five of which are at present in the collection of the Zoological
Society. These are true honey-eating bears, provided with long elastic
tongues, and covered with short close fur of the most beautiful dark and
glossy brown, of the tint to which seal-skins are dyed. The largest is a
perfect beauty in the eyes of bear connoisseurs, sleek and glossy, its
coat fitting it like a well-made suit of felt, and when walking upright,
as it prefers to do when about to be fed, it is “just like a person,” as
we once heard a small girl remark. It has a cream-coloured face, and a
beautiful orange “bib.” The oldest of the family has been twenty years
in the Gardens, and is so stiff and decrepit, that when on the ground it
moves like a rheumatic old man. But it can still climb, and will exhibit
most amusing feats upon the bars in return for a lump of sugar. Sugar is
the greatest luxury which can be given to these “sweet-toothed” animals
except honey, and their rations of this are carefully regulated, as it
does not agree with their constitutions when in confinement. When a lump
of sugar is shown to the old bear it climbs the bars with great
deliberation, and then holding on by all four feet waits for the visitor
to go through his part of the performance. Unless this is carried out
according to rule, the bear descends and sits on the floor, waiting
until it gets the sugar thrown to it without further trouble. But if the
lump is slowly waved round in circles from right to left—the opposite
direction is not considered fair, and the animal “won’t play” if it is
persisted in—the bear also turns “coach wheels” slowly on the bars. His
old elbows stick out and his paws turn in, but he still feels equal to
almost any number of turns if the visitor is exacting. When rewarded
with the sugar the bear “makes it last,” like a nasty little boy with a
sugar-plum, only far more ingeniously. “That was a white sugar-plum I
gave you,” says the horrible child in Mr. Du Maurier’s picture—“it was
_pink once_.” The bear is not really nasty, but it has discovered an
ingenious process by which loaf-sugar can be converted into honey. It
first wets its fore-paws, and then cracks the sugar into two pieces, and
puts one on to each paw. It then rubs the bits on with its nose, and
next picking each up again cracks it, and lays two well-moistened pieces
on to each paw, as before. It then licks these off again, and if any is
left again deposits them on the backs of its well-moistened sticky
knuckles. Finally it licks them quite clean, and turns slowly head over
heals, as an acknowledgment of the treat.
A regiment of Life Guards recently owned a large brown bear, which
ultimately found a home in the Zoo after giving proof of the wisdom of
the keeper’s opinion. It was a pet of the regiment, and was taken from
Knightsbridge to Windsor, and later to the Albany Street barracks, where
it was kept chained up like a big dog, and treated with all the
consideration due to a non-combatant member of the corps. A boy who was
rather a favourite with the men, and used to run errands, and make
himself useful about the barracks, took a fancy to the bear, and was
employed to bring it its daily rations. One day, when the animal was
asleep, the boy woke it by pulling the chain, at the same time laying
the food before it. The experience of all those employed in the care of
animals, whether wild or domesticated, forbids any approach without
speaking to the creature first. In this case the bear, sulky at being
wakened, and tethered only by a very long chain, seized the lad, and bit
and clawed him so seriously that he was for some time an inmate of the
Middlesex Hospital. The bear was “dismissed from the service,” and
condemned to solitary confinement in a cage in the terrace in the
Gardens. The ungrateful behaviour of the Guards’ bear must not be taken
as a reflection on military treatment of wild animals, for an almost
similar instance of the innate surliness of its species occurred many
years ago in the establishment of one of those retired East India
civilians whose Oriental habits were such a puzzle to the country
squires, in the country seats in which the retired “Nabobs” often chose
to spend their latter days. The gentleman in question had bought an
estate in Devonshire; but it was his pleasure always to be waited upon
by a “black man” at dinner, and in the later parts of the evening to sit
at table with a pair of black bears, each adorned with a silver collar,
seated in a large arm-chair on either side of him. An old Devonshire
woman, who had been a servant in his family, took the bears under her
charge, and fed them daily, until one of them bit three of the fingers
off her hand. This was too much even for her master’s partiality for his
pets, and the bears were slaughtered, and their bodies duly boiled down
into “bears’ grease,” under the superintendence of their former owner
and the attached domestic, who, though approving of the measure, like
John Gilpin’s wife, “had still a frugal mind,” and felt that the
unexpected supply of an expensive cosmetic should not be wasted.
The Polar bears are perhaps, with the exception of the elephants and
other great pachyderms, the longest lived of animals when in captivity.
