ant storing up provision for the winter is a delusion, a delusion
which La Fontaine's famous fable, 'Le Fourmis et la Cigale,' has done
much to spread and confirm. It is now known, as we have already seen,
that ants sleep all winter, and that the food which we constantly see
them laden with is for immediate consumption in the camp. They eat all
kinds of insects--hornets and cockchafers are favourite dishes--but
the choicest morsel is a fine fat green caterpillar, caught alive.
They seize it, some by its head, some by its tail; it struggles, it
writhes, and sometimes succeeds in freeing itself from its enemies;
but they do not consider themselves beaten, and attack it again.
Little by little it becomes stupefied from the discharges of formic
acid the ants throw out from their bodies, and presently it succumbs
to their renewed forces. Finally, though the struggle may last an hour
or more, it is borne to the ant-heap and disappears, to be devoured by
the inmates. Perhaps these short 'Stories about Ants' may induce some
of you to follow the advice of the Preacher, and 'go to the ant'
yourselves for more.
_THE TAMING OF AN OTTER_
From Bingley's _British Quadrupeds_.
Otters used once to be very common in England in the neighbourhood of
rivers, and even in some instances of the sea, but in many places
where they once lived in great numbers they have now ceased to exist.
They destroy large quantities of fish, though they are so dainty that
they only care for the upper parts of the body. If the rivers are
frozen and no fish are to be had, they will eat poultry, or even
lambs; and if these are not to be found, they can get on quite well
for a long time on the bark of trees or on young branches.
Fierce though otters are when brought to bay, they can easily be tamed
if they are caught young enough. More than a hundred years ago the
monks of Autun, in France, found a baby otter only a few weeks old,
and took it back to the convent, and fed it upon milk for nearly two
months, when it was promoted to soup and fish and vegetables, the food
of the good monks. It was not very sociable with strange animals, but
it made great friends with a dog and cat who had known it from a baby,
and they would play together half the day. At night it had a bed in
one of the rooms, but in the day it always preferred a heap of straw
when it was tired of running about. Curious to say, this otter was not
at all fond of the water, and it was very seldom that it would go near
a basin of water that was always carefully left near its bed. When it
did, it was only to wash its face and front paws, after which it would
go for a run in the court-yard, or curl itself to sleep in the sun.
Indeed it seemed to have such an objection to water of all kinds, that
the monks wondered whether it knew how to swim. So one day, when they
were not so busy as usual, some of the brothers took it off to a
good-sized pond, and waited to see what it would do. The otter smelt
about cautiously for a little, and then, recognising that here was
something it had seen before, ducked its head and wetted its feet as
it did in the mornings. This did not satisfy the monks, who threw it
right in, upon which it instantly swam to the other shore, and came
round again to its friends.
All tame otters are not, however, as forgetful of the habits and
manners of their race as this one was, and in some parts they have
even been taught to fish for their masters instead of themselves.
Careful directions are given for their proper teaching, and a great
deal of patience is needful, because if an animal is once frightened
or made angry, there is not much hope of training it afterwards. To
begin with, it must be fed while it is very young on milk or soup, and
when it gets older, on bread and the heads of fishes, and it must get
its food from one person only, to whom it will soon get accustomed and
attached. The next step is to have a sort of leather bag made, stuffed
with wool and shaped like a fish, large enough for the animal to take
in its mouth. Finally, he must wear a collar formed on the principle
of a slip noose, which can tighten when a long string that is fastened
to it, is pulled. This is, of course, to teach the otter to drop the
fish after he has caught it.
The master then leads the otter slowly behind him, till by this means
he has learned how to follow, and then he has to be made to understand
the meanings of certain words and tones. So the man says to him, 'Come
here,' and pulls the cord; and after this has been repeated several
times, the otter gradually begins to connect the words with the
action. Then the string is dropped, and the otter trots up obediently
without it. After that, the sham fish is placed on the ground, and
the collar, which seems rather like a horse's bit, is pulled so as to
force the mouth open, while the master exclaims 'Take it!' and when
the otter is quite perfect in this (which most likely will not happen
for a long time) the collar is loosened, and he is told to 'drop it.'
Last of all, he is led down to a river with clear shallow water, where
a small dead fish is thrown in. This he catches at once, and then the
cord which has been fastened to his neck is gently pulled, and he
gives up his prize to his master. Then live fish are put in instead of
the dead one, and when they are killed, the otter is given the heads
as a reward.
