their hardest experience of the dreadful desert thirst. The year had
been drier than was common even in Nubia, and even in the little oases
or fertile spots, most of the trees and acacias were withered and
dead. Hour after hour the travellers toiled on, and soon the asses
gave out, and their riders were forced to walk over the scorching
sand. Burckhardt had been a little more careful of his stock of water
than the other members of the caravan, and for some days had cooked no
food or eaten anything but biscuits, so that he had been able to spare
a draught every now and then for his own ass, and still had enough to
last both of them for another day. However, it was quite clear that
unless water was quickly found they must all die together, and a
council was held as to what was best to be done. The Ababde chief's
advice was--and always had been--to send out a company of ten or
twelve of the strongest camels, to try to make their way secretly to
the Nile, through the ranks of unfriendly Arab tribes encamped all
along its eastern shore.
This was agreed upon; and about four in the afternoon the little band
set out, loaded with all the skins in the caravan. The river was a
ride of five or six hours distant; so that many hours of dreadful
suspense must pass before the watchers left behind could know what was
to be their fate. Soon after sunset a few stragglers came in, who had
strayed from the principal band; but they had not reached the river,
and could give no news of the rest. As the night wore on, several of
the traders came to Burckhardt to beg for a taste of the water he was
believed to have stored up; but he had carefully hidden what remained,
and only showed them his skins which were empty. Then the camp
gradually grew silent, and all sat and waited under the stars for the
verdict of life or death. It was three in the morning when shouts were
heard, and the camels, refreshed by deep draughts of the Nile water,
came along at their utmost speed, bearing skins full enough for many
days' journey. Only one man was missing; but traders are a cruel
race, and these cared nothing about his fate, giving themselves up to
feasting and song, and joy at their deliverance.
Yet only a year later, the fate that had almost overtaken them befel a
small body of merchants who set out with their camels from Berber to
Daraou. The direct road, which led past the wells of Nedjeym, was
known to be haunted at that date by the celebrated robber Naym, who
waylaid every caravan from Berber; so the merchants hired an Ababde
guide to take them by a longer and more easterly road, where there was
another well at which they could water. Unluckily the guide knew
nothing of the country that lay beyond, and the whole party soon lost
themselves in the mountains. For five days they wandered about, not
seeing a creature who could give them help, or even direct them to the
right path. Then, their water being quite exhausted, they turned
steadily westwards, hoping by this means soon to reach the Nile. But
the river at this point takes a wide bend, and was, if they had known
it, further from them than before; and after two days of dreadful
agony, fifteen slaves and one merchant died. In desperation, another
merchant, who was an Ababde, and owner of ten camels, had himself
lashed firmly on to the back of the strongest beast, lest in his
weakness he should fall off, and then ordered the whole herd to be
turned loose, thinking that perhaps the instinct of the animals would
succeed where the knowledge of man had failed. But neither the Ababde
nor his camels were ever seen again.
The merchants struggled forwards, and eight days after leaving the
well of Owareyk they arrived in sight of some mountains which they
knew; but it was too late, and camels and merchants sank down helpless
where they lay. They had just strength to gasp out orders for two of
their servants to make their way on camels to the mountains where
water would be found, but long before the mountains were reached, one
of the men dropped off his camel and, unable to speak, waved his
hands in farewell to his comrade. The other mechanically rode on, but
his eyes grew dim and his head dizzy, and well though he knew the
road, he suffered his camel to wander from it. After straying
aimlessly about for some time, he dismounted and lay down in the shade
of a tree to rest, first tying his camel to one of the branches. But a
sudden puff of wind brought the smell of the water to the camel's
nostrils, and with a furious bound, he broke the noose and galloped
violently forward, and in half an hour was sucking in deep draughts
from a clear spring. The man, understanding the meaning of the camel's
rush, rose up and staggered a few steps after him, but fell to the
ground from sheer weakness. Just at that moment a wandering Bedouin
from a neighbouring camp happened to pass that way, and seeing that
the man still breathed, dashed water in his face, and soon revived
him. Then, laden with skins of water, the two men set out for those
left behind, and hopeless though their search seemed to be, they found
they had arrived in time, and were able to save them from a frightful
death.
