this and now he will do that, uncertain and unstable, putting his hand
to the plough and removing it again, my Californian at home would call
him "wivel-minded." "Wivelly" means undecided, wavering, not to be
depended on. It sounds like it. If the labourer gets his clothes
soaked, he says they are "sobbled." The sound of boots or dress
saturated with rain very nearly approximates to sobbled. But "gaamze"
is the queerest word, perhaps, of all--it is to smear as with grease.
Beans are said to be "cherky," which means dry. Doubtless the obese old
gentleman in Boccaccio who was cured of his pains--the result of
luxurious living--by a diet which forced him to devour beans for very
hunger, did think them dry and cherky. They have come up again now in
the shape of lentils, which are nothing but beans. It is not generally
known that Boccaccio was the inventor of the bean cure. Cat's claws are
notoriously apt to scratch. Should a savage cat tear out a piece of
flesh from the hand, she is said to "dawk" it out. "Dawk" expresses a
ferocious dab and tear combined. A sharp iron nail unseen might "dawk"
the skin off an unwary hand. In ancient days when women quarrelled and
fought, they are said to have "dawked" fragments from each other's
faces with their finger-nails. Such incidents are now obsolete. It has
often been pointed out that many names of places are reduplications.
New layers of population, Saxon, Dane, or Norman, added their words
with the same meaning to the former term. There is a hill called
"Up-at-a-Peak." "Up" itself signifies high, as in the endless examples
in which it forms the first syllable. "Peak," of course, is point. This
is a modern reduplication, not an archaeological one.
If any one hacks and haws in speaking, it is called "hum-dawing." Some
very prominent persons of the present day are much given to
"hum-dawing," which is often a species of conversational hedging. Are
"horse-stepple" and "stabbling" purely provincial, or known in towns?
"Stepple" is the mark or step of a horse; "stabbling" is poaching up
the turf or ground from continual movement of feet, whether human,
equine, or otherwise. The ground near gateways in fields is often
"stabbled" to such a degree in wet weather as to appear impassable. A
piece of wood falling into water, gradually absorbs the liquid into its
pores, and swells. The same thing happens in wet weather to gates and
even doors; the wood swells, so that if they fitted at all tightly
before, they can then scarcely be opened. Anything that swells in this
manner by absorption is said to "plim." A sponge does not "plim"; it is
not apparently larger when full of water than previously, and it is
still limp. To "plim" up implies a certain amount of enlargement, and
consequent tightness or firmness. Snow-flakes are called "blossoms."
The word snow-flake is unknown. A big baby is always a thing to be
proud of, and you may hear an enthusiastic aunt describing the weight
and lumpiness of the youngster, and winding up with the declaration,
"He's a regular nitch." A chump of wood, short, thick, and heavy, is
said to be a "nitch," but it seems gone out of use a good deal for
general weights, and to be chiefly used in speaking of infants. There
is a word of somewhat similar sound common among the fishermen of the
south coast. Towards the stern of a fishing smack there is a stout
upright post with a fork at the top, into which fork the mast is
lowered while they are engaged with the nets at sea. It is called the
"mitch," or "match," but though I mention it as similar in sound, I do
not think it has any other affinity.
Of old time, crab-apples were usually planted in or near rickyards or
elsewhere close to farmhouses. The custom is now gone out; no
crab-apples are planted, and so in course of years there will be but
few. Crab-apple is not nearly so plentiful as anciently, either in
hedges or enclosures. The juice of the crab-apple, varges, used to be
valued as a cure for sprains. The present generation can hardly
understand that there was a time when matches were not known. To such a
period must be traced the expression still common in out-of-the-way
places, of a "handful of fire." A cottager who found her fire out would
go to a neighbour and bring home some live embers to light up again.
When the fire chances to be nearly out, the expression is still heard
both in cottages and farmhouses, "There is hardly a handful of fire."
Such a mere handful is of course easily "douted." An extinguisher
"douts" a candle; the heel of a boot "douts" a match thrown down. But
the exact definition of "dout" is to smother, or extinguish by beating.