Of course some masters have a special talent for teaching these
things, and some otters are specially apt pupils. This must have been
the case with the otter belonging to a Mr. Campbell who lived near
Inverness. It would sometimes catch eight or ten salmon in a day, and
never attempted to eat them; while a man in Sweden, called Nilsson,
and his family, lived entirely on the fish that was caught for them by
their otter. When he is in his wild state, the otter lives in holes in
the rocks, or among the roots of trees, though occasionally he has
been known to burrow under ground, having his door in the water, and
only a very tiny window opening landwards, so that he may not die of
suffocation.
_THE STORY OF ANDROCLES AND THE LION_
Many hundred years ago, there lived in the north of Africa a poor
Roman slave called Androcles. His master held great power and
authority in the country, but he was a hard, cruel man, and his slaves
led a very unhappy life. They had little to eat, had to work hard, and
were often punished and tortured if they failed to satisfy their
master's caprices. For long Androcles had borne with the hardships of
his life, but at last he could bear it no longer, and he made up his
mind to run away. He knew that it was a great risk, for he had no
friends in that foreign country with whom he could seek safety and
protection; and he was aware that if he was overtaken and caught he
would be put to a cruel death. But even death, he thought, would not
be so hard as the life he now led, and it was possible that he might
escape to the sea-coast, and somehow some day get back to Rome and
find a kinder master.
So he waited till the old moon had waned to a tiny gold thread in the
skies, and then, one dark night, he slipped out of his master's house,
and, creeping through the deserted forum and along the silent town, he
passed out of the city into the vineyards and corn-fields lying
outside the walls. In the cool night air he walked rapidly. From time
to time he was startled by the sudden barking of a dog, or the sound
of voices coming from some late revellers in the villas which stood
beside the road along which he hurried. But as he got further into the
country these sounds ceased, and there was silence and darkness all
round him. When the sun rose he had already gone many miles away from
the town in which he had been so miserable. But now a new terror
oppressed him--the terror of great loneliness. He had got into a wild,
barren country, where there was no sign of human habitation. A thick
growth of low trees and thorny mimosa bushes spread out before him,
and as he tried to thread his way through them he was severely
scratched, and his scant garments torn by the long thorns. Besides the
sun was very hot, and the trees were not high enough to afford him any
shade. He was worn out with hunger and fatigue, and he longed to lie
down and rest. But to lie down in that fierce sun would have meant
death, and he struggled on, hoping to find some wild berries to eat,
and some water to quench his thirst. But when he came out of the
scrub-wood, he found he was as badly off as before. A long, low line
of rocky cliffs rose before him, but there were no houses, and he saw
no hope of finding food. He was so tired that he could not wander
further, and seeing a cave which looked cool and dark in the side of
the cliffs, he crept into it, and, stretching his tired limbs on the
sandy floor, fell fast asleep.
Suddenly he was awakened by a noise that made his blood run cold. The
roar of a wild beast sounded in his ears, and as he started trembling
and in terror to his feet, he beheld a huge, tawny lion, with great
glistening white teeth, standing in the entrance of the cave. It was
impossible to fly, for the lion barred the way. Immovable with fear,
Androcles stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the lion to spring on
him and tear him limb from limb.
[Illustration: ANDROCLES IN THE LION'S CAVE]
But the lion did not move. Making a low moan as if in great pain, it
stood licking its huge paw, from which Androcles now saw that blood
was flowing freely. Seeing the poor animal in such pain, and noticing
how gentle it seemed, Androcles forgot his own terror, and slowly
approached the lion, who held up its paw as if asking the man to help
it. Then Androcles saw that a monster thorn had entered the paw,
making a deep cut, and causing great pain and swelling. Swiftly but
firmly he drew the thorn out, and pressed the swelling to try to stop
the flowing of the blood. Relieved of the pain, the lion quietly lay
down at Androcles' feet, slowly moving his great bushy tail from side
to side as a dog does when it feels happy and comfortable.
From that moment Androcles and the lion became devoted friends. After
lying for a little while at his feet, licking the poor wounded paw,
the lion got up and limped out of the cave. A few minutes later it
returned with a little dead rabbit in its mouth, which it put down on
the floor of the cave beside Androcles. The poor man, who was starving
with hunger, cooked the rabbit somehow, and ate it. In the evening,
led by the lion, he found a place where there was a spring, at which
he quenched his dreadful thirst.