_'HAME, HAME, HAME, WHERE I FAIN WAD BE'_
Nothing in nature is more curious or more difficult of explanation
than the stories recorded of animals conveyed to one place, finding
their way back to their old home, often many hundreds of miles away.
Not very long ago, a lady at St. Andrews promised to make a present to
a friend who lived somewhere north of Perth, of a fine cat which she
wished to part with. When the day arrived, the cat was tied safely up
in a hamper, put in charge of the guard, and sent on its way. It was
met at the station by its new mistress, who drove it home, and gave it
an excellent supper and a comfortable bed. This was on Friday. All
Saturday it poked about, examining everything as cats will, but
apparently quite happy and content with its quarters. About seven on
Sunday morning, as the lady drew up her blind to let in the sunshine,
she saw the new puss trotting down the avenue. She did not pay much
attention to the fact till the day went on, and the cat, who generally
had a good appetite, did not come in to its meals. When Monday came,
but the puss did not, the lady wrote to her friend at St. Andrews
saying she feared that the cat had wandered away, but she would make
inquiries at all the houses round, and still hoped to find it. On
Tuesday evening loud mews were heard outside the kitchen door of the
St. Andrews house, and when it was opened, in walked the cat, rather
dirty and very hungry, but otherwise not at all the worse for wear.
Now as anybody can see if he looks at the map, it is a long way from
St. Andrews to Perth, even as the crow flies. There are also two big
rivers which _must_ be crossed, the Tay and the Eden, or if the cat
preferred coming by train, at least two changes have to be made. So
you have to consider whether, granting it an instinct of _direction_,
which is remarkable enough in itself, the animal was sufficiently
strong to swim such large streams; or whether it was so clever that it
managed to find out the proper trains for it to take, and the places
where it must get out. Any way, home it came, and was only two days on
the journey, and there it is still in St. Andrews, for its mistress
had not the heart to give it away a second time.
Trains seem to have a special fascination for cats, and they are often
to be seen about stations. For a long while one was regularly to be
seen travelling on the Metropolitan line, between St. James's Park and
Charing Cross, and a whole family of half-wild kittens are at this
moment making a play-ground of the lines and platforms at Paddington.
One will curl up quite comfortably on the line right under the wheel
of a carriage that is just going to start, and on being disturbed
bolts away and hides itself in some recess underneath the platform.
Occasionally you see one with part of its tail cut off, but as a rule
they take wonderfully good care of themselves. The porters are very
kind to them, and they somehow contrive to get along, for they all
look fat and well-looking, and quite happy in their strange quarters.
Of course cats are not the only animals who have what is called the
'homing instinct.' Sheep have been known to find their way back from
Yorkshire to the moors north of the Cheviots where they were born and
bred, although sheep are not clever beasts and they had come a
roundabout journey by train. But there are many such stories of dogs,
and one of the most curious is told by an English officer who was in
Paris in the year 1815. One day, as the officer was walking hastily
over the bridge, he was annoyed by a muddy poodle dog rubbing up
against him, and dirtying his beautifully polished boots. Now dirty
boots were his abhorrence, so he hastily looked round for a
shoe-black, and seeing one at a little distance off, at once went up
to him to have his boots re-blacked. A few days later the officer was
again crossing the bridge, when a second time the poodle brushed
against him and spoilt his boots. Without thinking he made for the
nearest shoe-black, just as he had done before, and went on his way;
but when the same thing happened a third time, his suspicions were
aroused, and he resolved to watch. In a few minutes he saw the dog run
down to the river-side and roll himself in the mud, and then come back
to the bridge and keep a sharp look-out for the first well-dressed man
who would be likely to repay his trouble. The officer was so delighted
with the poodle's cleverness, that he went at once to the shoe-black,
who confessed that the dog was his and that he had taught him this
trick for the good of trade. The officer then proposed to buy the dog,
and offered the shoe-black such a large sum that he agreed to part
with his 'bread-winner.'
