harm you or me; we do no hurt to anybody, and they don't need us for
their food. My enemies are the stoats and the weasels that run along the
hedgerows and kill rabbits and anything else they can get their teeth
into. Many of my family have suffered death at their hands, and I am
always afraid when I go on the land lest they should see my beautiful
tail. If they did it would be all up with me, for they can walk faster
than I can run. On my bank I am safe for I can drop into the water, and
the weasel or stoat that can follow me there may have all he can get. I
don't mind men, they never seek to hurt me. I don't like boys because
some have thrown stones at me, and I don't like women because one passed
last summer when I sat washing myself by my door, and she said: 'Oh,
there's a horrid rat!' and ran away."
In those late spring days there was not much opportunity for
conversation. Mr. and Mrs. Moorhen had built a nest in the roots of a
willow tree, so close to the water that had it risen an inch or two the
eggs must have been destroyed; and Mrs. Water-rat had retired to a nest
at the far end of the burrow well above the water line, a nest of weeds
and grass that had been bitten into tiny pieces and shaped rather like a
cup. Jock in those days had less time for sunning and washing himself
than he thought he needed, and was constantly in the water searching for
dainties for his wife, or looking out for attractive pieces of grass or
weed that he thought were needed to make the nest still more beautiful.
Sometimes his wife would come from the nest for a brief wash and return
immediately. Before May had passed, and at a time when the river banks
were loaded with an abundance of food that must have gladdened any
water-rat's heart, Jock was the father of six little blind baby
water-rats, and Mrs. Moorhen was the mother of eight tiny little babies,
that looked like balls of soot, so round and so black were they. It was
a busy time, but yet Jock found hours through which it was possible to
listen to the lark, or to watch the bats when they gathered towards
evening and fluttered through the air in pursuit of the flies and
insects that could never get away. In all the land there were no happier
families than those of the harmless bird that lived among the rushes,
and the good water-rat whose record defied reproach.
"If I could find nothing else to eat," he said one day when he had been
explaining his rules of life to his friends, who paused on the water
just in front of his burrow, with their little family playing round
them, "I might be tempted to eat some of those young frogs. Some of my
cousins do so, but they have rather low tastes, and you wouldn't find a
white tip to any tail among them. I hold that it's wrong, for there's no
excuse here to be anything but a vegetarian."
Doubtless the little frogs who had been tadpoles so recently and now
swarmed all over the grass, were very pleased to hear the news, for they
had quite enough enemies already, the old heron being the most
determined of them all. Though he sometimes missed his aim when he
struck at a fish now, he seldom made a mistake about a frog, and as he
too had domestic duties and a family to provide for, he was terribly in
earnest. Had he stayed in the narrower part of the river, it might have
gone ill with Jock and his family, but he felt the need of the biggest
fish he could find, and preferred the neighbourhood of the mill where
there were eels in abundance and he had a fair sporting chance of
capturing a young pike or two.
Jock and his wife had quite enough work to do in the early summer days
when their young were ready to leave the snug nest at the end of the
burrow. It was not difficult to teach them to swim, when once they could
be coaxed into the water, for their natural instinct aided them, and
they took more readily to the water than birds that are born in high
trees take to the air. But it was exceedingly difficult to make them
understand, in the first joy of their newly discovered achievement, that
the river held dangers in its waters, that if the parent water-rats were
too big for the small fish, the little ones in those early days were
quite tempting morsels. Though the father water-rat was quite a foot
long from tip of nose to tip of tail, his children could not claim more
than three inches.
Then too, the babies were inclined to scatter and to be curious, and to
go on voyages of discovery on their own account when they had passed the
period of extreme helplessness that came to them at birth.