In 1880 the first of the Polar bears died, after spending thirty-four
years in Regent’s Park, and the eldest of the pair now in the collection
has already spent twenty-six years in the Zoo. This is a splendid
animal; at a rough guess it must weigh nearly a ton, and no carnivorous
creature approaches it in size and strength. When we recollect that its
common prey is the walrus, a sea beast nearly as large as a rhinoceros,
seldom moving far from the edge of the ice-floes, and able by mere
weight to drag both itself and its enemy into the sea, and to fight for
life in its native element, the strength and armament of teeth and claws
necessary to destroy it must be greater even than those of the lion,
which, with all its weight of bone and muscle, seldom attacks even so
large an animal as a buffalo, unless crippled by wounds.
The old Polar bear is now heavy with age and indolence; but the young
female exhibits an activity and “lissomness,” whether on land or in the
water, which shows how swift, dexterous, and terrible a foe to animal
life the Polar bear must be. Confinement and maturity have not in the
least abated its vigour, and it seems to enjoy life more than any
creature in the Zoo. Fresh water is let into their bath three times in
the week, and as soon as the bottom is covered the young bear rolls in
and “cuts capers,” to use the keeper’s phrase. “She teased the old one
till he got up to have a look, and then shoved him in,” he informed us
on a recent visit; and though he seldom enters the bath now, he quite
enjoyed it when once under-water. When in the bath by herself the female
bear is in a state of pure physical enjoyment delightful to watch. She
always prefers to take a “header,” but not after the orthodox fashion,
for as her nose touches the bottom she turns a somersault slowly, and
then floats to the surface on her back. After several rolls in the water
she begins to play. Taking hold of her hind-paws with her fore-feet, she
makes a huge ball of her body, and turns round and over with a curiously
buoyant, easy movement, occasionally putting her head out to take breath
and look at the spectators. Then she clambers out, shakes herself, and
gallops round the edge of the bath. In spite of her bulk, this bear is
really as active as a cat, and can go at speed round the narrow circle
without pausing or missing a step. The next object of the bear is to
find something to play with in the water. Anything will do, but if
nothing else is handy, she usually produces a nasty bit of stale fish
which she seems to keep hidden in some handy place, and dives for it,
coming to the surface with the fish balanced on her nose, or on all four
paws. If the water is still running in she will lie under the spout, and
let it run through her mouth. But the most amusing game in which the
writer has seen her occupied was played with a large round stone. After
knocking it into the water, and jumping in to fish it out, she took it
in her mouth, and endeavoured to push it into the hole in the pipe
through which the water was running. This was a difficult matter, for
the stone was as large as a tennis-ball, and the pipe was not much
wider. Several times the stone dropped out, though the bear held it
delicately between her lips, and pushed it out with her tongue. At last
she sat up, and holding the stone between her fore-paws, put it up to
the pipe and pushed it in with her nose. This was a great triumph, and
she retired and contemplated the result with much satisfaction. Later,
being apparently tired of this achievement, she threw water at it with
her head, and failing to wash it down, picked it out with her claws, and
went on diving for it in the bath.
Bears do not often have families in the Zoo. They are bad mothers in
confinement, though when wild they are most devoted to their pretty
little cubs. It must be admitted that they are almost the least
well-housed of any creatures in the Gardens, as their dens, though dry,
are cold and small. The most remarkable cubs ever born in the Gardens
were a cross between the Polar and American black bear, born in 1853. In
the spring of 1894, one of the she-bears in the pit gave birth to a
litter of two, but one of these was killed by the male bear, and the
other fatally injured.
Their place was, however, more than filled by a pair of tiny cubs which
arrived at the Gardens on Easter Monday, a gift from Mr. Arnold Pike.
They are of the grey Syrian breed, which is found from the Lebanon,
across the high lands of Asia Minor, as far as the Caucasus, in which
mountains these cubs were found when only a few days’ old. Though in a
sense they are distant relations of the bears that ate the bad children
who mocked the prophet Elisha, these little fellows were extremely tame
and friendly. They were about the size of a large Skye terrier when they
arrived, with sawdust-coloured heads, white collars, brown bodies, and
sharp noses. They fed heartily on bread-and-milk and treacle, and their
little stomachs stuck out roundly in evidence of their appreciation of
their diet.
They were extremely sociable, and never quite happy unless people were
near them or within sight. When they had human company they sat up,
stretching their claws through the bars, in order to take hold of and
suck the fingers of any one who would permit it. If not they sucked
their own, keeping up a continual humming noise all the time. If left
alone this became a loud, sustained complaint, like the noise of a
litter of hungry puppies.
