Tiney and Puss had to get on as best they could without him, which was
not half as much fun. There was no one now to invent queer games, or
to keep the cat in order when it tried to take liberties; and no one,
too, to prevent Tiney from bullying Puss, as he was rather fond of
doing. Tiney lived to be nine, quite a respectable age for a hare, and
died at last from the effects of a fall. Puss went on for another
three years, and showed no signs of decay, except that he was a little
less playful, which was only to be expected. His last act was to make
friends with a dog called Marquis, to whom he was introduced by his
master; and though the spaniel could not take the place of Puss's
early companions, he was better than nobody, and the two got on quite
happily together, till the sad day (March 9, 1796) when Puss stretched
himself at his master's feet and died peacefully and without pain,
aged eleven years and eleven months.
_A RAT TALE_
Huggy was an old rat when he died--very old indeed. He was born in the
middle of a corn-rick, and there he might have lived his little life
had not the farmer who owned the rick caused it to be pulled down.
That was Huggy's first experience of flitting, and it was done in such
a hurry that he had hardly time to be sorry. It was pitch dark when
his mother shook him up roughly and told him to 'come along, or he
would be killed by the farmer,' and poor Huggy, blinking his sleepy
eyes, struggled out of his snug little bed into the cold black night.
Several old rats met him at the entrance, and sternly bade him stay
where he was and make no noise, for the leader was about to speak.
Huggy was wide-awake by this time. The rat spirit of adventure was
roused within him by the scent of coming danger, and eagerly he
listened to the shrill, clear voice of the leader:
'Friends, old and young, this is not a time for many words, but I want
you all to know the cause of this sudden disturbance. Last night I was
scavenging round the farmer's kitchen, seeking what I might devour,
when in came the stable-boy tapping an empty corn-sieve which he had
in his hand. He said a few words to the farmer, who rose hastily, and
together they left the kitchen, I following at a convenient distance.
They went straight to the stable, and talked for some time with their
backs to the corn-bin, which was standing open in the window. After a
while I managed to scramble up and peer into it, only to confirm what
I dreaded most--the corn-bin was empty! To-morrow they will pull down
this rick, thresh the corn, and replenish the empty bin. So, my
friends, unless we mean to die by dog, stick, or fork, we had better
be off as soon as it is daylight.'
There was a shuffle of feet all round, and a general rush of anxious
mothers into the rick to fetch out their young. Huggy was waiting at
the entrance; so, as soon as he caught sight of his mother, he raced
off with her to join the fast-assembling crowd at the back of the
rick. The leader ranged them in lines of ten abreast, and, after
walking up and down to see that all were in their places, he gave a
shrill squeak, and the column started. They marched steadily for about
two miles--slowly, of course, because of the young ones. Nothing
proved an obstacle to them. Sometimes a high wall crossed their path,
but they merely ran up one side and down the other, as if it was level
road. Sometimes it was a broad river which confronted them, but that
they swam without hesitation--rats will not stop at such trifles.
At length they came to a field where a man with a pair of horses was
ploughing. His coat, in which his dinner was wrapt, lay on the wall
some little distance from him. Seeing such a number of rats, he left
his horses and ran for his life, and hid behind a knoll, whence he
could view the proceedings without himself being seen. To his great
disgust, he saw the creatures first crowd round his coat, then run
over it, and finally eat out of his pocket the bread and cheese his
wife had provided for his dinner!
That was a stroke of luck for the rats. They had not counted on so
early a breakfast; so it was with lightsome hearts they performed the
rest of their journey.
Huggy was very glad when it was over. He had never been so far in his
life--he was only three weeks old. Their new home proved to be a
cellar, which communicated on one side with sundry pipes running
straight to the kitchen, and on the other with a large ventilator
opening to the outside air. A paradise for rats! and as to the
inhabitants of the house--we shall see.
It was early in the afternoon when they arrived, so they had plenty of
time to settle down before night. Huggy, having selected his corner,
left his mother to make it comfortable for him, and scampered off for
'a poke round,' as he called it. First he went to the kitchen, peeped
up through a hole in the floor, and, seeing no one about, cautiously
crept out and sniffed into all the cupboards. As he was emerging from
the last he beheld a sight which made his little heart turn sick.
