round as far as the eye could
see there were hills, the heather that covered their lower sides glowed
faintly in the morning light. The air had a nipping freshness that
dwellers in town cannot imagine. Even the fox appreciated it, though he
had been on the prowl all night. He was preparing to sleep, and only
kept one eye open to watch his patron.
The golden eagle stood erect, his keen eyes piercing the distance from
Ben Hope to Ben Hiel and south to the valleys that ended with Ben Loyal.
It was his territory, bird and beast paid him tribute over all the land
his far-seeing eye could reach, even to the distant sea. Then the joy of
morning and of power came to him. He flapped his wings and screamed, the
sound of his triumph echoed among the hills.
"Good-morning, my lord," said the fox obsequiously.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" replied the eagle with good-natured contempt.
"Don't you wish you could fly on a morning like this?" Once again he
flapped his wings that must have measured six feet from tip to tip, and
the rising light caught the orange-coloured feathers that lay sharp and
pointed along his neck, gilded the yellow cere at the base of bill, and
set the gold iris of his deep-set eyes aflame. Even the fox found his
fear mingled with admiration when he looked from the black claws to the
bill that was straight at base and hooked at the point, a weapon that
could tear life out of any wild thing that lived in the Highlands.
In the sun the deep brown feathers of the eagle's body were turned to
purple, the muscles stood out like whipcord on the yellow legs feathered
to the toes. Those talons, nearly three inches long, could catch and
kill any game bird in the Highlands, from the capercailzie that lives
among the dark woods upon the shoots of the larch and pine, down to the
ptarmigan of the barren hill-tops, or his red cousin of the heather and
ling.
"It is so fine that I must enjoy the view before I start," continued the
eagle. "I suppose you supped late?"
"Yes, my lord," replied the fox nervously, "I found a couple of
dead----"
"Faugh!" interrupted the eagle in great disgust. "Carrion: I can't enjoy
anything that I haven't struck down for myself. Sometimes, when the snow
is on the ground, and I have flown some hundreds of miles in search of a
dinner, I may have to content myself with a stillborn lamb, or even with
frozen birds, but I couldn't make a rule of it, or ever thrive on such
fare."
"Do you fly for hundreds of miles literally and truly?" asked the
astonished fox. "Why, if I go over ten miles of ground, in the spring
for example, I expect my vixen to say quite a number of flattering
things; and in the winter, when I'm living solitary, I would never think
of going so far as that unless I were starving."
"My speed is about one hundred miles an hour," said the eagle solemnly,
"and I can increase it for a short distance. And now I'll bid you
good-morning." He gave another wild exultant cry and flung himself into
space. Before the fox could open the other eye, the bird was a speck of
brown without definite shape, rapidly disappearing.
"Well, well," soliloquised the fox, "if I can't fly, I don't have to
travel hundreds of miles to find a meal." So saying, he retired to his
earth.
But the Golden Eagle had not far to fly on this occasion. For the first
few moments he soared higher and higher, rejoicing in the vast spaces of
the sky, in the illimitable freedom of life, in the caress of the
morning. Only when the ecstasy had passed did he look below, far below,
where men and beasts live cribbed, cabined and confined to the surface
of mother earth. Below the hill-tops, where the ptarmigan in their
winter garb were invisible even to his keen eyes amid the surrounding
snow, past long ranges of moor where fur and feather lay low amid the
heather in an agony of apprehension, he saw a great blackcock sunning
himself on a rock by the side of a plantation of Scotch firs. The guns
had all gone south, the artful bird had baffled them time and again,
though some of his brothers, and his sister the grey hen, had gone to
bag. Now, careless of danger, the bronze-plumaged bird sat sunning
himself in the sunlight, spreading his handsome white tail feathers and
thinking of the days that were not far away when he would do battle with
his brethren for the grey hens. Around him fur and feather crouched low
and shut eyes; little birds that had come down from the high lying moors
checked their song, a shadow seemed to drop across the wintry sun. Too
late the blackcock looked up, saw his terrible enemy literally dropping
upon him, saw the huge wings and the tail feathers open like a fan to
break the impending fall, was conscious of a sudden blow--and knew no
more. In a moment the Golden Eagle's talons had pierced the blackcock to
the heart, and all that remained on the rock was a handful of bronze
feathers, as the captor rose with a shrill cry of triumph. He made
straight for a bare rock some mile or more away, and then with one foot
upon the dead bird he plucked it rapidly with his beak, scattering the
feathers on all sides. This done, he tore the skin open and feasted
ravenously on the still warm flesh.