In the days when they first looked out upon the water they had no liking
for it, and were carried for their swimming lesson in fashion rather
similar to that employed by the seal when she takes her little one for
the first time to the depths that are to serve as home for the greater
part of his life. When the moment came to leave the baby water-rat
alone, the father or mother would swim away from it, and the little one
would find that it could not drown, and that the water could not even
soak its scanty covering. The water-rat's coat is full of oil that keeps
the water standing in a thousand little bubbles on the points of its
hair unless it stays for a very long time under the water, and no
water-rats do this unless they are attracted by some roots that require
a lot of investigation. The young water-rats swam with head and back
right out of the water. At first they knew no other way, for this was
the method that their parents practised, but they were soon to learn
that, in times of danger, the body must be sunk altogether, and only the
tip of the nose allowed to show above the water. The moorhens dived in
similar fashion, and each thought that the one imitated the other.
"I daresay you find our method of diving very useful when you're at all
alarmed," said Mr. Moorhen to Mrs. Water-rat.
"I see you've learned to dive just as I do," said Jock to Mrs. Moorhen.
"It's the best way to get about, and you've learned the trick
perfectly." It would have been hard to make either believe that the
other had not copied his action.
As soon as the young family was fully grown it scattered up and down the
stream. Jock and his wife were kindly parents enough, and would
doubtless have been well pleased to keep their youngsters by their side,
but the burrow was not big enough for a family that numbered eight in
all. There were splendid positions for other burrows all along the
banks, and the young rats, knowing nothing of late autumn and winter,
were well assured that the supplies of duckweed, water-lilies, young
flags and tender roots of every description would never come to an end.
To them at least that little bend of the river was the world,--a world
full of good things; so some went north, and others went south to make
new friends and start independent housekeeping. The two that went to the
north, that is to say in the direction of the river's source, fared
well. The four that went down stream had no luck at all. Two fell
victims to the eels that lived by the mill pond, another was found by a
hungry pike, and the fourth, having ventured on to the land, under the
impression that he had discovered it, was seen by an active weasel who
would not be denied. By that time, however, August had come to an end.
Mrs. Water-rat in her snug little burrow that had had several leaves and
pieces of weeds added to it by the affectionate Jock was the mother of
another half-dozen babies. Mrs. Moorhen, who had endeavoured to raise
another brood some weeks earlier, was not so fortunate, for her eggs
were found by a land rat, one of the long-tailed, sharp-nosed, lean ugly
fellows that do so much more harm than good. But that the unfortunate
mother was actually driven off her nest by the intruder, and could see
for herself what manner of animal it was, she might have had doubts
about the earlier story that her friend of the burrow across the bank
had told her.
[Illustration: WATER RAT [Photo by T. A. Metcalfe]]
Before the autumn days had turned the greenery of the land to gold a
spell of bad weather set in, accompanied by severe rains that raised the
level of the river considerably. The entries to the burrow were flooded
and, owing to a temporary obstruction at the bend of the river, the
water threatened to pierce to the nest at the far end. On this account
it was impossible for the young water-rats to go to the river as their
brothers and sisters born in the earlier year had done, and for a time
their parents fed them upon the land, carrying them to safety through
the land holes of the burrow to the meadow-side, and always holding them
in their mouths by the loose skin at the back of the neck. From time to
time one of the parent animals would return to the water, plunging off
the bank, and generally coming up by the doorway to see whether any
change had occurred in the level of the water. These constant visits to
the river were in a way a necessity to the animals, because the oily
secretion that kept their fur from feeling the effects of the water, was
not limited to the fur, but extended to the face, and only frequent use
of water kept their eyes clear. With the very little ones this was
hardly the case at first; until they were fully grown they could live
with comparative comfort upon the land for a much longer period than was
possible with their parents.