Bears are far more difficult to rear than would be thought in the case
of such rough, hardy creatures. They are liable even after the first six
months to cramp and paralysis of the hind-quarters, which gradually
increase until the animal dies.
In winter-time all the bears are worth a visit. The black Himalayan
bear, with its white front, the brown Russian and American species, with
their magnificent soft fur, and most beautiful of all, the full-grown
Syrian bear, with coat of cinnamon-grey, carrying a bloom like that on
some soft fruit, are then in perfect condition. The two grizzly bears
are interesting mainly on account of their rarity, and the possibility
that they may live to develop the huge proportions which American
hunters are unanimous in ascribing to the monsters of the Rocky
Mountains. But even in full growth, it is much to be doubted whether the
grizzly ever reaches the size even of the smaller Polar bear now in the
Gardens.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
YOUNG ANIMALS AT THE ZOO.
ARTEMIS, protectress of all young wild beasts, should be honoured with a
statue at the Zoo; for the cages are yearly filled by the graceful young
of wild creatures native to every quarter of the globe. The greater
number are born in the menagerie, honest little British lions and the
rest, of the true Cockney breed. Others come from the Gardens on the
Continent, notably from Amsterdam, where, for some reason, the
wild-beast farm thrives amazingly; and others, mainly the whelps of the
fierce carnivora, are the gifts of Indian rajahs or of African sultans
to the Empress of India, or captured by English sportsmen in their
distant forays among the beasts of prey. By mere coincidence, the Lion
House has lately been almost restocked by gifts which have been part of
the tribute from the East to the West since the days of Roman
Proconsuls. Five of the new arrivals were cubs, all of rare beauty of
form and colouring, and in the finest health and condition. Three young
tigers presented to the Princess Henry of Battenberg by the Nawab Sir
Asmanjah had reached the Gardens only twenty-four hours before the
writer paid them a visit, and were in a state of royal indignation at
their change of quarters from the ship, to which they had become
temporarily reconciled. One only would enter the front cage of the den,
where it lay on its back with its paws bent inwards, growling to itself,
occasionally turning over, laying its ears back on its head, and
flattening its nose against the back of its wrist, like a sulky child.
Two other half-grown cubs were in that interesting region known as the
“passage,” which runs between the winter cages and the fine outdoor
palaces behind. The details of the daily management of from twenty to
thirty lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars, and pumas can be comprehended
at a glance from this central position. The ground-floor of the cages in
the house, and of the playgrounds on the opposite side, is about four
feet higher than the floor of the passage. The sleeping compartment of
each cage has an iron sliding shutter, always kept locked, which gives
on the passage. A corresponding shutter leads to the playground. A
travelling bridge, running on rails, and barred on each side with iron
rods, is the means of transit from the cages to these outer runs. When
an animal is to be transferred from one to the other, the bridge is run
up, the shutters are raised, and the lion or tiger, after sniffing and
hesitating like a cat entering a room, walks through the bridge-cage,
and takes possession of its apartments. Two of the young tigers were in
the sleeping-den; the other chose to remain in the bridge-cage, where it
lay, crouched and sulking, on the floor. Though not more than
half-grown, they are more massive in shape, richer in colour and
marking, than any full-grown tiger in the Zoo. The record of their
capture is more complete than is usual in the case of animals presented
by native princes. They are part of a litter of five taken at Charglain,
about fifty miles from Hyderabad. The Nawab himself shot the tigress,
and had alighted from his howdah to measure it, when an alarm was raised
by the beaters that another tiger had been seen creeping in the jungle.
On the beat being resumed the five cubs, then about a fortnight old,
were caught, each being about the size of a full-grown cat. For the
first week a she-goat acted as foster-mother, but they were afterwards
brought up by hand with cows’-milk from a feeding-bottle. For food on
the voyage to England they were provided with a flock of sheep, and so
well were they fed, that they arrived at the Gardens with half a sheep
still uneaten in the cage.[7] The two lion cubs caught by Lord Delamere
in Somaliland were hardly of age to leave the nursery, though the
difference of temper which is so commonly observed among lions was
already marked. One, a beautifully mealy-tinted little lioness, with a
thick rough coat like a St. Bernard puppy, and dark-brown eyes, ran out
to play with a handkerchief, and could be petted like a kitten. The
other was a morose little savage, lying at the back of the cage, and
growling at every passer-by. They are fed on mutton powdered with
bone-dust, and promise to rival in beauty even the slim and elegant
young lioness presented by the Sultan of Zanzibar.