His meal over, he preened himself, and with sudden movement rose from
the rock and resumed his flight, still hungry. This time he went in the
direction of the moorland, and instead of floating over it at a great
height travelled low, as though he had been an owl. The place was
solitary at all times, undrained and seldom shot, and he knew it for a
place where white hares might be found. Nor was he disappointed, for he
started one unfortunate puss, and laughing at her feverish attempts to
escape, dropped heavily upon her. In that moment the poor hare screamed
and died. The terrible talons had gone right through her lungs, and at
the same instant the curved beak delivered a stunning blow upon her
head. Looking hastily round, the eagle saw a piece of high flat ground
by the side of a wood, and rose in flight towards it, carrying his prey
in his talons without any apparent effort. But as he lifted it, and
before he had put the dead hare in the best position for his attack, two
ravens came suddenly from a neighbouring corrie and flew screaming
towards him, calling him all manner of insulting names for daring to
poach on their preserves. Without waiting to argue with them, he gripped
the hare again and flew away, followed for a long distance by the black,
angry birds, whose language will not bear repetition. Finally they tired
of pursuit, or perhaps remembered that he might lose command of his
temper and turn upon them. But to do that with any effect he must have
dropped the hare, and they knew well enough that he would be by no means
anxious to do that. So they abused him until they were tired, and then
returned to their corrie, feeling certain that their reputation would be
enhanced by what had taken place.
Then the Golden Eagle sought another rock, and devoured the hare at his
leisure--very angrily withal, for he hated being made ridiculous by
contemptible eaters of carrion like ravens. But the rich repast
comforted him, and when he left the rock and ascended high in air, it
was to seek a river or loch. That was soon found, and he dropped slowly
by its edge, with more grace and less force than he had used when
falling upon the blackcock. His wings and tail were spread sooner than
before, and he came to anchor as a fine sailing yacht might come to rest
with all her canvas fluttering down. By the edge of the loch he washed
with great care, removing the bloodstains from talons, beak and cere,
but he did not drink. Thirst seldom troubled him.
His hunger satiated at last, and there being no little ones to provide
for, the Golden Eagle rose high, and sailed in leisurely fashion for
miles, keeping a watchful eye on the earth, where he saw fear-stricken
birds and beasts seeking what shelter the land afforded. But he was not
hungry enough to take anything that offered, and preferred to wait until
some dainty morsel was put directly in his way. And it happened that a
red grouse, hit in the wing during the last drive of the season, was to
be seen fluttering vainly over the moorland, and the eagle fell on this
unfortunate, bringing the gift of instant death. Perhaps he was
unintentionally kind. Not being hungry, he was content to eat the dainty
parts that pleased him best, and leave the rest for fox or stoat, or any
vermin that might come along. Once again he washed with scrupulous care,
and then, rising high, turned in the direction of home. He was many
miles away, but before the widespread sweep of his wings miles
disappeared, and the thirty or forty that he had covered took less than
half an hour to race through. With his familiar scream of triumph he
lighted on his home rock, surveyed the world, and knew that it was good.
The fox had had a very long nap. He, too, had washed in his own
half-hearted fashion, and was preparing for his evening prowl.
"I hope you have had a good day, my lord," he said rather anxiously. He
had a vague fear that the hour might come when a succession of bad days
would make the great bird too careless or too hungry to regard foxes
with his present indifference.
"I've done very well, thank you," replied the Golden Eagle with the
graciousness born of a full meal. "Good luck to your hunting." So saying
he stretched himself to his fullest extent, then gradually drew his
feathers closely together, allowed the bright eyes that had never winked
at December's sun to close, and the alert, vigorous head to sink slowly
down. And so he slept.
He had but one care. His mate, who had built and lived with him for five
long years, had disappeared a month before, and he could find no trace
of her. In vain he had travelled as far as Caithness on the east, and to
Foula among the Shetlands in the north, and down south as far as
Perthshire, screaming the old love-cry as he went that she might hear
and answer him. She had left the eyrie as usual one morning; they never
hunted together, and he had not seen her again. Nor would he, for she
had failed to find food and had been tempted by carrion. The carrion--a
dead chicken--covered a steel fox-trap, and though, in her frenzied
fight for liberty, she had torn the controlling staple from the ground,
a keeper had passed within shot before she could get clear of the wood,
and now her skin was being stuffed by a Perth taxidermist, and she would
presently appear under a glass case in the hall of the shooting lodge by
the loch side.