It was while returning to the river on one of these occasions that Jock
met with what might have proved a fatal encounter. One of the young
herons born in the spring had strayed into the neighbourhood in search
of a fresh feeding ground, and spied what he took to be an appetising
morsel. He darted a stroke at it that would have ended this story on the
spot had not his intended victim been a little too quick, and dived. The
bird remained watching for any sign that would indicate the return to
the surface, knowing, by the instinct that serves every creature in
pursuit of its prey, that in the nature of things Jock could not stay
under the surface of the water for very long. Had the river been quite
clear the water-rat might have been seen swimming close to the river
bed; as it was, the recent rains in swelling the stream had made it
muddy, and Jock was able to move to a point where the water had
collected and left a mass of early fallen leaves. He travelled at a
great pace under the water and came up under these so lightly that never
a leaf was stirred, to remain perfectly motionless with no more than the
tip of his head above water. A branch that had fallen into the stream
kept him from being swept away by the force of the current, and he
stayed there while the heron moved up and down with a succession of
awkward strides, waiting patiently for what promised to be worth working
for. Exposed to the force of the water which was running rather sharply
past the corner where the leaves were covering him, Jock's fur was
speedily soaked, and for the first time in his life the protection of
oil did not avail to keep his skin dry. Happily, the heron being young
and foolish soon gave up the search, and stalked solemnly up the stream
where water was more shallow, leaving his intended prey to scramble up
the bank with some difficulty, and to lie still, wet and miserable and
helpless until the sun came out and dried his fur and he was able by
diligent combing and cleaning to reduce it to something like its natural
condition.
Owing to the peculiar formation of his feet Jock was able to dress the
whole of his fur as easily and completely as a bat might, and by the
following morning he was in no way the worse for the mischance. He lived
in the same relation to land and water that the bat lived in with regard
to land and the upper air.
As the weather did not improve the river burrow was left altogether, and
another was made in a field some little distance off. The necessary work
was done by night and very early morning, and for the greater part of
the day the family remained hidden in the burrow for the farm hands were
at work upon the land, and the confidence associated with the water-side
home had quite disappeared on the land. But the old burrow was not
deserted altogether. In the early days of autumn the old grasses of the
nest were brought out and left on the land, while a store of fresh clean
roots was carried in to serve the family during the winter months in
case of need.
By the time winter had gripped the country-side, Jock's second family
had scattered, leaving him with his wife in possession of the land-earth
they had selected for their winter home. Sometimes they would travel as
far as the stack yard of the home farm in search of their food, and were
quite devoted in their attentions to the piles of root crop that were
gathered under straw at the end of the last field waiting to be taken
away in wheel-barrows and chopped up for the cattle. Jock and his wife
would not have ventured so far from home had it not been that the brown
rats of barnland had been almost exterminated some weeks before. When
the last of the roots had been taken away, and all the land on which
green corn was not rising had been ploughed, dressed and, generally
speaking, made unfit for the water-rat's attentions, Jock and his wife
paid occasional visits to their store at the burrow end. Sometimes
during spells of very cold weather they slept there for days on end,
celebrating their return to wakefulness by a plunge into the river. Not
even the coldest weather could keep them from being clean.
Spring came at last, and the two water-rats left their home on the land,
and returned to the burrow upon the banks. The water had fallen, and
though it had left the burrow's bank-side door choked with débris, the
clearance was an easy matter. Once again the interior of the far end of
the burrow was cleaned, a new nest was made, and Mrs. Water-rat began to
prepare herself for domestic duties. Then it was that Jock strayed out
over the land for no particular purpose save sheer joy of living, and
while returning saw his enemy the weasel afar off and ran for his life.
The weasel pursued, and Jock tumbled into the water six or eight yards
in front of his foe. Because he knew less about the weasel's capacities
than he thought he did, he was foolish enough to put his head out of the
water and address the weasel who stood on the edge of the bank
hesitating as to his next movement. Jock, who was firmly persuaded that
no weasel could swim, attributed the hesitation to the wrong cause, for
as a matter of fact the weasel was only debating whether it was worth
while to get wet for the mere sake of killing. He was not hungry enough
to need a meal.
"If you could only swim as well as you can run," remarked Jock, "I
should be quite afraid of you, you horrid little beast."
"You don't know everything," replied the weasel, preparing to take a
header, "and if you swim no better than you run, you haven't much time
left to learn in."
With these words he plunged in. Conscious that something was wrong, Jock
dived to the bottom and swam as hard and quietly as he could, in search
of covert. But the weasel stuck to him, and was never very far behind.