In the days when wood fires were universal, as the wood burned,
quantities of a fine white powder or ash collected, which at intervals,
when the servant cleaned the hearth, was swept up into a corner. At
night, if any embers remained glowing, a few shovelfuls of this heap of
white ash were thrown over them before retiring, and so the fire was
"douted." To smother with such ashes precisely conveys the meaning of
"dout." Incipient fires in grass, straw, or other material, are often
beaten out as with bushes; this too is "douting." Stick your heels in
the ground, arch your spine, and drag with all your might at a rope,
and then you would be said to "scaut." Horses going uphill, or
straining to draw a heavily laden waggon through a mud hole, "scaut"
and tug. At football there is a good deal of "scauting." The axle of a
wheelbarrow revolving without grease, and causing an ear-piercing
sound, is said to be giving forth a "scrupeting" noise. What can be
more explicit, and at the same time so aggravating, as to be told that
you are a "mix-muddle"? A person who mixes up his commissions may feel
a little abashed. A person who muddles his affairs may not be
altogether proud of his achievements. But to be a mix-muddle, to both
mix and muddle, to morally fumble without tact, and display a totally
imbecile wandering; I shall get mixed myself if I try to describe such
a state. Mixed in this sense is American too. Take a duster,
dexterously swing it, and remove a fleck of dust from a table or books,
and you will understand the verb to "flirk," which is nearly the same
as to flick. "Pansherds" are "potsherds."
Here is a country recipe for discovering whether a lover is faithful or
not. Take a laurel leaf, scratch his name on it, or the initials, and
put it in the bosom of the dress. If it turns brown, he is true; if
not, he'll deceive you. The character of a girl, according to the
following couplets, is to be learned from the colour of her eyes:--
"Brown eyes, beauty,
Do your mother's duty.
Blue eyes--pick-a-pie,
Lie a-bed and tell a lie.
Grey eyes--greediness,
Gobble all the world up."
The interpretation is, that brown eyes indicate a gentle and dutiful
disposition. Blue eyes show three guilty tendencies--to pick-a-pie,
that is, to steal; to lie a-bed, that is, to be idle; and to tell a
lie. As for grey eyes, their selfish greediness and ambition could not
be contented with less than the whole world. No one but a woman could
have composed this scandal on the sex. Sometimes the green lanes are
crossed by gates, over which the trees in the hedges each side form a
leafy arch. On the top bar of such a gate, rustic lovers often write
love messages to their ladies, with a fragment of chalk. Unable from
some cause or other to keep the appointed rendezvous, they leave a few
explanatory words in conspicuous white letters, so that the gate
answers the same purpose as the correspondence column in the daily
papers. When a gate is not available, they thrust a stick in the ground
near the footpath, split the upper end, and place a piece of paper in
it with the message.
The hamlet forge is not yet quite extinct, and the blacksmith's hammer
sounds among the oaks. He frequently has to join two pieces of iron
together, say to lengthen a rod. He places both ends in the fire, heats
them to a certain point, and then presses the one against the other. By
this simple means of touching they unite, the metal becomes one almost
like a chemical union, and so complete is it, that, with a little
polishing to remove the marks of fire, the join is not perceptible to
an ordinary eye. This is the most perfect way of joining metal, and
when accomplished, the pieces are said to be "butt-shut." The word has
passed from the forge into conversation, and the expression is often
heard, "That won't butt-shut." If any one be telling a tale, or giving
an account of something of which his hearers are incredulous, they say
it will not butt-shut--one part of the story will not agree and
dovetail with the rest; there is a break in the continuity of the
evidence, which does not unite and make one rod. Such a term is true
miners' language. Indeed, the American backwoodsmen, miners, and so on,
are really only English farmers and labourers transplanted to a freer
and larger life.
MIND UNDER WATER
The thud, thud of a horse's hoof does not alarm fish. Basking in the
sun under the bank, a jack or pike lying close to the surface of the
water will remain unmoved, however heavy the sound may be. The
vibrations reach the fish in several ways. There is what we should
ourselves call the noise as conveyed by the air, and which in the case
of a jack actually at the surface may be supposed to reach him direct.