One day differed only from another by reason of the success or failure
of its hunting. If rabbits and grouse--red, black, or white--were
plentiful, the Golden Eagle sought no other food and returned to his
eyrie at peace with all the world. But there were days in the winter
season when nothing was to be found, or more often still when the quarry
got to cover, and then the eagle would come home screaming with rage,
and the red fox would slink to his earth and remain until he was well
assured that the great bird was asleep.
Towards January's end the Golden Eagle fasted for two days, and on the
third rose in the air, feeling strangely weak and ill at ease. Happily
the mist, that had been lying all over the land and had helped to keep
him hungry, was growing thin and yielding altogether in places where the
sun struck boldly at it. So the bird winged his way to one of the
wildest forests in Sutherlandshire, a place seldom disturbed for nine
months out of the twelve. The last stalker had left with October, the
monarchs of the herd had long ceased from "belling" and had been forced
to the lowlands and the root-crop fields by the stress of severe
weather. With keen eyes, and a rage born of hunger in his heart, the
Golden Eagle saw a small herd of young stags and hinds disappear into a
wood where he could not hope to follow them, and then he skirted a few
corries and came to a wild glen where rocks lay strewn haphazard as
though there had been a battle of giants there in the days of old. But
the eagle only saw one rock--a high one standing at the brow of the glen
and bathed in sudden sunshine. A young fawn not a year old had left its
herd and was basking in the light. With a scream of triumph the Golden
Eagle swooped down upon the luckless little animal, drove the cruel
talons deep into its back, and buffeted its head with his heavy wings.
Dazed by the suddenness of the attack and blinded by the blows from the
bird's strong pinions, the poor fawn staggered to the edge of the rock,
the eagle released his grip, and his victim fell headlong on to a rock
below, striking it with a force that broke its neck and ended its
sufferings.
The dead body was too heavy for the bird to carry off, so he stayed by
its side and tore and ate ravenously, until all the hunger that troubled
him was forgotten. It was a very difficult task to rise from the heavy
meal, but he made way at once to the nearest stream in order to wash in
the icy water, and only then turned heavily towards home, feeling very
little inclined after the long fast and the heavy meal to move in any
but leisurely fashion. But he had to forget his inclinations. Two large
peregrine falcons spied their rival a long way off, and seeing that he
was not in a fit state to face their onslaught, made a furious attack
upon him. Could he have reached either of them it would have gone hard
with the one caught; but he was like a merchantman pursued by a couple
of fast cruisers, and while they could turn and twist and use their
wings in any direction they fancied, he had to follow a steady course,
and content himself with uttering threats of what he would do if he
caught one of them then or thereafter. When at last, having done all it
was safe to do without getting quite within reach of the terrible beak
or talons, the falcons flew screaming to their homes, the eagle was left
with a very bad indigestion. Had he been carrying his food in his talons
he must have dropped it, and the swift enemies would have caught it in
the air and made off beyond hope of recovery, for they could cover three
miles to his two.
Doubtless the crows and other eaters of carrion would soon leave nothing
of the carcase from which he had torn his meal.
Shortly after this day, a touch of mildness that seemed a forerunner of
spring came to the Highlands, and the Golden Eagle took a sudden flight
to the north-east. He passed beyond the limits of the land and the home
of the sea eagles, and moved swiftly in the direction of the desolate
island of Foula, beyond the larger group of the Shetlands. And on the
following day he turned to the south again, but not alone, his new mate
came with him, a beautiful creature, larger, heavier and even more
fierce than he. She had come from Norway to Foula Island, and consented
gladly enough to share his home in the wild hills of Sutherlandshire.
Through the slowly lengthening days of February the two eagles, while
hunting independently, worked together to restore the nest on the rock.
It was a very big and rough affair, six feet across at the base, built
of sticks taken from the Scotch fir and the larch and the thick twigs of
heather. Inside it was soft with grass and fern and mosses, and when it
was complete the mother eagle laid three eggs, each three inches long
and nearly as big round the broader end. They were purple, with
red-brown blotches and streaks of yellow and black. It was March before
the first egg was laid, and as the other two came at intervals of
several days, the first nestling came before the other eggs were
hatched. He was an ugly little fellow with big mouth, staring eyes, and
grey down in place of feathers.