There, in a corner which Huggy had not noticed before, lay a huge dog
half asleep! And so great was Huggy's fright that he squeaked, very
faintly indeed, yet loud enough to set Master Dog upon his feet. Next
minute they were both tearing across the kitchen. Huggy was a wee bit
in front, but so little that he could feel the dog's hot breath behind
him. There was the hole--bump--scrabble, scrabble--Huggy was safe!
Safe! yes--but oh, so frightened!--and what made him smart so
dreadfully? Why, his tail ... was gone--bitten off by the dog! Ah,
Huggy, my poor little rat, if it had not been for that foolish little
squeak of fright you might have been as other rats are--but now! Huggy
almost squeaked again, it was so very sad--and painful. Slowly he
crept back to the cellar, where he had to endure the jeers of his
young companions and the good advice of his elders.
[Illustration: 'SEEING SUCH A NUMBER OF RATS, HE LEFT HIS HORSES AND
RAN FOR HIS LIFE']
It was some weeks before Huggy fully recovered himself, and more weeks
still before he could screw up his courage to appear among his
companions as the 'tailless rat;' but at long and at last he did crawl
out, and, because he looked so shy and frightened, the other rats were
merciful, and let him alone. The old rat, too--the leader--took a
great fancy to him, and used to allow Huggy to accompany him on his
various exploits, which was considered a great privilege among the
older rats, and Huggy was very proud of it. One night he and the
leader were out together, when their walk happened to take them (as it
generally did) round by the pantry. As a matter of course, they went
in, and had a good meal off a loaf which the careless table-maid had
left standing on the shelf. Beside the loaf was a box of matches, and
Huggy could not be happy till he had found out what was inside. First
he gnawed the box a little, then he dragged it up and down, then he
gnawed a little more, and, finding it was not very good to eat, he
began to play with it. Suddenly, without any warning, there was a
splutter and a flare. Huggy and the leader were outside in a
twinkling, leaving the pantry in a blaze. Luckily no great damage was
done, for the flames were seen and put out in time.
So, little by little, Huggy was led on. In vain did his mother plead
with him to be careful. He was 'a big rat now, and could look after
himself,' he said. The following week the leader organised a party to
invade the hen-house. Of course Huggy was among the number chosen. It
required no little skill to creep noiselessly up the broken ladder,
visiting the various nests ranged along each side of the walls; for
laying hens are nervous ladies, and, if startled, make enough noise to
waken a town. But the leader had selected his party well, and not a
sound was made till the proper time came. Once up the ladder, each rat
took it in turn to slip in behind the hen, and gently roll one egg at
a time from under her. The poor birds rarely resisted; experience had
taught them long since the futility of such conduct. It was the young
and ignorant fowls who gave all the trouble; they fluttered about in a
fright and disturbed the whole house. But the rats knew pretty well
which to go to; so they worked on without interruption. When they had
collected about a dozen eggs, the next move was to take them safely
down the ladder into the cellar. This was very soon done. Huggy lay
down on his back, nestled an egg cosily between himself and his two
front paws; a feather was put through his mouth, by which means a rat
on either side dragged him along. Huggy found it rather rough on his
back going down the ladder, but, with a good supper in view, he could
bear most things. The eggs having been brought thus to the level of
the ground, the rats dragged them in the same way slowly and carefully
down to the cellar.
So time went on. Night after night parties of rats went out, and each
morning they returned with tales of adventure and cunning--all more or
less daring. But the leader was getting old. Huggy had noticed for
some time how grey and feeble he was becoming; nor was he much
surprised when, one day, the leader told him that he (Huggy) would
have to take his place as leader of the rats. Two days after this the
old rat died, leaving Huggy to succeed him; and a fine lot of scrapes
did that rat and his followers get into.