So the officer, who was returning at once to England, carried the dog,
by coach and steamer to London, where he tied him up for some time, in
order that he should forget all about his old life, and be ready to
make himself happy in the new one. When he was set free, however, the
poodle seemed restless and ill at ease, and after two or three days he
disappeared entirely. What he did then, nobody knows, but a fortnight
after he had left the London house, he was found, steadily plying his
old trade, on the Pont Henri Quatre.
A Northumbrian pointer showed a still more wonderful instance of the
same sagacity. He was the property of one Mr. Edward Cook, who after
paying a visit to his brother, the owner of a large property in
Northumberland, set sail for America, taking the dog with him. They
travelled south together as far as Baltimore, where excellent shooting
was to be got; but after one or two days' sport the dog disappeared,
and was supposed to have lost itself in the woods. Months went by
without anything being known of the dog, when one night a dog was
heard howling violently outside the quiet Northumberland house. It was
admitted by the owner, Mr. Cook, who to his astonishment recognised it
as the pointer which his brother had taken to America. They took care
of him till his master came back, and then they tried to trace out his
journey. But it was of no use. How the pointer made its way through
the forest, from what port it started, and where it landed, remain a
mystery to this day.
_NESTS FOR DINNER_
However wonderful and beautiful nests may be, very few English people
would like to eat them; yet in China the nest of a particular variety
of swallow is prized as a great delicacy.
These nests are chiefly gathered from Java, Sumatra, and other islands
of the Malay Archipelago, and are carried thence to China, where they
fetch a large price. Although, within certain limits, they are very
plentiful, they are very difficult and dangerous to get, for the
swallows build in the depths of large and deep caverns, mostly on the
seashore, and the men have to be let down from above by ropes, or
descend on ladders of bamboo. In Java, so many men have lost their
lives in nest gathering, that in some parts a regular religious
ceremony is held, twice or three times a year, before the expedition
is undertaken; prayers are said, and a bull is sacrificed.
It is not easy to know what the nests are really made of, because from
the time that Europeans first noticed the trade--about two hundred
years ago--they have differed among themselves in their accounts of
the jelly-like substance used by the swallows. Some naturalists have
thought it is the spawn of the fish, which floats thickly on the
surface of these seas; others, that it is a kind of deposit of dried
sea foam gathered by the birds from the beach, while others again
think that the substance is formed of sea plants chewed by the birds
into a jelly; but, whatever it may be, the Chinese infinitely prefer
nests to oysters or anything else, and are willing to pay highly for
them.
[Illustration: {BIRD'S NESTS FOR DINNER}]
The nests, which take about two months to build, are always found to
be of two sorts: an oblong one just fitted to the body of the male
bird, and a rounder one for the mother and her eggs. The most valuable
nests are those which are whitest, and these generally belong to the
male; they are very thin, and finely worked. The birds are small and
feed chiefly on insects, which are abundant on these islands; their
colour is grey, and they are wonderfully quick in their movements,
like the humming birds, which are about their own size. They are
sociable, and build in swarms, but they seldom lay more than two eggs,
which take about a fortnight to hatch.
_FIRE-EATING DJIJAM_
Some curious notes about walking unharmed through fire, in the
November (1894) number of 'Longman's Magazine,' under the heading 'At
the Sign of the Ship,' suggested that a record might be kept of
Djijam's eccentricities, especially as they differed somewhat from
those of most other dogs. Anyone accustomed to animals knows, and
anyone who is not can imagine, that dogs differ as much in their
behaviour and ways as human beings. Djijam was as unlike any dog I
have ever had, seen, or heard of, as could be. My wife, who is a
patient and successful instructor of animals, never managed to teach
him anything, any attempt to impart usual or unusual accomplishments
being met with the most absolute, impenetrable idiocy, which no
perseverance could conquer or diminish in the least degree. That this
extreme stupidity was really assumed is now pretty clear, though at
the time it was attributed to natural density.