And so for three years Androcles and the lion lived together in the
cave; wandering about the woods together by day, sleeping together at
night. For in summer the cave was cooler than the woods, and in winter
it was warmer.
At last the longing in Androcles' heart to live once more with his
fellow-men became so great that he felt he could remain in the woods
no longer, but that he must return to a town, and take his chance of
being caught and killed as a runaway slave. And so one morning he left
the cave, and wandered away in the direction where he thought the sea
and the large towns lay. But in a few days he was captured by a band
of soldiers who were patrolling the country in search of fugitive
slaves, and he was put in chains and sent as a prisoner to Rome.
Here he was cast into prison and tried for the crime of having run
away from his master. He was condemned as a punishment to be torn to
pieces by wild beasts on the first public holiday, in the great circus
at Rome.
When the day arrived Androcles was brought out of his prison, dressed
in a simple, short tunic, and with a scarf round his right arm. He
was given a lance with which to defend himself--a forlorn hope, as he
knew that he had to fight with a powerful lion which had been kept
without food for some days to make it more savage and bloodthirsty. As
he stepped into the arena of the huge circus, above the sound of the
voices of thousands on thousands of spectators he could hear the
savage roar of the wild beasts from their cages below the floor on
which he stood.
Of a sudden the silence of expectation fell on the spectators, for a
signal had been given, and the cage containing the lion with which
Androcles had to fight had been shot up into the arena from the floor
below. A moment later, with a fierce spring and a savage roar, the
great animal had sprung out of its cage into the arena, and with a
bound had rushed at the spot where Androcles stood trembling. But
suddenly, as he saw Androcles, the lion stood still, wondering. Then
quickly but quietly it approached him, and gently moved its tail and
licked the man's hands, and fawned upon him like a great dog. And
Androcles patted the lion's head, and gave a sob of recognition, for
he knew that it was his own lion, with whom he had lived and lodged
all those months and years.
And, seeing this strange and wonderful meeting between the man and the
wild beast, all the people marvelled, and the emperor, from his high
seat above the arena, sent for Androcles, and bade him tell his story
and explain this mystery. And the emperor was so delighted with the
story that he said Androcles was to be released and to be made a free
man from that hour. And he rewarded him with money, and ordered that
the lion was to belong to him, and to accompany him wherever he went.
And when the people in Rome met Androcles walking, followed by his
faithful lion, they used to point at them and say, 'That is the lion,
the guest of the man, and that is the man, the doctor of the lion.'[4]
[4] Apparently this nice lion did not bite anybody, when he took
his walks abroad. Or, possibly, he was muzzled.--Ed.
[Illustration: ANDROCLES IN THE ARENA]
_MONSIEUR DUMAS AND HIS BEASTS_
I
Most people have heard of Alexandre Dumas, the great French novelist
who wrote 'The Three Musketeers' and many other delightful historical
romances. Besides being a great novelist, M. Dumas was a most kind and
generous man--kind both to human beings and to animals. He had a great
many pets, of which he gives us the history in one of his books. Here
are some of the stories about them in his own words.
I was living, he says, at Monte Cristo (this was the name of his villa
at St.-Germains); I lived there alone, except for the visitors I
received. I love solitude, for solitude is necessary to anyone who
works much. However, I do not like complete loneliness; what I love is
that of the Garden of Eden, a solitude peopled with animals.
Therefore, in my wilderness at Monte Cristo, without being quite like
Adam in every way, I had a kind of small earthly paradise.
This is the list of my animals. I had a number of dogs, of which the
chief was Pritchard. I had a vulture named Diogenes; three monkeys,
one of which bore the name of a celebrated translator, another that of
a famous novelist, and the third, which was a female, that of a
charming actress. We will call the writer Potich, the novelist the
Last of the Laidmanoirs, and the lady Mademoiselle Desgarcins. I had a
great blue and yellow macaw called Buvat, a green and yellow parroquet
called Papa Everard, a cat called Mysouff, a golden pheasant called
Lucullus, and finally, a cock called Caesar. Let us give honour where
honour is due, and begin with the history of Pritchard.
I had an acquaintance named M. Lerat, who having heard me say I had no
dog to take out shooting, said, 'Ah! how glad I am to be able to give
you something you will really like! A friend of mine who lives in
Scotland has sent me a pointer of the very best breed. I will give him
to you. Bring Pritchard,' he added to his two little girls.
How could I refuse a present offered so cordially? Pritchard was
brought in.