In desperation, Jock rose under a little mass of leaves that he had
lifted from the bed of the stream, for he knew that his powers of diving
were exhausted. Perhaps this little trick might have availed to save
him, for the weasel was momentarily baffled, but his sharp eyes soon saw
the leaves dispart, he guessed the cause, and Jock fled as Hector may
have fled from Achilles round the Walls of Troy. This time he made for
his home, and entered the burrow by the newly cleared door in the bank.
It was a fatal mistake, for once his feet were on the land the weasel
was master of the situation. He caught Jock at the point where the
passage opened out by the nest, and killed him instantly with one bite
behind the neck. Then he killed Mrs. Water-rat almost as quickly, and
hurried away out of the burrow and on to the land feeling very pleased
with himself, as he ran swiftly towards the rabbit burrows where he
intended to make a fresh kill. So elated was he by the taste of blood,
and the consciousness that he had been too quick for his harmless
victims, that he ran carelessly in full view of the gamekeeper's son,
who was taking his first shooting lessons with a single-barrelled gun.
The lad saw the weasel, and took accurate aim, so that the ferocious
little animal did not survive his latest victims by more than five
minutes. The dead body was picked up and nailed to the branch of the elm
tree that served the gamekeeper as his vermin larder, and everybody was
glad that the weasel's career was ended.
But the larks that sang their hymns of praise to the sun, and the
moorhen that lived so quietly in the reeds, and even the little bats
that fluttered about at dusk round the edges of the river mourned Jock's
decease, and missed his cheerful presence when they passed the little
doorway in the bank, from which he was accustomed to look out over the
shining water and greet his many friends.
THE FLAMINGO
Some subtle sense of approaching spring stirred in the breast of the
great mute Swan. He could not call aloud, and the low tone in which he
spoke to his companion captives would not do justice to the occasion. So
he raised himself to his full height, spread his immense wings, and
darted across the pond, half-running and half-flying, and creating such
a disturbance that the squirrels in the open-air cage some distance off
raced to the top of their dead tree to see what was the matter.
On the pond the wigeon drake dived incontinently, and of the pink
flamingoes all, save one, sought the banks, where they twisted their
long necks into the shape of corkscrews, just to show their indignation.
The remaining bird stood on one leg quite unconcerned, his neck in the
shape of a capital S. He stared straight before him, and his glance
seemed to light upon the excited Swan, and pass through him to some
point behind the end of the world. The Swan was annoyed.
"This isn't the time for dreaming," he said, "on a fine April morning
when the gardens are beginning to look their best."
"I'm thinking, not dreaming," said the Flamingo quietly.
"What a waste of time," replied the Swan. "When I have nothing to do I
preen my feathers. I never think. Isn't this a pretty place; did you
ever see anything as charming?"
This was too much for the Flamingo's gravity. He turned his head, hid it
in the feathers that covered the middle of his spine, and smiled. Then
he withdrew his head, but feeling that some of the smile still lingered,
put it down to the ground parallel with his foot.
The Swan looked on admiringly. "You're a funny fellow," he said; "when I
saw one of your family for the first time I thought your body and your
head were fixed up on stilts. Now I realise that you have a very special
allowance of leg and neck. Why?"
"I'm built on special lines in order to realise my peculiar destiny,"
said the Flamingo stiffly.
"Well, well," replied the Swan, "don't take things so seriously. You're
a bit stiff in the leg, but you have a flexible neck, and your tongue
ought to match it. Tell me your story, I'm a good listener, and you
don't seem to have any friends here among your own companions."
"They are good enough in their way," replied the Flamingo, "but they are
all European or American birds. I come from Equatorial Africa, from the
land of great rivers, where the crocodiles bask in the mud, and the
hippopotamus lives under the water, coming now and again to the surface
to fill his lungs with air. Mine is a land of marabous and vultures, of
lions and antelopes, of rhinoceros and giraffe. The rarest and strangest
creatures kept in the gardens are in a way my companions, but the other
flamingoes on this pond can boast no such experiences as mine."