Footnote 7:
The tigers were, in fact, over-fed. They were too heavy for their
legs, their hind-quarters grew weak, and one has died.
[Illustration:
THE QUEEN’S LION CUB. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
Three litters of wild swine were born in the Gardens during the first
eight months of 1893—two early in the spring, and one, of four beautiful
piglings, late in the summer. Young wild boars are far prettier than
might be expected from the rather forbidding appearance of their
parents. Their bodies are slim and elegant, their snouts fine, their
ears short, and their legs and feet almost as finely-shaped as those of
a young antelope. Their colour is a bright fawn or a rich tan, with
longitudinal stripes like those on a tabby kitten; and in place of the
thick bristles of the older pigs, their bodies are covered with a long
and thick coat of rough hair. Family life in the wild boars’ quarters is
harmonious and amusing. For the first month the little orange-striped
pigs depend on their mother for food, and take no notice either of
visitors or of each other. Each roams about by itself in the most
independent fashion, or drops down to sleep on its stomach, with its
legs stretched straight out before and behind, like a kneeling elephant
in miniature. Later, when they have to be satisfied with the food
provided in the troughs, they become the most amusing and importunate
beggars in the Zoo, the old sow and boar setting the example, well
supported by the little pigs. The whole family stand upright on their
hind-legs in a row, like heraldic pigs supporting a coat-of-arms, with
their fore-feet against the rails, and squeak, grunt, and even climb the
wire-netting for contributions. Even if the floor is littered with
delicious hog-wash, they prefer to plead _in formâ pauperis_, and the
yearning to reach just one inch farther than their brothers seems to
give an impulse to the growth of their snouts, which soon grow long,
flexible, and narrow, like those of the parent-swine. The ancient breed
of wild swine which haunted the great Caledonian forest may claim to
have been re-established, for some of these are the third generation in
descent from ancestors bred in Scotland.
But the youngest member of perhaps the oldest family in the British
Islands was the white calf, the lineal descendant of the wild white
cattle of ancient Britain. The bull, cow, and calf formed one of the
happiest family groups in the Gardens, and should be studied by any one
desirous of appreciating the natural beauty of these cattle, one of
which, a wild steer from Chillingham, took a first prize when judged on
its merits among the finest domestic breeds of England. The bull at the
Zoo belongs to the Chartley herd, which has been in the possession of
Lord Ferrers’ family for nearly a thousand years, has a short muzzle,
broad forehead, and crescent horns with a downward reversed curve. Its
silky coat is pure white, its eyes the deepest jet-black, shaded by long
white eyelashes. The tips of the ears and of the horns are black, and
just above the hoof are black and white speckles, like the “flea-bites”
on a Laverack setter’s coat. The cow, like the bull, is white, with
black points, but the horns curve upwards. Between the two stands the
little bull-calf, a perfect miniature of its father, except that the
horns are only budding. It has the same black muzzle and ear-tips; even
its tongue is black, and the black and lustrous eye is shaded by thick,
straight white lashes, like rims of hoar-frost. Deer and antelopes breed
freely at the Zoo. The eland calf has a short body, more like that of a
young colt, with long legs, and the hump upon the back undeveloped. All
the elands are in fine condition, and might be propagated to stock our
English parks; but as an ornament they cannot compare with the
indigenous wild cattle of the Chillingham or Chartley herds. Both the
wild ass and the zebra had young ones. The young wild ass was a pretty,
playful creature, with a coat like grey velvet; but the infant zebra was
perhaps the greater favourite with the visitors to the Zoo. It exactly
resembled its mother in colour, and in the distinctness and arrangement
of the stripes, but it was far lighter and finer in its proportions.
With a luxurious instinct for comfort, the little creature usually lay
asleep upon the light-green hay which the mother pulls from the rack
above—a background which contrasted admirably with its rich sepia and
cream-coloured stripes.