He was an odd-looking dog to be called a pointer! He was long-haired,
grey and white, with ears nearly erect, mustard-coloured eyes, and a
beautifully feathered tail. Except for the tail, he could scarcely be
called a handsome dog.
M. Lerat seemed even more delighted to give the present than I was to
receive it, which showed what a good heart he had.
'The children call the dog Pritchard,' he said; 'but if you don't like
the name, call him what you please.'
I had no objection to the name; my opinion was that if anyone had
cause to complain, it was the dog himself. Pritchard, therefore,
continued to be called Pritchard. He was at this time about nine or
ten months old, and ought to begin his education, so I sent him to a
gamekeeper named Vatrin to learn his duties. But, two hours after I
had sent Pritchard to Vatrin, he was back again at my house. He was
not made welcome; on the contrary, he received a good beating from
Michel, who was my gardener, porter, butler, and confidential servant
all in one, and who took Pritchard back to Vatrin. Vatrin was
astonished; Pritchard had been shut up with the other dogs in the
kennel, and he must have jumped over the enclosure, which was a high
one. Early the next morning, when the housemaid had opened my front
door, there was Pritchard sitting outside. Michel again beat the dog,
and again took him back to Vatrin, who this time put a collar round
his neck and chained him up. Michel came back and informed me of this
severe but necessary measure. Vatrin sent a message to say that I
should not see Pritchard again until his education was finished. The
next day, while I was writing in a little summer-house in my garden, I
heard a furious barking. It was Pritchard fighting with a great
Pyrenean sheepdog which another of my friends had just given me. This
dog was named Mouton, because of his white woolly hair like a sheep's,
not on account of his disposition, which was remarkably savage.
Pritchard was rescued by Michel from Mouton's enormous jaws, once more
beaten, and for the third time taken back to Vatrin. Pritchard, it
appears, had eaten his collar, though how he managed it Vatrin never
knew. He was now shut up in a shed, and unless he ate the walls or the
door, he could not possibly get out. He tried both, and finding the
door the more digestible, he ate the door; and the next day at
dinner-time, Pritchard walked into the dining-room wagging his plumy
tail, his yellow eyes shining with satisfaction. This time Pritchard
was neither beaten nor taken back; we waited till Vatrin should come
to hold a council of war as to what was to be done with him. The next
day Vatrin appeared.
'Did you _ever_ see such a rascal?' he began. Vatrin was so excited
that he had forgotten to say 'Good morning' or 'How do you do?'
'I tell you,' said he, 'that rascal Pritchard puts me in such a rage
that I have crunched the stem of my pipe three times between my teeth
and broken it, and my wife has had to tie it up with string. He'll
ruin me in pipes, that brute--that vagabond!'
'Pritchard, do you hear what is said about you?' said I.
Pritchard heard, but perhaps did not think it mattered much about
Vatrin's pipes, for he only looked at me affectionately and beat upon
the ground with his tail.
'I don't know what to do with him,' said Vatrin. 'If I keep him he'll
eat holes in the house, I suppose; yet I don't like to give him
up--he's only a dog. It's humiliating for a man, don't you know?'
'I'll tell you what, Vatrin,' said I. 'We will take him down to
Vesinet, and go for a walk through your preserves, and then we shall
see whether it is worth while to take any more trouble with this
vagabond, as you call him.'
'I call him by his name. It oughtn't to be Pritchard; it should be
Bluebeard, it should be Blunderbore, it should be Judas Iscariot!'
Vatrin enumerated all the greatest villains he could think of at the
moment.
I called Michel.
'Michel, give me my shooting shoes and gaiters; we will go to Vesinet
to see what Pritchard can do.'
'You will see, sir,' said Michel, 'that you will be better pleased
than you think.' For Michel always had a liking for Pritchard.
We went down a steep hill to Vesinet, Michel following with Pritchard
on a leash. At the steepest place I turned round. 'Look there upon the
bridge in front of us, Michel,' I said, 'there is a dog very like
Pritchard.' Michel looked behind him. There was nothing but the
leather straps in his hand; Pritchard had cut it through with his
teeth, and was now standing on the bridge amusing himself by looking
at the water through the railing.
'He _is_ a vagabond!' said Vatrin. 'Look! where is he off to now?'
'He has gone,' said I, 'to see what my neighbour Correge has got for
luncheon.' Sure enough, the next moment Pritchard was seen coming out
of M. Correge's back door, pursued by a maid servant with a broom. He
had a veal cutlet in his mouth, which he had just taken out of the
frying-pan.