Next there is the vibration passing through the water, which is usually
pronounced to be a good medium. Lastly, there is the bodily movement of
the substance of the water. When the bank is hard and dry this latter
amounts only to a slight shaking, but it frequently happens that the
side of a brook or pond is soft, and "gives" under a heavy weight.
Sometimes the edge is even pushed into the water, and the brook in a
manner squeezed. You can see this when cattle walk by the margin the
grassy edge is pushed out, and in a minute way they may be said to
contract the stream. It is in too small a degree to have the least
apparent effect upon the water, but it is different with the sense of
hearing, which is so delicate that the bodily movement thus caused may
be reasonably believed to be very audible indeed to the jack. The wire
fences which are now so much used round shrubberies and across parks
give a very good illustration of the conveyance of sound. Strung tight
by a spanner, the strands of twisted wire resemble a stringed
instrument. If you place your hand on one of the wires and get a friend
to strike it with his stick, say, thirty or forty yards away, you will
distinctly feel it vibrate. If the ear is held close enough you will
hear it, vibration and sound being practically convertible terms. To
the basking jack three such wires extend, and when the cart-horse in
the meadow puts down his heavy hoof he strikes them all at once. Yet,
though fish are so sensitive to sound, the jack is not in the least
alarmed, and there can be little doubt that he knows what it is. A
whole herd of cattle feeding and walking about does not disturb him,
but if the light step--light in comparison--of a man approach, away he
goes. Poachers, therefore, unable to disguise their footsteps,
endeavour to conceal them, and by moving slowly to avoid vibrating the
earth, and through it the water.
In poaching, the intelligence of the man is backed against the
intelligence of the fish or animal, and the poacher tries to get
himself into the ways of the creature he means to snare. That is what
really takes place as seen by us as lookers-on; to the poacher himself,
in nine out of ten cases, it is merely an acquired knack learned from
watching others, and improved by practice. But to us, as lookers-on,
this is what occurs: the man fits himself to the ways of the creature,
and for the time it becomes a struggle between them. It is the same
with the Red Indians, and the white trappers and hunters in wild
regions, who depend much more on their knowledge of the ways and habits
of the fur-bearing animals than upon their skill with the rifle. A man
may be an excellent shot with gun or rifle, and yet be quite incapable
of coping on comparatively equal terms with wild creatures. He is a
sportsman, depending on skill, quick sight, and ready hand--not a
hunter. Perhaps the nearest approach to it in legitimate, English sport
is in fly-fishing and salmon fishing, when the sportsman relies upon
his own unassisted efforts. Deer-stalking, where the sportsman has to
reckon on the wind, and its curious twists and turns in valleys and
round rocks, would be a very near approach to it did the stalker stalk
alone. But all this work is usually done for him by an attendant, a
native Highlander; and this man really does pit his intelligence
against that of the stag. The Highlander actually is a Red Indian, or
hunter, and in this sense struggles with the wild animal. The poacher
is the hunter on illegitimate ground, and with arts which it has been
mutually agreed shall not be employed.
Considered in this sense it is interesting to observe to what extent
the intelligence even of a fish reaches--and I think upon reflection it
will be found that the fish is as clever as any creature could be in
its position. I deny altogether that the cold-blooded fish--looked on
with contempt so far as its intellectual powers are concerned--is
stupid, or slow to learn. On the contrary, fish are remarkably quick,
not only under natural conditions, but quick at accommodating
themselves to altered circumstances which they could not foresee, and
the knowledge how to meet which could not have been inherited. The
basking jack is not alarmed at the cart-horse's hoofs, but remains
quiet, let them come down with ever so heavy a thud. He has observed
that these vibrations never cause him any injury. He hears them at all
periods of the day and night, often with long intervals of silence and
with every possible variation. Never once has the sound been followed
by injury or by anything to disturb his peace. So the rooks have
observed that passing trains are harmless, and will perch on the
telegraph wires or poles over the steam of the roaring locomotive.
