_WILD LIFE IN WATER_
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“The antelope has less reason to fear the lion than has the minnow to
dread the pike. We think of timid antelopes and roaring lions, but the
former has good use of its limbs, and so a fighting chance for its life;
but the minnows have little advantage in the struggle for existence, and
none at all when the predatory fishes are in pursuit of them.”
This was written in a note-book more than thirty years ago, and I let it
stand as evidence of how easy it is to be in error in matters of natural
history.
When I went to school there was but one teacher of the five that knew
anything about such matters, and he had the old-time views. Then a fish
was a mere machine so far as intelligence was concerned. We were told of
the cunning of foxes and the instinct of ants and bees, but never a word
of fishes.
The truth is, I might very properly speak of wild “wit” in the water
instead of “life,” for there can be not the shadow of a doubt but that
many of our fishes are really cunning. We need but watch them carefully
to be readily convinced of this. How else could they escape danger?
The pretty peacock minnows throng the grassy beach at high tide, playing
with their fellows in water just deep enough to cover them, and are,
when here, very tame and careless. They even get stranded upon the airy
side of floating leaves, and enjoy the excitement. They realize, it
would seem, that where they are no pike can rush down upon them, no
snake work its way unseen among them, no turtle crawl into their
playground; but as the tide goes out and these minnows are forced nearer
to the river’s channel, they lose their carelessness and are suspicious
of all about them.
To call this instinctive fear and result of heredity sounds well; but
the naturalist is brought nearer to the wild life about him when he
credits them simply with common sense. The charm of watching such “small
deer” vanishes if we lean too much on the learned and scientific
solutions of the comparative psychologist, and possibly, too, we wander
further from the truth. All I positively know is, that when danger
really exists the minnows are aware of it; when it is absent they throw
off the burden of this care, and life for a few hours is a matter of
pure enjoyment.
Brief mention should be made of the protective character of the coloring
of certain fishes. If such are fortunate enough to be protectively
colored, there is little to be said; but are they conscious of this?
Does a fish that is green or mottled green and gray keep closely to the
weeds, knowing that it is safer there than when in open water or where
the bottom is covered with white sand and pebbles? This may be a rather
startling question, but there is warrant for the asking. Float half a
day over the shallows of any broad pond or stream, study with care and
without preconception the fishes where they live, and you will ask
yourself not only this question, but many a stranger one. If fish are
fools, how is it that the angler has so generally to tax his ingenuity
to outwit them? How closely Nature must be copied to deceive a trout!
Having said so much of small fishes, what now of the larger ones that
prey upon them? A pike, for instance? Probably many more people have
studied how to catch a pike than have considered it scientifically. It
is tiresome, perhaps, but if a student of natural history really desires
to know what a fish actually is, he must watch it for hours, being
himself unseen.
At one time there were several large pike in my lotus pond. Under the
huge floating leaves of this splendid plant they took refuge, and it was
difficult to catch even a glimpse of them. At the same time the schools
of minnows seemed to enjoy the sunlight and sported in the open water.
More than once, however, I saw a pike rush out from its cover, and
finally learned that it systematically lay in wait for the minnows; and
I believe I am justified in adding that the minnows knew that danger
lurked under the lotus leaves.
The situation was not so hap-hazard a one as might appear at first
glance, and hours of patient watching convinced me that there was a
decided exercising of ingenuity on the part of both the pike and the
minnows; the former ever on the lookout for a victim, the latter
watchful of an ever-present danger. Day long it was a tragedy where
brute force counted for little and cunning for a great deal.
Another very common fish in my pond was likewise very suggestive in
connection with the subject of animal intelligence. I refer to the
common “sunny,” or “pumpkin-seed.” A shallow sand-nest had been scooped
near shore and the precious eggs deposited. A school of silvery-finned
minnows had discovered them, and the parent fish was severely taxed in
her efforts to protect them.
So long as this school of minnows remained together, the sunfish, by
fierce rushes, kept them back; but soon the former—was it accident or
design?—divided their forces, and as the parent fish darted at one
assaulting party, the other behind it made a successful raid upon the
nest. This continued for some time, and the sunfish was getting quite
weary, when, as if a sudden thought struck it, its tactics changed, and
it swam round and round in a circle and sent a shower of sand out into
the space beyond the nest. This effectually dazed the minnows.
Little incidents like this are forever occurring and effectually set
aside the once prevalent idea that fish are mere living machines. Look a
pike in the eye and you will detect something very different from mere
instinctive timidity.
But fish are not the only creatures that live in the water; there are
one snake and several species of turtles, and frogs, mollusks, and
insects innumerable. These are too apt to be associated with the land,
and, except the two latter forms, are usually thought of as taking to
the water as a place of refuge, but really living in the open air. This
is a great mistake. There is a lively world beneath the surface of the
water, and the tragedy of life is played to the very end, with here and
there a pretty comedy that wards off the blues when we look too long and
see nothing but the destruction of one creature that another may live.
Here is an example of cunning or wit in a water-snake. A friend of mine
was recently sitting on the bank of a little brook, when his attention
was called to a commotion almost at his feet. Looking down, he saw a
snake holding its head above the water, and in its mouth struggled a
small sunfish. Now, what was the snake’s purpose? It knew very well that
the fish would drown in the air, and not until it was dead could it be
swallowed with that deliberation a snake loves. The creature was cunning
enough to kill by easy means prey that would otherwise be difficult to
overcome, for while crosswise in the snake’s mouth it could not be
swallowed, and if put down for an instant the chances of its recapture
would be slight.
To suppose that a turtle, as you watch it crawling over the mud, has any
sense of humor in its horny head seems absurd; yet naturalists have
recorded their being seen at play, and certainly they can readily be
tamed to a remarkable degree. Their intelligence, however, shows
prominently only in the degree of cunning exhibited when they are in
search of food. The huge snapper “lies in wait,” and truly this is a
most suggestive and comprehensive phrase. I believe, too, that this
fierce turtle buries surplus food, and so gives further evidence of
intellectual activity.
To realize what wild life in the water really is it must be observed
where Nature has placed it. It is perhaps not so much set forth by
exceptional incidents that the student happens to witness as by that
general appearance of common sense which is so unmistakably stamped upon
even the most commonplace movements. Writers upon animal intelligence do
not need to be constantly on the lookout for special exhibitions of
cunning in order to substantiate the claims they make in favor of life’s
lower forms. It is plainly enough to be seen if we will but patiently
watch whensoever these creatures come and wheresoever they go and the
manner of their going and coming.
Do not be so intent upon watching for the marvellous that ordinary
incidents are not seen. In studying wild life everywhere, and perhaps
more particularly in the water, to be rightly informed we must see the
average individual amid commonplace surroundings. Doing this, we are not
misinformed nor led to form too high an opinion. It is as in the study
of humanity. We must not familiarize ourselves with the mountebank, but
with man.
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