The larder was their favourite haunt, where joints of meat were hung
on hooks 'quite out o' reach o' them rats,' as the cook said. But
Huggy thought differently, and in a trice ten large rats had run up
the wall and down the hook, and were gobbling the meat as fast as they
could. But there was one hook in the centre of the ceiling which Huggy
could not reach; from this hook a nice fat duck was suspended by a
string. 'If only I could get on to that hook I should gnaw the string,
and the duck would fall, and----'
Huggy got no further. An idea had come to him which he communicated
quickly to the others. The plan seemed to be appreciated, for they all
ran to an old chair, which was standing just under this difficult
centre hook. The strongest rat went first, climbed up the back of the
chair, and balanced himself on the top; Number 2 followed, and
carefully balanced on Number 1; Number 1 then squeaked, which meant he
could bear no more. It was a pity he could not stand _one_ more; for,
as they were, the topmost rat could just reach the prize, and though
he nibbled all round as far as he could, it was not what might be
called 'a square meal.' The cook was indeed amazed when, next morning,
she found only three-fourths of her precious duck remaining. 'Ah!' she
said, 'I'll be even with you yet, you cunning beasts!' And that night
she sliced up part of a duck with some cheese, and put it in a plate
on the larder floor. At his usual hour, when all was dark and quiet,
Huggy and his followers arrived, and, seeing their much-coveted prize
under their very noses, were cautious. But Huggy was up to the trick.
'To-night and to-morrow night you may eat it,' he said, 'but beware of
the third.' So they partook of the duck, and enjoyed it that night and
the next, but the third the dish was left untouched.
[Illustration: {THE RATS IN THE LARDER}]
The cook was up betimes that morning, so that she might bury the
corpses before breakfast. Her dog (the same who had robbed Huggy of
his tail), according to his custom, followed her into the larder. On
seeing the plate just as she had left it the night before, the cook,
in her astonishment, forgot the dog, who, finding no one gainsay him,
licked the dish with infinite relish. Poor dog! In spite of all
efforts to save him he died ten minutes afterwards; and the cook
learnt her lesson also, for she never tried poisoning rats again.
Here end the chief events of Huggy's life--all, at least, that are
worth recording.
Some years after the death of the dog I was sitting in the gloaming
close to a steep path which led from the cellar down to the river,
when what should I see but three large rats coming slowly towards me.
The middle one was the largest, and evidently blind, for he had in his
mouth a long straw, by which the other two led him carefully down the
path. As the trio passed I recognised the centre one to be Huggy the
Tailless.
Next morning my little Irish terrier, Jick, brought him to me in his
mouth, dead; and I buried him under a Gloire de Dijon in a sunny
corner of the garden.
* * * * *
Fantastic as some of the incidents may sound, they are, nevertheless,
true, having been collected mainly from an old rat-catcher living in
the town of Hawick.
_SNAKE STORIES_
In 1850 Baron de Wogan, a French gentleman, left his native land and
set sail for North America, to seek his fortune and adventures. He was
descended from two noble adventurers, the Wogan who led a cavalry
troop from Dover to the Highlands, to fight for Charles II., and the
Wogan who rescued Queen Clementina, wife of James III., from prison in
Innspruck. In 1850 adventures, wild beasts, and Red Indians were more
plentiful than now, and Wogan had some narrow escapes from snakes and
bears. Soon after coming to North America he had his first adventure
with a rattlesnake; he was then camping at the gold fields of
California, seeking for gold in order to have money enough to start on
his voyages of discovery. His house was a log hut, built by himself,
and his bed a sack filled with dry oak leaves.
One day, finding that his mattress required renewing, he went out with
the sack and his gun. Having filled the sack with leaves, he went off
with his gun in search of game for his larder, and only came home at
nightfall. After having cooked and eaten his supper, he threw himself
on his new mattress, and soon was asleep. He awoke about three, and
would soon have fallen asleep again, but he felt something moving in
the sack. His first thought was that it was a rat, but he soon felt by
the way it moved that it was no quadruped, but a reptile, no rat, but
a snake! He must have put it in the sack with the leaves, as might
easily happen in winter when these creatures are torpid from the cold,
and sleep all curled up. With one leap the Baron was out of its
reach, but wishing to examine it more closely, he took his gun to
protect him in case of danger, and came near the bed again; but the
ungrateful beast, forgetting that they had been bedfellows, threw
itself on the gun and began to bite the muzzle. Fearing that it might
turn and bite him next the Baron pulled the trigger, and hitting the
serpent, literally cut it in two. It measured two feet long, and when
the Baron cut off its tail, he found a quantity of scales which made
the rattling sound from which this serpent gets its name.