'Monsieur Dumas!' cried the maid, 'Monsieur Dumas! stop your dog!'
We tried; but Pritchard passed between Michel and me like a flash of
lightning.
'It seems,' said Michel, 'that he likes his veal underdone.'
'My good woman,' I said to the cook, who was still pursuing Pritchard,
'I fear that you are losing time, and that you will never see your
cutlet again.'
'Well, then, let me tell you, sir, that you have no right to keep and
feed a thief like that.'
'It is you, my good woman, who are feeding him to-day, not I.'
'Me!' said the cook, 'it's--it's M. Correge. And what will M. Correge
say, I should like to know?'
'He will say, like Michel, that it seems Pritchard likes his veal
underdone.'
'Well, but he'll not be pleased--he will think it's my fault.'
'Never mind, I will invite your master to luncheon with me.'
'All the same, if your dog goes on like that, he will come to a bad
end. That is all I have to say--he will come to a bad end.' And she
stretched out her broom in an attitude of malediction towards the spot
where Pritchard had disappeared.
We three stood looking at one another. 'Well,' said I, 'we have lost
Pritchard.'
'We'll soon find him,' said Michel.
We therefore set off to find Pritchard, whistling and calling to him,
as we walked on towards Vatrin's shooting ground. This search lasted
for a good half-hour, Pritchard not taking the slightest notice of our
appeals. At last Michel stopped.
'Sir,' he said, 'look there! Just come and look.'
'Well, what?' said I, going to him.
'Look!' said Michel, pointing. I followed the direction of Michel's
finger, and saw Pritchard in a perfectly immovable attitude, as rigid
as if carved in stone.
'Vatrin,' said I, 'come here.' Vatrin came. I showed him Pritchard.
'I think he is making a point,' said Vatrin. Michel thought so too.
'But what is he pointing at?' I asked. We cautiously came nearer to
Pritchard, who never stirred.
'He certainly is pointing,' said Vatrin. Then making a sign to
me--'Look there!' he said. 'Do you see anything?'
'Nothing.'
'What! you don't see a rabbit sitting? If I only had my stick, I'd
knock it on the head, and it would make a nice stew for your dinner.'
'Oh!' said Michel, 'if that's all, I'll cut you a stick.'
'Well, but Pritchard might leave off pointing.'
'No fear of him--I'll answer for him--unless, indeed, the rabbit goes
away.'
Vatrin proceeded to cut a stick. Pritchard never moved, only from time
to time he turned his yellow eyes upon us, which shone like a topaz.
'Have patience,' said Michel. 'Can't you see that M. Vatrin is cutting
a stick?' And Pritchard seemed to understand as he turned his eye on
Vatrin.
'You have still time to take off the branches,' said Michel.
When the branches were taken off and the stick was quite finished,
Vatrin approached cautiously, took a good aim, and struck with all his
might into the middle of the tuft of grass where the rabbit was
sitting. He had killed it!
Pritchard darted in upon the rabbit, but Vatrin took it from him, and
Michel slipped it into the lining of his coat. This pocket had
already held a good many rabbits in its time!
Vatrin turned to congratulate Pritchard, but he had disappeared.
'He's off to find another rabbit,' said Michel.
And accordingly, after ten minutes or so, we came upon Pritchard
making another point. This time Vatrin had a stick ready cut; and
after a minute, plunging his hands into a brier bush, he pulled out by
the ears a second rabbit.
'There, Michel,' he said, 'put that into your other pocket.'
'Oh,' said Michel, 'there's room for five more in this one.'
'Hallo, Michel! people don't say those things before a magistrate.'
And turning to Vatrin I added, 'Let us try once more, Vatrin--the
number three is approved by the gods.'
'May be,' said Vatrin, 'but perhaps it won't be approved by M.
Guerin.'
M. Guerin was the police inspector.
Next time we came upon Pritchard pointing, Vatrin said, 'I wonder how
long he would stay like that;' and he pulled out his watch.
'Well, Vatrin,' said I, 'you shall try the experiment, as it is in
your own vocation; but I am afraid I have not the time to spare.'
Michel and I then returned home. Vatrin followed with Pritchard an
hour afterwards.
'Five-and-twenty minutes!' he called out as soon as he was within
hearing. 'And if the rabbit had not gone away, the dog would have been
there now.'
'Well, Vatrin, what do you think of him?'