Then the other two nestlings made their appearance, and the fox, whose
vixen had given him a litter of cubs, was more uneasy than ever. It was
apparently impossible to satisfy the appetite of the eaglets. The father
and mother birds thought less for the time being of their own wants than
of the requirements of their babies. For miles round all the weaklings
and cripples among the game birds were destroyed, and one afternoon the
mother eagle came to the eyrie with a young lamb in her claws. She had
snatched the new-born creature from the hill-side, and would have been
delighted to feed regularly on lamb, but the shepherd had seen her, and
when she paid her next visit to the hills on the following morning he
was waiting with a shot-gun. Anxiety made him fire too soon, a handful
of feathers came fluttering down, and the mother eagle received a couple
of pellets in her side and several through the outer edge of the
primaries of one wing. Thereafter she left the lambs alone. Her alarm
was the greater because she had never heard a gun before, and the shock
of the charge, though well-nigh spent before it reached her, was very
severe.
"What fools these men are," said the Golden Eagle angrily to the Red Fox
some days after the accident to his mate, "they grudge us the food for
our little ones. And yet if they had but the wit to understand, we serve
their purposes as well as our own. The strong birds and beasts that are
useful in the world can get away from us, the weak ones are taken. But
if they were not taken they would soon spoil the race. Why, I have taken
hundreds of crippled birds from these moors and valleys since men began
to shoot in these parts."
"Do you remember the place before shooting began?" asked the fox in
great wonderment.
"Not perhaps before the gun began to be used," replied the eagle, "but
my memory goes back to times when there was very little shooting indeed.
The moors were all undrained, the forests were sheep farms for the most
part, and the deer were not preserved. The Highland boys used to load
their old guns with slugs and black powder pushed in with a ramrod, and
would wait at the springs for the deer, and if they shot one would salt
it for winter eating. Then the lairds were poor men, and shared their
deer with the poachers. I was a young bird in those days, though I shall
never be old. The eagle renews his youth, and I expect to record a
hundred years. Now I must be off, here comes my mate."
The mother bird was a black speck in the distance, but her mate's loving
eye could find her out, and he sailed away to meet her as she came
heavily towards the nest, a young pig in her claws. She found a
farmhouse, and dropped on to the pig-sty, where mother sow had presented
her owners with a litter of seven. Six had managed to get within cover,
the seventh, a weakly little animal, had paid the penalty, and was
already pork. The farmer's wife had seen the outrage, but her husband
and sons were working on another part of the land and could not be
reached. So the eaglets had a splendid meal of sucking-pig, and there
was enough for the parents too.
In a few weeks the down on the eaglets' bodies had turned to feathers,
and they were completely fledged, handsome birds, like their parents in
all respects save that they had a white ring on the tail feathers. One
morning after they had learned to fly and were beginning to enjoy the
exercise, the Golden Eagle addressed them seriously.
He and his mate had just come from the farmhouse where they had
surprised a couple of hens.
"Look here, my children," he said as he plucked one dead fowl with
wonderful rapidity, "eat well to-day, for from to-morrow you will have
yourselves to look after." His children eyed him curiously, so did the
Red Fox who sat solemnly outside his lair. "I mean it," continued the
Golden Eagle seriously. "You will hunt for yourselves after to-day, and
if you come poaching on the hunting-grounds of your mother and myself
there will be trouble and you will be in the midst of it. Down to now we
have raised and fed you, your wants have been our worry, but now that
time is up, and after to-day you are no more to us than if you didn't
exist. We don't want to see you again, and if you are wise you will take
care that we don't." And on the following morning the young eaglets
departed, flew some way together, and then chose their respective
kingdoms.
They did not thrive, and of the three only one reached maturity. The
first lighted on a stoat in a ditch and could not strike it with the
sharp talons before the angry little beast had jumped at its throat and
bitten through the external jugular vein. Another, not heeding his
parents' warnings, set out for the farm whence the sucking-pig had come
and was shot. But the parent birds remained together in their eyrie and
knew no trouble save when storms were brewing. They could see storms
rising out of the Atlantic, and when one was on the way to their beloved
hills they would grow nervous and restless and fill the air with their
screams.
August came round and the Golden Eagle's joy of life knew no bounds.
Never had the moors been so full of delicious red grouse, never before
in all his long life had he fed so well.
One afternoon he sat on a rock at the head of a wild corrie. Below him
went the stalker and his master, two hundred yards away and quite
invisible.
"A fine day, Donald," said the sportsman; "my best achievement since I
came to the Highlands." To be sure he was only a Sassenach, but he had
shot a grouse, and caught a salmon in the morning, and an hour ago,
after a long stalk, he had grassed a ten-pointer that was on its way to
the lodge strapped to a pony's back.
"Best kill that de'il yonder," grumbled Donald, taking a huge pinch of
snuff preparatory to launching into a long account of the Golden Eagle's
misdeeds.