Observation has given them confidence. Thunder of wheels and immense
weight in motion, the open furnace and glaring light, the faces at the
long tier of windows--all these terrors do not ruffle a feather. A
little boy with a wooden clapper can set a flock in retreat
immediately. Now the rooks could not have acquired this confidence in
the course of innumerable generations; it is not hereditary; it is
purely what we understand by intelligence. Why are the rooks afraid of
the little boy with the clapper? Because they have noticed his hostile
intent. Why is the basking jack off the instant he hears the light step
of a man?
He has observed that after this step there have often followed attempts
to injure him; a stone has been flung at him, a long pole thrust into
the water; he has been shot at, or felt the pinch of a wire. He
remembers this, and does not wait for the attempt to be repeated, but
puts himself into safety. If he did not realise that it was a man--and
a possible enemy--he would not trouble. The object consequently of the
tricks of the poacher is to obliterate himself. If you can contrive to
so move, and to so conduct yourself that the fish shall not recognise
you as his enemy, you can do much as you please with him, and in
varying degrees it is the same with animals. Think a moment by what
tokens a fish recognises a man. First, his light, and, compared with
other animals, brisk step--a two-step instead of a four-step, remember;
two feet, not four hoofs. There is a difference at once in the rhythm
of the noise. Four hoofs can by no possibility produce the same sound,
or succession of sounds, as is made even by four feet--that is, by two
men. The beats are not the same. Secondly, by his motions, and
especially the brisk motions of the arms. Thirdly, by this briskness
itself; for most animals, except man, move with a slow motion--paradox
as it may seem--even when they are going along fast. With them it is
usually repose in action. Fourthly, and this is rather
curious--experience seems to show that fish, and animals and birds
certainly, recognise man by his hat or cap, to which they have a
species of superstitious dislike.
Hats are generally of a different hue to the rest of the suit, for one
thing; and it was noted, a century ago, that wild creatures have a
particular objection to a black hat. A covering to the head at all is
so Opposite to their own ideas that it arouses suspicion, for we must
remember that animals look on our clothes as our skin. To have a black
skin over the hair of the head is somewhat odd. By all these signs a
fish knows a man immediately, and as certainly as any creature moving
on land would know him. There is no instinctive or hereditary fear of
man at all--it is acquired by observation (which a thousand facts
demonstrate); so that we are quite justified in believing that a fish
really does notice some or all of these attributes of its enemy. What
the poacher or wild hunter has to do is to conceal these attributes. To
hide the two-step, he walks as slowly as possible, not putting the foot
down hard, but feeling the ground first, and gradually pressing it. In
this way progress may be made without vibration. The earth is not
shaken, and does not communicate the sound to the water. This will
bring him to the verge of the place where the fish is basking.
Very probably not only fish, but animals and some birds hear as much by
the vibration of the earth as by the sound travelling in the
atmosphere, and depend as much upon their immediate perception of the
slightest tremor of the earth as upon recognition by the ear in the
manner familiar to ourselves. When rabbits, for instance, are out
feeding in the grass, it is often possible to get quite close to them
by walking in this way, extremely slowly, and carefully placing the
foot by slow degrees upon the ground. The earth is then merely pressed,
and not stepped upon at all, so that there is no jar. By doing this I
have often moved up within gunshot of rabbits without the least aid
from cover. Once now and then I have walked across a field straight at
them. Something, however, depends on the direction of the wind, for
then the question of scent comes in. To some degree it is the same with
hares. It is certainly the case with birds, as wood-pigeons, a flock of
them, will remain feeding only just the other side of the hedge; but,
if you stamp the earth, will rise instantly. So will rooks, though they
will not fly far if you are not armed. Partridges certainly secure
themselves by their attention to the faint tremor of the ground.
Pheasants do so too, and make off, running through the underwood long
before any one is in sight. The most sensitive are landrails, and it is
difficult to get near them, for this reason. Though the mowing-grass
must conceal an approaching person from them as it conceals them from
him, these birds change their positions, no matter how quietly he
walks. Let him be as cunning as he will, and think to cut off corners
and cross the land-rail's retreat, the bird baffles him nine times in
ten. That it is advised of the direction the pursuer takes by the
vibration of the surface is at least probable. Other birds sit, and
hope to escape by remaining still, till they detect the tremor coming
direct towards them, when they rise.