It was at Christmas-tide, about two years ago, that my wife and I
drove over to a village some few miles away, to choose one of a litter
of four fox-terrier pups, which we heard were on sale at a livery
stable. We found the mother of the lively litter almost overpowered by
her boisterous progeny, who though nearly three months old had not yet
found other homes. Without any particular objection on the part of the
parent we examined the pups, and selected and brought away one which
seemed to have better points than the rest, whom we left to continue
their gambols in the straw, unconscious probably that any other means
of warming themselves were possible. The journey home was accomplished
with the customary puppish endeavors to escape restraint. The same
evening, after the servants had retired to bed, Master Djijam was
placed in the kitchen, out of harm's way as it was thought. The last
thing at night we went to inspect the little animal, and could not at
first discover his whereabouts. When a thing is lost it is customary
to hunt about in unlikely places, so we looked into the high
cinder-box under the kitchener, and found the object of our search
comfortably curled up directly under the red-hot fire. It was fairly
warm work fishing him out.
For another reason, not connected with heat, he was subsequently
christened Djijam, a truly oriental name, which some of our friends
think may have helped to develop his original taste for fire.
When Djijam was about six months old we observed that he frequently
jumped up to people who were seated smoking. This induced a humorous
friend one day to offer him the lighted end of a cigarette, which
Djijam promptly seized in his mouth and extinguished. After that
triumph Djijam usually watched for, and plainly demanded the lighted
fag ends of cigarettes and cigars, so that his might be the
satisfaction of finishing them off. This led to lighted matches being
offered to him, which he eagerly took in his mouth, and if wax vestas,
swallowed as a welcome addition to his ordinary diet. From matches to
lighted candles was an easy step, and these he rapidly extinguished
with great gusto as often as they were presented to him. He would also
attack lighted oil lamps if placed on the floor, but they puzzled him,
and defied his efforts to bite or breathe them out. A garden bonfire
used to drive him wild with delight, and snatching brands from the
fire, indoors or out, was a delirious joy. My wife discovered him once
in the full enjoyment of a large lighted log on the dining-room
carpet. Red-hot cinders he highly relished, though in obtaining them
he frequently singed off his moustaches. Perhaps the oddest of his
fiery tricks was performed one day when he wished the cook to hand him
some dainty morsel on which she chanced to be operating. This was
against the rules, as he well knew, so she declined to accept the
hint. Djijam was at once provoked to anger and cast round for some way
of obtaining compensation, at the same time hoping, perhaps, to
retaliate. He naturally went for the kitchen fire, out of which he
drew a red-hot cinder and carried it in his mouth across the kitchen,
through a small lobby into the scullery, to his box-bed, into the
straw of which he must have speedily dropped the live coal, and jumped
in after it. Soon after, the cook smelt wood burning and searched the
lower part of the house lest anything were afire. Finding nothing
wrong, she last of all visited the scullery, and found Djijam enjoying
the warmth of his smouldering straw bed and wooden box.
[Illustration: 'IN THE FULL ENJOYMENT OF A LARGE LIGHTED LOG ON THE
DINING-ROOM CARPET']
Alas, Djijam grew snappish even to his best friends, and although it
was suggested that he might be found an engagement on the Variety
stage of the Westminster Aquarium, as a fire-eating hound, it was
reluctantly decided that he should go the way of all flesh. I am sure
if he had been asked, he would in some way have indicated that he
preferred cremation to any other mode of disposal. But it was not to
be, yet it was a melancholy satisfaction to learn that his end was
peaceful though commonplace.
_THE STORY OF THE DOG OSCAR_
In the north-west of Scotland there is a very pretty loch which runs
far up into the land. On one side great hills--almost mountains--slope
down into the water, while on the opposite side there is a little
village, with the road along which the houses straggle, almost part of
the loch shore. At low tide, banks of beautiful golden seaweed are
left at the edges of the water, and on this seaweed huge flocks of
sea-gulls come and feed.
A few years ago there lived in this village a minister who had a
collie-dog named Oscar. He lived all alone in his little cottage, and
as Jean, the woman who looked after him, was a very talkative person,
by no means congenial to him. Oscar was his constant companion and
friend.