Some unaccountable impulse brought the eagle to his wings. Ignorant of
his danger, he floated lazily down the valley until the barrel of a
mannlicher rifle gleaming from below caught his quick eye. He seemed to
see right into it. As though conscious of imminent danger, he screamed
defiance and rose higher with loud flapping of his heavy wings. The
rifle cracked....
"How terribly the Mother Eagle has been screaming," said the Red Fox to
himself as he made cautious way down the hill that night. "Thank
goodness she has gone to sleep at last. My nerves were giving out."
THE BADGER
Even the residents hardly knew the part of the forest that the badger
called his own, the tourists and callers from the nearest seaside town
had never seen it. From June to September there were visitors in plenty;
they came along the white dusty roads in coaches, carriages and
motor-cars; they walked, or rode on bicycles, held picnics in the shadow
of beech and oak trees, and often left assortments of glass bottles and
paper to mark the spot they had delighted to honour. Sometimes on his
nightly rounds Brock would pass one of these places, and would make
haste to get away from the neighbourhood, for his scent was exceedingly
keen, and he knew the number of the visitors as certainly as though he
had been out during the daytime. The fear of man had come to him quite
naturally, it was part of his life to dread and avoid this relentless
enemy, just as it was his rule to range the woods by night and to retire
to his earth when the sun came out of the east heralded by the pageant
of the morning twilight.
He had few friends; only the brown owl sometimes paused in her work to
pass the time of night, or the fox, whose earth was close at hand amid
the thick-growing gorse, would hold a little converse after a good
hunting expedition that had closed before dawn woke the rest of the
woodland. Then in the moment when sleepy birds were trying their
earliest notes and wondering why those strange visitors the cuckoo and
nightingale would sing all the night through, when the wood-pigeons were
tumbling heavily from their perches, and the shy kingfisher was standing
by the edge of his home in the bank of the stream, the brown owl would
seek his hollow tree, and badger and fox would seek their homes. The
badger's abode was quite palatial. Just where the gorse ended and the
trees asserted themselves again, the soil was very light, and there were
patches of broom and bushes of pink thorn and hazel. Clear of the roots,
the first passage began, with a rather steep slope to a well-cleared
chamber in which the badger slept. Beyond this apartment there was an
upward slope from which two or three tracks branched to the right, and
at the end of the slope was another chamber used as a storeroom only a
few feet below ground. To the right of this was another dip that went to
the open air, or offered a road by yet another gallery to a point just
above the sleeping-chamber. In times of stress the grandparents and more
remote ancestors of the badger had been accustomed to use the chamber
that was nearest the second entrance, for they could then hear the
lightest human footfall. But in the old bad days even this precaution
had availed them nothing. Dogs and tongs had been employed by their
pursuers, and they had been butchered to give idle folk a few hours'
amusement.
When the badger had found the earth in the autumn following his birth,
he did not know that it should have been the home of his house. He had
wandered across miles of country when his family broke up. His parents
had separated, his two sisters had chosen their own road, and the earth
in which he was born remained in the sole possession of his father. Once
he had assured himself that he would enjoy undisputed occupation, the
badger explored and renovated all the tunnelled passages, stopped up all
entrances save one by raising sandy mounds with his feet, and prepared
to enjoy a solitary existence. Thoughtful, sober and introspective he
had no desire for companionship just then.
"I had as fine a family of cubs as you could wish to see," said father
fox, when they had known one another for a few weeks, "but the hunt drew
the gorse and two of them were killed. The others have gone away, so has
my vixen, and if the hunt comes again I'll go too."
The badger stirred uneasily, and traversed all his passages again to
make sure that every possible precautions had been taken. Though he had
stopped the bolt holes, it was only by way of hiding them from prying
eyes; a few minutes' work would suffice him to open them again in time
of need. Even when he went out at night he would cover his point of exit
in the most careful fashion, using hind and fore-feet with equal ease.
Only when the hole was screened would he set out in search of what the
wood might yield. Sometimes he would go down to the marshy ground by the
river and take toll of frogs and insects, he would even stray into the
nearest orchards and eat the fallen apples, pears and plums. Failing
these he would root up plants and fungi and carry away what he did not
want, for storing; but whether he ate in the wildest part of the wood or
comparatively near the haunts of man the enemy, he never forgot the need
for guarding against surprise. Like Agag of old he walked delicately,
and his hearing, like that of the wild boar, was only suspended when his
jaws were actually working. So he would pause with a mouthful of food,
or stop half-way in the work of grubbing up a root to scent the breeze,
though the forest held no foe within its ample boundaries.