Rain and dry weather change the susceptibility of the surface to
vibrate, and may sometimes in part account for the wildness or apparent
tameness of birds and animals. Should any one doubt the existence of
such tremors, he has only to lie on the ground with his ear near the
surface; but, being unused to the experiment, he will at first only
notice the heavier sounds, as of a waggon or a cart-horse. In recent
experiments with most delicate instruments devised to show the cosmic
vibration of the earth, the movements communicated to it by the tides,
or by the "pull" of the sun and moon, it has been found almost
impossible as yet to carry out the object, so greatly are these
movements obscured by the ceaseless and inexplicable vibrations of the
solid earth. There is nothing unreasonable in the supposition that, if
an instrument can be constructed to show these, the ears of animals and
birds--living organisms, and not iron and steel--should be able to
discover the tremors of the surface.
The wild hunter can still further check or altogether prevent
observation by moving on hands and knees, when his weight is widely
distributed. In the particular instance of a fish he endeavours to come
to the margin of the water at the rear of the fish, whose eyes are so
placed that it can see best in front. When he has arrived at the
margin, and has to rear himself up, if from hands and knees, or, if
already upright, when he commences his work, he tries to conceal his
arms, or, rather, to minimise their peculiar appearance as much as
practicable by keeping them close to his sides. All this time I am
supposing that you are looking at the poacher from the fish. To a fish
or any wild animal the arms of a man are suspicious. No other creature
that they know possesses these singular appurtenances, which move in
almost any direction, and yet have nothing to do with locomotion. You
may be sure that this great difference in the anatomical construction
of a man is recognised by all wild animals once they are compelled for
their own safety to observe him. Arms are so entirely opposite to all
the varieties of limb possessed by the varieties of living creatures.
Can you put yourselves in the position of either of these
creatures--moving on all-fours, on wings, or by the aid of a
membraneous tail and fins, and without arms, and imagine how strange
the arms of a man must look? Suppose yourself with your arms tucked to
your sides under the fur of an animal; something of the idea may be
gathered by putting on a cloak without sleeves or armholes. At once it
will be apparent how helpless all creatures are in comparison with man.
It is true that apes are an exception; yet their arms are also legs,
and they are deficient in the power of the thumb. Man may be defined as
an animal with arms. While the creatures of the field or the water have
no cause to fear him they do not observe him, but the moment they learn
that he is bent on their destruction they watch him narrowly, and his
arms are, above all, the part which alarms them. To them these limbs
are men's weapons--his tusks, and tusks which strike and wound afar.
From these proceed an invisible force which can destroy where it would
seem the intervening distance alone would afford safety. The sharp
shot, the keen hook, the lacerating wire, the spear--everything which
kills or wounds, comes in some manner or other from the arms, down to
the stone or the primitive knob-kerrie. Consequently animals, birds,
and fishes not only in our own, but in the wildest countries, have
learned to watch and to dread man's arms. He raises his arms, and in an
instant there shoots forth a bright flash of flame, and before the
swift wings can beat the air again the partridge is dashed to the
ground.
So long as a gun is carried under the arm--that is, with the arms close
to the sides--many birds will let the sportsman approach. Rabbits will
do the same. Rabbits have one advantage (and perhaps only one): being
numerous and feeding out by daylight, all kinds of experiments can be
tried on them, while hares are not so easily managed. Suppose a rabbit
feeding, and any one with a gun creeping up beside the hedge, while the
gun is kept down and the arms down the rabbit remains still; the
instant the arms are lifted to point the gun, up he sits, or off he
goes. You have only to point your arm at a rook, without any gun, to
frighten him. Bird-keepers instinctively raise their arms above their
heads, when shouting, to startle birds. Every creature that has ever
watched man knows that his arms are dangerous. The poacher or wild
hunter has to conceal his arms by reducing their movements to a
minimum, and by conducting those movements as slowly as possible.