[Illustration: THE BARON KILLS THE SNAKE]
As soon as the Baron had found enough gold, he bought a mule whom he
called Cadi, and whom he became very fond of, and set off into the
backwoods in search of sport and adventure. (Poor Cadi eventually met
a terrible end, but that is a Bear story.) He soon added another
companion, a young Indian girl, Calooa by name. She was the daughter
of a chief of the Utah tribe, and had been taken prisoner, with
several other women, by a tribe of hostile Indians whom the Baron fell
in with. She would have been tortured and then burnt with the other
prisoners had the Baron not saved her life by buying her for a silk
handkerchief, a knife and fork, and some coloured pictures. She
wandered with him and shared all his adventures, till she was found
again by her tribe and taken back to them. One hot day they had been
marching together about thirty miles through a country infested with
panthers and pumas. The Baron was heading the little procession, when
suddenly a cry from Calooa that she only used in moments of danger
made him turn round. Then he saw that what he had taken to be a huge
rotten branch of a tree, and had even thought of taking with him for
their camp fire, that evening, was in reality an enormous serpent. It
lay across the path asleep, its head resting on the trunk of a tree.
The Baron raised his gun to his shoulder, and came nearer the monster
to get a good aim. He fired, but missed. The horrid creature reared
itself nearly on end and looked at him with that fixed stare by which
the serpent fascinates and paralyses its victim. The Baron felt all
the fascination, but conquering it, he fired a second time, and this
time wounded the creature without killing it outright. Though mortally
wounded, the snake's dying struggles were so violent that the young
trees all round were levelled as if they had been cut with a scythe.
As soon as they were sure that life was extinct, Calooa and the Baron
came nearer to examine the snake's dead body. Though part of his tail
was missing, he measured nevertheless five yards long and eighteen
inches round. Thinking that it seemed of unusual girth, the Baron cut
it open with an axe, and found inside the body of a young prairie
wolf, probably about a week old. The peculiarity of this snake was
that it gave out a strong odour of musk, like the sea serpent in Mr.
Kipling's book.
[Illustration: {THE BARON SLAYS THE HORNED SNAKE}]
The most horrible serpent that the Baron encountered and slew was the
horned snake; he learned afterwards from the Indians that it is the
most deadly of all the snakes of North America, for not only is its
bite venomous, but its tail has a sting which contains the same
poison. It crawls like other snakes, but when it attacks it forms
itself into a circle, and then suddenly unbending itself flings itself
like a lion on its victim, head forward and tail raised, thus
attacking with both ends at once. If by chance it misses its aim and
its tail strikes a young tree and penetrates the bark, that tree
immediately begins to droop, and before long withers and dies. On the
occasion when the Baron encountered it, Calooa and he had been fleeing
all night fearing an attack of hostile Indians. About daylight they
ventured to stop to take rest and food. While Calooa lit the fire the
Baron took his gun and went in search of game. In about half an hour
he returned with a wild turkey. When they had cooked and eaten it, he
lay down and fell asleep, but had only slept two hours when he awoke,
feeling his hand touched. It was Calooa, who woke him with a
terror-stricken face. Looking in the direction she pointed, he saw
about fifty yards away an enormous horned snake wound round a branch
of sassafras. It was lying in wait for a poor little squirrel, that
cowered in the hollow of an oak. As soon as the squirrel dared to show
even the tip of its nose, the serpent flung itself at it, but in vain,
as its great head could not get into the hole.
[Illustration: HOW THE INDIANS MAKE THE HORNED SNAKE DISGORGE HIS
DINNER]
'Fortunately,' the Baron says, 'my gun was by my side. I rose and went
to the rescue of the defenceless little creature. When the serpent saw
me he knew he had another sort of enemy to deal with, and hissing
furiously hurled himself in my direction, though without quitting his
branch. I stopped and took aim. The serpent evidently understood my
attitude perfectly, for unwinding himself he began to crawl with all
his speed towards me. Between us there was fortunately an obstacle, a
fallen chestnut tree; to reach me he must either climb over it or go
round, and he was too furious to put up with any delay. Ten paces from
the tree I waited for him to appear, one knee on the ground, my gun at
my shoulder, and the other elbow resting on my knee to steady my aim.