In the early autumn, after his arrival, the young badger cleared away
the bed of dry fern and grasses in the sleeping-chamber. His methods
were peculiar, for he collected what he could in his forepaws and then
shuffled out of the earth backwards. Many journeys were necessary to
accomplish this task which was pursued by night, after a meal had been
taken; and when the work was ended, he moved to certain parts of the
wood where he had torn up ferns and grasses which were now dry. He took
these to the sleeping-chamber in the awkward fashion already described,
and though much was lost in transit he had a warm and pleasant bed at
last. Feeling at his ease he ranged the woods in search of wounded game,
making many a hearty meal off fur and feather that should have been
retrieved. Later on, the wind and the rain entered the wood together and
removed all traces that marked the badger's journey to and fro, while
the badger, finding his bed warm and his house free from draughts, set
up a barrier by the entrance and went to sleep. Like the porcupine and
squirrel he refused to face the severe weather, though it is more than
likely that he responded to warm spells and came out on certain winter
nights in search of roots, or the wasp-nests that were in the river
bank. But his capacity for sleep robbed winter of half its terrors and
kept him in good condition. The food stores supported him if he woke in
time of snow, the troubles that proved fatal to so much of the
woodland's life never reached him, and when he resumed his normal
activity in March he was no worse for the protracted rest.
The new life that stirred the forest could not rouse him to any great
ecstasy. The season did no more than endow him with a funny little grunt
and an unwonted measure of playfulness. He loved to stand on his
hind-legs and sharpen his fore-paws against the rough oak tree-trunks,
and in April evenings he would sometimes be astir before his usual time,
generally after light showers of rain. He often went lumbering through
the wood with a curious swaying movement, and sometimes walking backward
as though by way of expressing his playful humour. There was great joy
in the uncouth body, but he had none to share it with him. Even the fox
found a vixen; their loving cries resounded through the woods as they
hunted together by night, and in the heart of the earth there were four
little cubs that would sometimes come to the edge of the gorse and play
with the rabbits.
Brock was now to be ranked among the adults; he had shed his four
premolar teeth, and from tip of tail to tip of nose must have been very
nearly three feet long. He stood about a foot high and the rough skin
lay loosely on his body. His jaws were uncommonly strong--no other
animal of equal size could boast such a pair--and no dog that had not
been trained to bait badgers could have attacked him with impunity. For
the present, however, he had no enemies to face, and his lines were cast
in pleasant places, among the birds' nests that were scattered in
profusion through the wood. Where the nests were built low the badger
would not be denied--the eggs of partridge, thrush, blackbird and wild
pheasant supplied him with many a meal, and sometimes he was quick
enough to add the parent bird to his meal. The animal that could rob
wild bees of their honey had nothing to fear from birds, and even the
stoats, weasels and snakes that pursued birds' nests would not wait to
argue their claims with Brock. He soon learned that some birds deprived
of one clutch will even lay another, and was delighted to observe their
industry, and profit by it in due season. At the same time it must be
remarked that he did very little real harm. His neighbour the fox was
pursuing an active campaign against all the outlying poultry-yards with
so much success that he could afford to leave the rabbits in peace; the
badger did no more than help to reduce the overwhelming number of common
birds. Since game preserving had been practised on the estates that
joined the wood, ceaseless war had been waged against hawks, falcons and
other birds; ignorant keepers had dealt with the kestrel and the owl as
severely as with the carrion crow, and the tendency of birds like
blackbirds and thrushes was to justify Mr. Malthus by increasing beyond
the capacity of the food supply. In helping to counteract this tendency
the badger was doing good work; it was better for the eggs to be eaten
than for the young birds to be born and starved.
Summer waned, and at the time when the stags in Highland forests were
seeking the hinds, Brock found the trail of one of his own species and
felt the pangs of love. He grunted and yelped as though the spring had
come again, and followed the track of the loved one for miles, night
after night. Perhaps the unknown, whose scent would have been equally
keen, knew that she was pursued and assumed the virtue of shyness;
perhaps she was really shy. In either case she was hard to find, and on
many a morning the badger was forced to beat a very hurried retreat to
his home, hungry, footsore and disappointed, compelled to draw upon his
winter stores of roots and grasses for a meal. At last he found his
love. She had stayed to hunt for frogs in the river bed, and in rather
grudging fashion accepted his attentions. Between wooing and winning a
great gulf was fixed, but after nights of pleasant companionship, the
well-beloved one agreed to become Mrs. Brock. Had there been other males
in the neighbourhood, a fight for supremacy might have been necessary,
but the nearest badgers were many miles away and this pair had the
district to themselves. Until the storms came they roamed the woods
together, finding in addition to roots and berries, wounded game and an
occasional nest of wasps or wild bees, which they would root out and eat
as it stood, comb, honey, insects and grubs. With the first break up of
the weather each retired to its home. She lived across the river but
swimming presented no difficulty to either.