But the pride and flower of all the youth of the Zoo is the young
hippopotamus. As it lies on its side, with eyes half closed, its square
nose like the end of a bolster tilted upwards, its little fat legs stuck
out straight at right angles to its body, and its toes turned up like a
duck’s, it looks like a gigantic new-born rabbit. It has a pale,
petunia-coloured stomach, and the same artistic shade adorns the soles
of its feet. It has a double chin, and its eyes, like a bull-calf’s, are
set on pedestals, and close gently as it goes to sleep with a bland,
enormous smile. It cost £500 when quite small, and, to quote the opinion
of an eminent grazier, who was looking it over with a professional eye,
it still looks like “growing into money.” There are connoisseurs in
hippopotamus-breeding who think it almost too beautiful to live. We had
hoped to find a prairie-dog family, as several of the smaller rodents
had produced young ones; but though several of the solemn little fellows
were sitting bolt upright, cramming straw into their mouths with both
hands as fast as they could, like a conjuror swallowing tape, there were
no little prairie dogs. The kangaroos and wallabies, on the other hand,
had several “joeys”; and nothing could well be stranger than this dual
existence of mother and young, in which, contrary to all precedents, the
young is carried by its parent, though it is quite independent of its
milk. Thus an old kangaroo or wallaby will put its head down to drink,
while the young wallaby, wide awake and independent in the pouch, picks
up a piece of cabbage, and, holding it in its hands, eats it like a boy
eating an apple and looking out of a window. The long, sharp claws of
the hind-legs are doubled forward when in the pouch, and project like a
couple of pens on either side of the young one’s ears, while the tip of
its tail also hangs out just under its chin. In a cage in the small
mammals’ house there were a number of young weasels, which were, without
exception, the brightest and most active creatures in the Gardens. They
were absolutely without fear of man,—bold, impudent, and astonishingly
agile. They had converted the hay at the bottom of their cage into the
likeness of a hedge-bottom, with numerous tunnels, galleries, and holes,
and in these they would play by the hour. It was always the same game,
catching and killing, and the fury with which they would roll over and
over until one had the other by the throat, and pretended to kill it,
was most excellent counterfeit. The difficulty was to tell the number of
the weasels. There were only four, but there seemed to be as many more.
They were here, there, and everywhere, and scarcely had the tail of one
disappeared at one hole, than its sharp, bright eyes were peering from
another at the opposite side of the cage. They could run either
backwards or forwards in the holes, and no mouse, rat, or rabbit would
stand a chance against these untiring and agile little enemies.
It is difficult to say why there are no young wolves at the Zoo.
According to Tschudi, the naturalist of the Alps, they are pretty little
creatures, born blind, covered with reddish-white down, and sprawl in a
heap like puppies. The little dingoes, of which a litter were born early
in the year 1893, much resemble this description, and, like the wolf
cubs, are born blind. They are sold, and fetch £1 each. Esquimaux
puppies, which are often born at the Zoo, are amusing little creatures,
ready to eat boiled tripe from a dish until their little stomachs
resemble a cricket-ball, an instance of heredity no doubt transmitted by
generations of half-starved ancestors. Young marmosets and gerbilles,
Angora goats, ibexes, mountain sheep and wapiti deer, gazelles and
opossums, with a brood of young puff-adders, young seagulls, and wild
geese, hardly complete the list of the year’s increase at the Zoo.
In 1894 the black-headed gulls reared several broods in the Gardens, but
all the other water-fowl in the large aviary failed to rear their young,
though the ibises nested, and seemed about to lay.
The water-animals, unlike the water-birds, seldom breed at the Zoo.
Probably the little ponds and pools in which otters, beavers, and seals
are kept are not large enough to give them that quiet and repose which
conduces to family life. But otters, true Devonshire otters, did once
have a litter at the Zoo, and the head-keeper, Mr. James Hunt, who was
greatly interested in their welfare, gave the following pretty
description of their habits.[8]
Footnote 8:
_Proceedings Zool. Soc._, Mar. 13, 1847.
“The female otter was presented to the Society by Lady Rolle on February
4, 1840, being apparently at that time about three months old. In 1846 a
large male was presented to the Society by the Rev. P. M. Brunwin, of
Braintree, Essex. Its weight when first taken was 21 lbs.; but it was
not half that weight when presented to the Society, having wasted much
in confinement in a cellar. About a month after his arrival there was
continual chattering between him and the female at night, which lasted
for four or five nights, but they did not appear to be quarrelling. On
August 13, the keeper who has charge of them went to give them a fresh
bed, which he does once a week. While pulling out the old bed he saw two
young ones, apparently about five or six days old, and about the size of
a full-grown rat; he immediately put back the bed, with the young ones
in it, and left them.
“On the twenty-first the mother removed them to the second sleeping-den;
her object appeared to be to let them have a dry bed. On the 9th of
September they were first seen out of the house; they did not go into
the water, but crawled about, and appeared very feeble.