At last I saw his horrid head appear above the fallen tree, at the
same moment I fired, and the ball pierced his head through and
through, though without instantly killing him. Quick as lightning he
wound himself round a branch, lashing out with his tail in all
directions. It was his dying struggle; slowly his fury subsided, and
uncoiling himself he fell dead alongside the tree. I measured him and
found he was eight feet long, and seven or eight inches round. He was
dark brown, and his head had two horns, or rather hard knobs. Wishing
to carry away some souvenir to remember him by when I should be at
home again in France, I tried to cut off his horns, but found it
impossible. Out of curiosity I then took an axe and cut him open, when
I found inside a little bird, dazed but living. Presently it revived
and began to flutter about, and soon flew away among the bushes and
was lost to sight. I did not then know that this is a common
occurrence, and that when the Indians find a serpent asleep, as is
generally the case after the creature has gorged itself, they hit it
on the head with a stick, which makes it throw up what it has
swallowed whole, and its victims are often still living.'
Calooa on one occasion had a narrow escape. She had put her hand into
a hollow in a branch of a cherry-tree where was a blue jay's nest, to
take eggs as she thought. Hardly had she put in her hand when she
screamed with pain; a rattlesnake that had taken possession of the
nest had stung her. The Baron, much alarmed, expected to see Calooa
die before his eyes. He did not know of the remedy the Indians use for
snake bites. Calooa herself was quite undisturbed, and hunted about
among the bushes till she found the plant she knew of, then crushing
some of the leaves between two stones, she applied them to the bite,
and in a couple of hours was completely cured.
Besides these snakes the Baron learned from the Indians that there is
another even more dangerous, not from its sting, which is not
poisonous, but because it winds itself round its victim, and strangles
him to death. Fortunately the Baron never met one, or he would
probably not have lived to tell his snake stories.
_WHAT ELEPHANTS CAN DO_
Long, long ago the earth was very different from what it is now, and
was covered with huge forests made up of enormous trees, and in these
forests there roamed immense beasts, whose skeletons may sometimes be
seen in our museums.
Of all these beasts there is only one remaining, and that is the
elephant. Now the elephant is so big and shapeless that he makes one
think he has been turned out by a child who did not know how to finish
his work properly. He seems to need some feet badly and to want
pinching about his body. He would also be the better for a more
imposing tail; but such as he is, the elephant is more useful and
interesting than many creatures of ten times his beauty. Large and
clumsy though he may be, he alone of all animals has 'between his eyes
a serpent for a hand,' and he turns his trunk to better account than
most men do their two hands.
Ever since we first read about elephants in history they were just the
same as they are now. They have not learnt, from associating with men,
fresh habits which they hand down from father to son; each elephant,
quick though he is to learn, has to be taught everything over again.
Yet there is no beast who has lived in such unbroken contact with man
for so many thousands of years. We do not know when he first began to
be distinguished for his qualities from the other wild animals, but as
far back as we can trace the sculptures which adorn the Indian temples
the elephant has a place. Several hundred years before Christ, the
Greek traveller Herodotus was passing through Babylon and found a
large number of elephants employed in the daily life of the city, and
from time to time we catch glimpses of them in Eastern warfare, though
it was not till the third century B.C. that they were introduced into
Europe by Alexander the Great. The Mediterranean nations were quick to
see the immense profit to which the elephant could be put, both in
respect to the great weights he could carry, and also for his
extraordinary teachableness. In India at the present day he performs
all kinds of varied duties, and many are the stories told about his
cleverness, for he is the only animal that can be taught to push as
well as pull.
Most of us have seen elephants trained to perform in a circus, and
there is something rather sad in watching their great clumsy bodies
gambolling about in a way that is unnatural as well as ungraceful. But
there is no question as to the amount that elephants can be taught,
particularly by kindness, or how skilfully they will revenge
themselves for any ill-treatment.
In the early part of this century an elephant was sent by a lady in
India as a present to the Duke of Devonshire, who had a large villa at
Chiswick.