When the winter waned, and the first warm dry days called the woodland
to renewed life, the badger was early astir. Once again his bed was
scattered to the winds, and a fresh one was made in the fashion already
described; once again he tested the entrance and exits and made what
effort he could to obliterate his own tracks. Then he swam across the
river and, returning with his lady-love, conducted her to her new home
where she was quite happy. For awhile they travelled together, then he
walked alone, and in his clumsy fashion brought some fresh roots and
bulbs down to the warm earth where three blind baby badgers shared the
fern leaf couch with his mate. They were quite blind and helpless, but
while they were awake their mother was with them, and while they slept
she foraged for herself. As long as he was in the neighbourhood of the
earth her lord would hunt with her, but when he wished to go far afield
he went alone, she would not travel a long way from her little ones.
Later, Brock would lead the baby badgers on their first rambles, in the
days when they were learning to look after themselves. He showed them
how and where food must be sought, warned them of the sound and scents
that portended danger, and taught them their share of forest lore. This
was his duty now that their mother had gone back to her own quarters
across the river and the little ones must face the world alone. With the
coming of autumn he sought his mate once more, but she had gone, and for
all his efforts he never found her again. But, ranging a part of the
wood to which he had never penetrated before, he met a badger
philosopher, an old fellow who had seen six or seven summers and grown
grey with accumulated wisdom.
This philosopher, whose search for a mate had been equally unavailing,
declared that the contemplative life was best of all, remarked that the
old badger run he tenanted was not far removed from an unoccupied earth
and suggested that they should hunt together. The younger one accepted
the suggestion, and started making a bed in the new earth without delay.
It was about this time that he was called upon to give battle. Without
knowing it he had moved into a district that was favoured by one or two
daring poachers. Stray pheasants from a neighbouring estate were tempted
into open spaces by judicious display of raisins, hares and rabbits were
plentiful, and the main road was less than a mile away. One poacher had
a valuable lurcher that would start off into the wood at a given signal
and never return without a rabbit. Coming down a glade at top speed in
hot pursuit of a hare the lurcher saw the badger, and forgetful of his
safer quarry turned to the attack. It was quite a short contest. To be
sure, the dog secured a good grip, but he had forgotten or never known
the extraordinary elasticity of the badger's skin. He only realised it
when the animal he had attacked so unceremoniously had fastened on his
throat with a grip nothing could relax. In little more time than is
required to set the statement down the lurcher lay dead and terribly
mangled by the badger whose terror had given place to rage.
All in vain the poacher called and called, until the coming of the
morning light warned him to make his way home and return, without the
impedimenta of his calling, to go through the wood in the guise of a
peaceful pedestrian. To one whose knowledge of woodcraft was so complete
it was no hard task to find the spot where the lurcher lay, and a very
brief examination of the shattered head indicated clearly enough the
author of the deed. Only the badger's merciless jaws could have bitten
through the lurcher's skull as though it had been a wooden match-box.
The poacher was a dull fellow, an idle loafer who knew the county gaol
intimately, ill-treated his wife and gave long hours to the ale-house.
And yet for all his unprepossessing ways he was not without some measure
of affection, and it had been given to the dead lurcher. Never Arab
loved his well-tried horse better than this wastrel loved his dog--it
had possessed an intelligence that was almost human, and had been the
one living thing that loved him without change of mood. In the silence
of the wood the poacher cried like a little child, hid his friend under
the ferns until he could return and bury him, and then turned on the
badger's track.
Men who have been long brought up in the woodland and learned all the
tricks of the poacher's trade are hard to baffle. As the poacher moved
along all his gifts so long latent, stimulated by grief and rage, he
became for the time one with the wood and its denizens. He heard the
ceaseless under-song, and could analyse it as the skilled critic of
music can analyse the component parts of a symphony; almost
instinctively he knew the shy fearful birds that were peeping at him
through many a screen of leaves, the grass snake and adder that were
gliding away from him. In those hours of wrath and exaltation his eyes
were opened; without haste on the one hand or delay on the other he
found the badger's earth, never losing for long the track of the five
toes and the sharp nails.