He seemed to understand all that was said to him, and in his long,
lonely walks across the hills, it cheered him to have Oscar trotting
quietly and contentedly beside him. And when he came home from
visiting sick people, and going to places where he could not take
Oscar, he would look forward to seeing the soft brown head thrust out
of the door, peering into the darkness, ready to welcome him as soon
as he should come in sight.
One of Oscar's favourite games was to go down to the shore when the
tide was low, and with his head thrown up and his tail straight out,
he would run at the flocks of gulls feeding on the seaweed, and
scatter them in the air, making them look like a cloud of large white
snow-flakes. In a minute or two the gulls would settle down again
to their meal, and again Oscar would charge and rout them.
[Illustration: 'OSCAR WOULD CHARGE AND ROUT THEM']
This little manoeuvre of his would be repeated many times, till a
long clear whistle was heard from the road by the loch. Then the gulls
might finish their supper in peace, for Oscar's master had called him,
and now he was walking quietly along by his side, looking as if there
were no such things in the world as gulls.
'No, Oscar, lad! Not to-day! not to-day!' said the minister one
afternoon, as he put on his hat and coat and took his stick from the
dog who always fetched it when he saw preparations being made for a
walk.
'I can't take you with me; you must stay in the paddock. No run by the
loch this afternoon, lad. 'Tis too long, and you are not so strong as
you were. We are growing old together, Oscar.'
The dog watched his master till he disappeared over the little bridge
and up the glen, and then he went and lay down by the paling which
surrounded the bit of field. Jean soon went out to a friend's house to
have a little gossip, and Oscar was left alone.
He felt rather forlorn. Across the road he heard the distant splashing
of the waves as they ran angrily up the beach of the loch, and the
whistling of the wind down the glen.
He watched the grey clouds scudding away overhead, and he envied the
children he heard playing in the street, or racing after the tourist
coach on its way up the Pass.
He began to feel drowsy.
'The gulls will be feeding on the banks now! How I wish ...' and his
eyes closed, and he dreamt a nice dream, that he was dashing along
through shallow pools of water towards the white chattering flock,
when--what was this in front of him? White feathers! Two gulls! Was he
dreaming still? No the gulls were real! What luck! He could not go to
the gulls, so the gulls had come to him.
In a moment he was wide awake, and made a rush at the two birds who
were gazing at him inquiringly with their heads on one side. But after
two or three rushes, 'What stupid gulls these are!' thought Oscar.
'They can scarcely fly.'
And, indeed, the birds seemed to have great difficulty in lifting
themselves off the ground, and appeared to grow more and more feeble
after each of Oscar's onslaughts. At last one of them fell.
'Lazy creature! you have had too much dinner! Up you get!'
But the gull lay down gasping.
Oscar made for the other. Why, that was lying down too! He went to the
first one. It was quite still and motionless, and after one or two
more gasps its companion was the same.
Oscar felt rather frightened. Was it possible that he had killed them?
What would his master say? How was he to tell him it was quite a
mistake? That he had only been in fun? He must put the gulls out of
sight.
He dragged them to one side of the cottage where the minister used to
try every year to grow a few cherished plants, and there in the loose
earth he dug a grave for the birds.
Then he went back to his old place, and waited for his master's
return.
When the minister came back, for the first time in his life, Oscar
longed to be able to speak and tell him all that had happened. How
could he without speech explain that the death of the birds was an
accident--an unfortunate accident?
He felt that without an explanation it was no use unearthing the white
forms in the border.
'Sir, sir!' cried Jean, putting her head in at the door. 'Here's Widow
McInnes come to see you. She's in sore trouble.'
The minister rose and went to the door.
'Stay here, Oscar,' he said, for Widow McInnes was not fond of Oscar.
In a few minutes the minister came back.
He patted Oscar's soft head.
[Illustration: 'OSCAR FELT RATHER FRIGHTENED']
'She wanted to accuse thee, Oscar lad, of killing the two white
pigeons which her son sent her yesterday from the south, and which
escaped this afternoon from their cage. As if you would touch the
bairnies, as the poor woman calls them! Eh, lad?'