"How come you here, then?" asked the Swan. "If you had a good time in
Africa, why leave it?"
"A thing you call a sportsman is to blame," replied the Flamingo. "We
were having one of our state processions along the banks of the river,
and he came upon us. We had not seen a white man before, and knew
nothing of his intentions, but he knew our habits, and crept up so
quietly against the wind that when we rose we were not more than thirty
yards away from him; he could not resist the temptation of a shot,
perhaps because he thought we were good to eat. The flamingo he picked
out fell dead, another was hit hard, and I was pricked in the wing by a
stray pellet, and picked up before I could run. The sportsman removed
the pellet, and clipped my wings, so that I could not fly, and told one
of his black boys to feed me well. Then he brought me to his home over
the seas, and here I am. Excuse me a moment----"
With this abrupt apology the Flamingo lowered his head and dug his flat
upper mandible into the mud below the surface of the water. He took a
mouthful of mud and ooze, and then filtered it with the help of his
tongue and the little ridges along the edge of the lower mandible. Then
he thrust his neck up in curves that gave it the appearance of a
serpent's body, and moved both mandibles together as though to sample
the flavour of the mud.
"It isn't really to my liking," he said mournfully. "Why, where I was
born and bred I'd have had a mouthful of worms, or little frogs, or
other delicacies for less than the trouble I've just taken."
"It doesn't really matter," suggested the Swan, "you are fed by the
keepers, so you don't go hungry."
"It matters a great deal," persisted the Flamingo. "What makes every
creature in this place sick to death? What makes so many die outright?
Just the fact that they will be fed at stated hours. There isn't any
interest in the business, there isn't any search, there isn't any
travel. There have been days when the flamingo army has travelled miles
and miles on the wing searching for new feeding grounds, every bird with
his eyes wide open, his neck stretched out, his legs hanging straight
out behind him. Each one of us, even those in the centre of the wedge,
hopes at such a time to be the first to sight a good camping ground.
Then the appetite following long hours of travel, the joy of the
exercise, and wonder of the sights that we see--strange men, fierce
animals, impenetrable forests, and lands where the beasts of the field
are rulers and man is of no importance at all.
"What is there here to take the place of that life? In the morning I
stand on one leg, in the afternoon I stand on the other. I put my head
in the mud, or at the far end of my back, or under my wing, or round my
foot. I make an attempt to twist my neck on a new and original pattern,
and I listen to the ill-informed chatter of my European and American
cousins, and the strange folk who come here to see us. And I'd give all
the food that serves me for three days for three hours' wading, or
swimming, or flying in my own far country, under a sky that is really
warm. Doubtless you admire my feathers, but I assure you they are very
dim and dingy compared with what I wore in the days of my freedom under
the sun of Africa."
"I never see you swim here," remarked the Swan. He hadn't seen Africa,
and was not interested in it, and he ignored the remarks about coloured
plumes. His own feathers were very dull.
"I can swim as well as you can," the Flamingo assured him. "But I much
prefer to wade. Then I can put my head in any direction that pleases me,
under my feet if I like, with the upper mandible on the ground. The
attitude is considered quaint, and it sometimes helps one to snap up
some unconsidered trifle that went about thinking itself quite safe."
"Have you many enemies?" asked the Swan. "Can you tell me thrilling
stories of escape from danger?"
"We are too shy," explained the Flamingo. "Except upon rare occasions
nothing can come near us, and when we change our summer plumage we
choose a part of the country where man is seldom or never seen. We go
for choice to the banks of some stream that is known only to the
hippopotamus and the marabou, and live there until our new feathers are
strong."
"What about nesting time?" asked the Swan.
"That's more sacred still," replied the Flamingo. "The wildest and most
desolate stretch of marshy land will serve best for that. We build
together, there are hundreds of nests side by side. I remember my first
view of the nesting colony quite well, for I saw it when I came from the
shell, ripe fruit of the one egg of my nest. Most of the nests hold two
eggs, but when the family is doubled the young cannot get the attention
and instruction given to a single one. They were great times."