Down in the darkness where his bed was strewn, Brock realised the coming
of his enemy; the horror of man so long dormant in him was revived. He
stood up noiselessly and heard the unseen feet move deliberately in
search of the entrance to the earth. Against this man who, in
clear-headed hours, could read Nature's stories as though they were set
in printed page before him, a badger must fight hard for life. It would
be a contest of wits.
The footsteps passed; the hidden animal heard the slow and regular
decline; the normal sounds of the woodland were resumed. By night, he
thought, he would creep away and leave the place, he would go back to
his old haunts below the river where there was safety. The afternoon
turned towards sunset, and then Brock, who was in a passage close to the
ground, heard the tramp, tramp that had startled him in the morning. The
man was coming back, was moving from one part of the ground to the
other, sounding the entrance and the bolt holes. Already he seemed to
know them all. What was he doing?
Presently the dull thud of a spade was heard by the mouth of the run,
and the purpose of the poacher was clear. He had blocked each entrance
and was going to dig until he had found the destroyer of his companion.
Had he stayed till the following day the quarry would have passed. He
knew this well enough so he had brought gun and food, trenching-spade,
lantern and tobacco, and was about to dig down foot by foot to the
badger's lair.
Quite undismayed now that the risk of invasion had yielded to certainty,
the hunted animal prepared to defend himself. At the foot of the first
slope he started to pile the loose earth using his hind-feet as readily
as the others, and before the poacher was half-way down the barrier was
strong enough to have kept a dog at bay. But the man was depending upon
his own exertions, he had no dog, and when his spade encountered the
defence it was speedily broken down.
By this time the badger had retreated past his bedroom into one of the
deepest passages, the one that commanded a double route. He had already
gone to two of the exits that were intended for emergency, but the human
taint was strong at each, and he feared to let the issue of the contest
depend upon a chance flight. Perhaps it was as well, for the strongly
pegged netting that was ranged round each hole must have given him a
pause that would have sufficed the poacher.
The lantern was lighted now and the pipe was out; the poacher, flabby
and out of condition, was deaf to the call of his tired limbs. Passion
sustained him in the pursuit of a task that few sane men would have
attempted. The task would have been relatively easy if additional
assistance had been to hand, but the poacher had no friends. He had
reached the bedroom now, the soil had responded to the sharp spade edge,
and with savage glee he broke up the soft couch of ferns and grass, and
then set the lantern down and mopped his forehead and thought deeply.
Two passages led from this chamber, without counting the one he had
followed; he piled the dry bed by one of them and set it alight, in hope
that the smoke might enter and make the fugitive bolt. But though the
material was dry and burnt well the air was windless and the fumes
ascended.
"Curse you," he cried, as though he knew Brock was in hearing and
thought he could follow his words. "I'll dig till I find you, if I dig
up the whole earth."
Once again the spade work was resumed, the eerie silence of the night
was broken by the recurrent thud. The poacher was drunk with passion;
the impenetrable dignity of the night and the silence of his foe seemed
to set his blood on fire. All sense of fatigue had gone; he hardly knew
how his temples were throbbing or realised that his breath was coming in
short painful gasps until, after another frenzied spell of work, he
turned to survey the long trench that marked his progress, and shout out
a gibe at the unseen badger.
At that moment his light was extinguished, the candle had burnt itself
out, the darkness enveloped him almost with a sense of physical force.
By the junction of the two paths some ten feet away Brock heard the
sound of a heavy fall, the following silence was long and deep. For some
quarter of an hour the badger did not move, then he moved cautiously to
the right along a seldom-used passage and came to a forgotten crossway.
Down one side of it a current of air came clean and pure. He followed
it, along a track he had not used before until he reached an opening
under a bank. All seemed safe. His sharp ears could not catch the sound
of human breath, there was no taint of humanity by the bush that hid the
entrance. The night was still profoundly dark. He slipped noiselessly
into the shadows.
[Illustration: BADGER [Photo by C. Reid]]
The old snake-catcher passing down the woodland clearing in the morning
found the poacher lying at peace, his spade gripped tightly in one hand.
A coroner's jury was told by the doctor that sudden and unaccustomed
exertion had brought about a failure of the heart's action and a
painless death. And twelve good men and true wondered greatly that the
deceased should have exerted himself so greatly. Trained terriers had
been put into the earth under the various nets and had returned quite
silently to their owners. "He must have been insane," said the
enlightened jurymen.